Free Run Baby Run by Michael Allen Zell Page B

some pocket change all I got in this world. That cruise to Brazil leaving in six hours," he thought.
    He considered, "All's I gotta do, get over by I-10 going west and hitch a ride. Plenty semi's out there. I'm good once I'm on the highway."
    Hutch laughed a grim laugh, remembering, "Course I could get a cab to Houston, but I can't burn off too much this money." Like everyone, he'd heard about or knew desperate people paying cabbies to evacuate them both before and after the flood.
    He coughed again and quickly covered his mouth so he couldn't be heard outside. Who knew how many people were out looking for him?
    "It was goin' just right," he thought, "but not for too long."
    Hutch remembered Club Big Easy having a good night. Packed house. He'd discreetly observed Mr. C sending off his two henchmen before going into a certain weekly routine. It took a little time for the manager to finally walk to the back, accompanied.
    Waiting seemed interminable. To ease the tension, he'd made a loop around the room. Dave, the other bouncer, had questioned him.
    "Hutch, what's up? It's all good here. You all right, bruh?"
    The older man played with him a bit to take the pressure off. Plus, he knew Dave would be questioned later, so decoy statements were vital. It was one of those stories that black people would love to tell gullible white people, both for their own enjoyment and to know that at some point later white folks would be gathering around hearing it retold, all saying, "Those people are crazy."
    Hutch rarely had a chance to do this. How often did white men, much less women, express concern for him or take focus off of themselves? So, he spun a yarn about baby mamas in Slidell and Plaquemines; money owed to men in Algiers and Belle Chasse; dice games in Hollygrove; a night of drinking in a bar on Elysian Fields that ended in a shootout; and more. By the time he got to the end, Dave's mouth was slack and eyes were buggy.
    Hutch couldn't resist. "Brer Soul's got a life, don't he?" He kept from an overt smile. It was the first time he saw a white man get ashy.
    Now that the edge was off, he turned around to see Clint Olson descending the stairs with a large beer case.
    Hutch eyeballed the back. No sign of Mr. C.
    Olson walked steadily to the front door. Like Hutch planned, Olson said, loudly enough for Dave and the shot girl Bree to hear, "Hey Hutch. Mr. C wants this in his trunk. You walk with? Watch my back so no knuckleheads jump me?"
    Dave was dazed and Bree was new. Neither blinked an eye when Hutch played his part perfectly. "You can't handle that shit yourself? Alright, c'mon. Be back in a minute, Dave."
    The dark blue jeep was parked on Dauphine near St. Peter. It contained no suitcases, only a full tank of gas. No rain was in the forecast, so Hutch hadn't bothered to purchase a canvas top.
    Hutch and Olson stepped out of the club together.
    Under his breath, Hutch said, "Not a word 'til we cross the street."
    A circle of tourists were gathered around three black high energy acrobatic dancers who were performing on a colorful drop cloth to music from two speakers as powerful as those inside the clubs. That part of Bourbon was slightly wider than the rest and allowed a rounder arc.
    The dancer wearing a wireless microphone paused and announced to the crowd, "You might wonder how we got so good at our moves. Five words. Running... from... the... po-lice."
    At this the mostly white crowd belly laughed. A few threw dollar bills into the middle.
    Hutch had heard this line and its predictable response several times over the years, and it never failed to make him feel darker than blue. He told Olson to follow him and roughly pushed through the crowd into the dancer's space.
    Looking at the dancers with fierce eyes, Hutch said, "I'm happy not to see your raggedy Uncle Tommin' asses no more. Fuckin' bitch ass niggers." He could take all three of them on and they knew it, so they all turned away, cleaning imaginary specks of dirt on