That Old Black Magic by Mary Jane Clark

the loose. We’re still fighting our way back from the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. We want to encourage people to visit our city, not scare them away with some bizarre notion that New Orleans is a place where Hoodoo Killers roam the French Quarter.”
    But the next caller disagreed with the previous one. “The guy who talked about the loa is onto something, Aaron. The Petro loa are the dark, easily annoyed spirits. They developed because of the horrors of slavery. The spirits couldn’t stay quiet anymore. And so the Petro loa, the spirits of action and aggression, came to be. Petro loa are powerful, quick, and symbolized by the whip. The most common sacrifice to them is the pig, so whipping somebody in a muffuletta shop, full of pork products, would seem to fit in with serving their spirits.”
    â€œAll this talk about the dark spirits is scaring me, Aaron,” said the next caller. “What if this murder was committed by someone possessed? And what if this isn’t the only sacrifice he wants to offer to the spirits?”
    The killer smiled and thought, This couldn’t possibly be playing out any better.

Chapter 33
    C onnor was crying and soaking wet when Wuzzy went to get him from the crib. As he lifted his son, Wuzzy felt the child stiffen, his arms and legs tightening. The limbs hit the bars of the crib, and the boy whimpered.
    â€œSorry, bub,” said Wuzzy, gently rubbing a drenched pajama leg. “You’ve gotten way too big for the crib. Dad’s gonna get you a big-boy bed soon. Something with safety bars so you can’t fall out.”
    Another expense.
    Wuzzy peeled off the soggy sleepwear and diaper. Then he lifted the child again and carried him to the bathroom.
    â€œYou’re getting heavy, kiddo,” said Wuzzy. His knees ached as he knelt down next to the tub and turned on the water. He carefully situated Connor on the bath mat to wait while the tub filled. Then he stood upright and studied himself in the mirror. Bleary-eyed and stubbled, he looked almost as bad as he felt.
    He hadn’t gotten home until almost three. It was now just after 6:00 A.M . The next baby-sitter wasn’t coming until ten o’clock. How was he going to make it through the next four hours? If he could get through till then, he could grab a couple more hours of sleep before returning to the bar this afternoon and working through the night again.
    He had to get more help at the Gris-Gris Bar, people he could trust to run things when he wasn’t there. But that cost money, and he wasn’t bringing in enough to hire another bartender as well as be able to pay Connor’s baby-sitters. If something had to give, it wasn’t going to be the baby-sitters. In the stress and physical wear-and-tear departments, it was easier to take care of the bar than take care of Connor.
    Wuzzy detected movement from the bottom corner of the mirror. He swung around and dove in time to catch Connor, who was toppling over, just before his young head hit the floor.
    â€œThat’s all we need, isn’t it, buddy?” asked Wuzzy, his heart still pounding as he lifted his son over the edge of the tub and into the warm water. “You hurting your head. How much can that little noggin take, right?”
    Connor cooed and drooled as he sat in the tub. Wuzzy watched his son, his heart filled with love, his brain filled with anxiety. How was he going to do it? How was he going to make sure that Connor got everything he needed? The child care, the medical appointments, the therapies, the special equipment?
    Wuzzy was beyond grateful that the merchants of Royal Street and others were coming together to raise money to help him. But no matter how much was raised on St. Patrick’s Day night, even if it paid for most of his current outstanding bills, it would be a finite amount. Connor’s care and expenses would go on for the rest of his life.
    How was he going to pay for it