Warpath

The two houses were similar: two story wood-frame structures that had survived both the fire of 1895 and Hurricane Katrina. Sangster rented his, but Burke owned.

Before using the key he knocked, in case Polly was inside cleaning. When there was no answer he used the key to let himself in.

Burke also had an extra key to Sangster’s house, but it had taken the two men a long time to trust each other that much. Sangster, the ex-hitman, had been shocked to find that Burke, the ex-lawman, was a kindred spirit, and the two had formed a bond—the kind of bond Sangster had never experienced, and never could have experienced, before that morning when he woke to find that he suddenly had a soul.

It took only seconds to ascertain that Polly was not around. However, the house was clean, so he assumed she had been there in the past day or so.

There wasn’t much he could do for his friend until he spoke with Polly. That meant finding her. Burke had a small office, with a desk and one file cabinet. Sangster went through the cabinet. In the first drawer he discovered Sheriff’s Department files, all of them unsolved cases. But he wasn’t interested in those at the moment. In the second drawer he found what he wanted: copies of paid—and unpaid—bills. He had to go through gas, electric, mortgage and other monthly bills before finding some canceled checks that had been

written to Polly. He pulled the folder out, leafed through it, and finally found Polly’s address. He didn’t recognize the street, but it was also an Algiers address. He kept the piece of paper it was written on and returned the file to the cabinet. Then he left Burke’s house, locking the door behind him.

He went back to his house, using his landline to call the hospital and check on Burke’s condition. A woman at the nurse’s station told him Mr. Burke’s condition had not change—no better, no worse.

“Can you tell me if there is still a policeman outside his door?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, there is.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up. There was no reason for him to rush to the hospital right away. So, he decided to go find Polly, and then see Burke during the evening visiting hours.

After locking up his house, Sangster set off on foot to find Polly.

Algiers was home to many pubs and restaurants—no fast food places allowed—many of which, like the Old Point Bar, had live music. Some of the Mardi-Gras troupes had warehouses there. In addition, there were many Catholic and Baptist churches in the area. The population was about 2,200.

As Sangster walked, he discovered that Evelina Ave, where Polly lived, was also in Algiers Point, but on the other side of the ferry landing. When he reached the address he saw it was one of the older shotgun style houses, so-called because there were no hallways inside. You could fire a shotgun through the front door and the bullet would come out the back door.

He stepped up to the front door and knocked. After a few moments the door was answered by a small boy about eight.

“Hello,” he said, looking up at Sangster.

“Hello,” Sangster said, “does Polly Bourque live here?”

“Yeah,” the boy said, “she’s my ma. I’m Hugo.”

“Hugo, is your ma home?”

“Naw,” the boy said, “she’s at work.”

“Work?”

“She cleans.”

“Are you here alone?”

“Naw,” Hugo said. “My sister’s here.”

“Is she older than you, or younger?”

“She’s older.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Instead of answering, the boy turned and ran back inside the house, yelling, “Octavia!”

Sangster waited and after a few moments a teenage girl wearing tank top and cut offs, came to the door. She was dark-skinned, pretty, with pointy little tits and not an ounce of fat on her. She looked him up and down, pushing her pokies out at him.

“Where y’at?” was the traditional New Orleans greeting, only she said, “Where YOU at?”