Free That Old Black Magic by Mary Jane Clark Page A

look, voice, and presence had to be what the director and producers had in mind, what they envisioned as the perfect Amy for their movie. She hoped the tight shooting schedule would work in her favor. The parade was tomorrow. A decision had to be made quickly. There was no time to drag out auditions over a few days.
    Usually she’d be hoping fervently that she would receive an offer, but this time Piper didn’t find herself praying for the role. She felt anxious, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. Was it too soon for her to be acting again? She didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but Piper knew she wasn’t operating at her usual energy level. The doctor had said it was going to take a while before her assaulted system would be back to normal. He’d suggested she might want to get some counseling as well for the trauma she’d gone through. Piper wondered if she’d made a mistake in dismissing that advice.
    Her thoughts were diverted as the taxi turned onto Royal Street and came to a stop. The street was jammed with traffic.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” she asked, stretching to see.
    â€œDon’t know,” said the driver. “The police have cordoned off the area.”
    A few minutes passed, and still the taxi didn’t move. Piper felt herself tensing. She was anxious to get to Boulangerie Bertrand. She’d been gone too long.
    She took her wallet from her bag and pulled out some bills.
    â€œI’m going to walk the rest of the way.”

Chapter 24
    A cross the street from the muffuletta shop, Cecil sat on a blue plastic cooler. From his vantage point on the sidewalk, he had a good view of all the action. Police officers milled around in front of the old brick building while onlookers craned their necks. Word spread about the murder victim inside.
    â€œOkay, y’all. Keep it movin’.”
    Cecil watched the young cop urge the tourists along. He liked the kid and the way he usually dropped a couple of coins or a dollar bill in Cecil’s opened clarinet case when he passed by on his beat. The young cop hadn’t yet had the chance to turn bitter or mean.
    Pushing back his straw porkpie hat, Cecil stood up and leaned over to open the cooler. He reached in, took out two bottles of water, closed the box, and sat back down on it again. Opening one he’d laced with some bourbon, he took a deep swig, resigned to the heat and humidity. The month of March was just the beginning of a long season of sweat-soaked days for New Orleans street musicians.
    He waited until the young cop looked in his direction. Cecil held up the bottle of pure water in a gesture of hospitality. The police officer walked over.
    â€œThanks,” said the cop, accepting the ice-cold bottle and twisting off the cap. “What a morning.”
    â€œBad news, man,” said Cecil.
    â€œThe worst for that guy,” said the cop. He took a swallow of water. “What a gory mess it is in there.”
    Cecil looked up expectantly and waited for more information.
    â€œMuffuletta Mike was whipped to shreds, but it looks like he was strangled first. The detectives think the whip was used as a garrote before the killer really got into it. The poor guy was slashed to a bloody pulp, all while the ham and salami and pepperoni were still lying there on the counter.”
    â€œWhipped to the red,” murmured Cecil. He nodded knowingly at the thoughts that came to his mind. Petro loa, the dark spirits, were the most aggressive and easily annoyed. Red was their color. Pig sacrifice was their appeasement.
    The bloody shop and all the pork strewn around were signs of Petro loa.
    The patrolman thirstily emptied the rest of the bottle and threw a dollar bill into the instrument case. “Thanks for the water, Ceece. Got to get back to work.”
    â€œMe, too,” said Cecil. As he brought the clarinet to his lips, he considered the Petro loa’s other calling card: It was