Metamorphoses

This story can also be enjoyed as a parallel plot to my previous submission The Night Gathering. *********

Maurice Kahlo looked down at the dead body of Maurice Kahlo.

Approaching behind him was the pitter patter of Sy Green running breathlessly on the pavement of the one of New Orleans’ back alleys, which are perennially wet and sticky from rain, flood, spelled beer, and bodily fluids. Sy looked down, up, and then down again. 

“What the fuck Mo?”

“My brother.” Kahlo uttered, more to the corpse then to Green. “Will this be the last time you ruin my life? ”

“Didn’t know you was a twin. I thought you were really topped off when I saw the shot.

“Not twin - younger brother. I only see him once every ten years.”

"I mean, the resemblance is really ... even the hair, the cloth, wait! Is he impersonating you?”

Like hurricanes and earthquakes, Maurice’s brother would appear in his life intermittently and raze to the ground everything Maurice had. He has learned not to argue or complain, find purpose or meaning, establish reasoning or learn a life lesson, and saw it for what it was - a random freakish occurrence necessitating him to rebuild among the wrecks and ruins.

“Tycho’s men did this?”

Tycho Brahe was the supplier for Maurice as well as all the distributors from Mobile to Baton Rouge. Tycho’s organization had moved goods and cash efficiently and securely for decades, including the weekly green drops with armored SUVs driven by men adorned with tattoos, scars, and Kalashnikovs, which were made at a private airstrip just outside of Biloxi, from where twin engined Cessnas served as conveyance for the precious suitcases of legal tenders be delivered to their safe-harbor in the vault of the First International of Bahamas in Nassau, who's very capable and accommodating managers will redistribute the capital through Singapore, Switzerland, and Panama City to be convert to exchange traded funds, ten-year U.S. treasury notes, and Floridian condos.   

Brahe’s setup was tight and smooth. So imagine the pilot’s surprise when out of one of the dough bags emerged a wiry dreadhead with a golden incisor, who sliced the radio wires, smashed the GPS, and pushed the muzzle of his Glock onto the aviator’s temple. The unmanifested passenger rattled off new coordinates, waypoints, altitudes, and brought the money plane down on an abandoned field near Pensacola with a hidden van. After the pilot struggled out of his zip ties and walked for three hours to report the hijacking, Tycho Brahe issued a slow death order for that “too bad I kinda like that scrawny ass Filipino kid” who has upset the ecosystem of the gulf states he and the other regional drug lords have worked so hard to preserve. Maurice knew it would be completely pointless to argue that the bandit with his likeness was not him but some evil brother, which would likely just make the thugs laugh a little louder as they carve him up.

“Nah. Them goons will maul you with a Mac truck, pummel you into a hamburger, then try to feed it to you. It was some Asian chick on a rice-rocket. She pulled up behind Maurice, I mean your brother, and called your name. As he turned, she shone one of them pistol light on his face, then pop,pop,-pop.” Sy’s left arm flailed to simulate shooting. “Two to the chest and one in the head, classic Mozambique drill mother fucker. Talking about precision.”

“ Left hand shooter?” Maurice observed the body again and noted that the head wound was on the edge of the left eyebrow - a blue mole on the edge of the left brow was the only physical feature which distinguished his brother from him. “Precision nothin’ - bitch was a surgeon. Nine-mil?”

“Beretta 92. Oh and she had on them fingernails whatchamacallit -candy apple green color.”

Left handed Asian female favoring green nail polish - Melissa Lee, one of his most successful retailers. But why would she want to pull on him? 

Maurice frisked the corpse and retrieved the wallet and keys. Then he shoved his own wallet into the deadman’s pocket, followed by wrapping his watch on the dead wrist and inserting his wedding band on the cold finger. Finally pulled his gold incisor cap and clip it onto the deadman’s tooth.

“Listen Sy. Tycho wants me dead so it would be good for me to stay dead for now. Don't say nothing to no one about this being my bro. Gonna disappear for a bid. You are still on good terms with the Tych and you know the players. I want you to run this thing for now but don’t or take on any new clients or new crew. Anyone look at you sideways you shut it down, skip town, and cool it at your big mama’s in Lake Charles.”

“Where ya gonna go?.”

“Nowhere since I am dead.”

“Oh. Right. Better I don’t know.”

Maurice raised the key fob he retrieved from the body and pushed the unlock bottom. A headlamp flashed half a block down the street.

“Take care of yourself Sy.”

“You too Mo.”

Maurice scurried down the block and found his brother’s vehicle - a extended-wheelbase chevy panel van with off-road tires and roof carriage. He started the engine and slipped away with the headlights off just as the flashing light of the police arrived to investigate the reported shooting.

Cloaked in the black cityscape, the knobby tires on the van slithered down the side streets. He eventually switched on the lights while entering the west bound I-10 ramp, speeding away from New Orleans with a heavy foot on the pedal. The clock on the dash showed 2 am.

Shortly after crossing the parish line he exited on North Causeway Boulevard, and merged onto a service street lined by apartment complexes. He eased the van into an unlit driveway in the shadow of one of the apartment buildings, shut the engine, climbed onto the roof rack, and lightly tapped on the second story bedroom window. The window glided open silently and the girl behind it wrapped her skinny arms around Maurice’s neck.

“Daddy!”

“Listen baby. I just want you to know that I am alright. Some bad dudes are after me so I am going to play dead for a while. Tomorrow you might hear that I was shot but I want you to know that’s all fake and I am really fine. Just promise me that you won’t tell anyone, not even your mama.”

“Promise. But she’ll be sad to hear you are dead.”

Heartened by the girl’s comment Maurice regretted that he had to get rid of the wedding ring which he never took off since his divorce nine years ago.

Fifteen kegs of San Miguel per weekend flowed through the taps in his little shack of an eatery in Chalmette where lumpia, chicharon red beans and rice, and adobo gumbo were served up by Maurice and his wife. He remembered enjoying the view from the steamy galley kitchen from where he could see her exuberant hair wrapped in a red tignon and sashaying hips moved to the rhythm of live zydeco, all the while carrying arm loads of dishes and a eight month pregnant belly, and still fill the hut with her laughter from table to table. Five-figure weekends were the norm - until the Parish Sheriff arrived to serve the court ordered eviction.

“Mr. Kahlo. We have called, sent registered letters, telegrams, and in-person notifications, yet you have neglected to service the business loan you received against your property and business.” The First Liberty Mutual Representative exclaimed, showing a false address in their record.

“But we have everything - the deed of the house, lease to the land, tax returns, social security, and matching signature obtained in front of a notary.” The branch manager of First Liberty bellowed at the presence of the fraud unit investigator from the Sheriff's office, as Maurice realized that he did not even know his home office was broken into. “Why, we even have the surveillance video of you sitting here at this very desk, requesting the loan.”

If the video were of very high definition, it would have shown a blue mole in the left brow. No one believed him, including his wife, who thought he has squandered or hidden the three quarter million loan. The divorce was finalized a month after their bankruptcy filing and three days after the birth of their daughter, on his thirtieth birthday.

“But I will be keeping an eye on you, and send you gifts for your birthdays and Christmas, just not under my own name because people think I am dead. How About I use the name of Uncle Sam or Aunty Mary.?”

“Expensive gifts given over time from a consistent unrelated and undocumented source could raise suspicion and trigger investigations in case we are monitored by gangs or government agencies. It’s better to alter the names regularly. Why not use the name of the United State Poet Laureate as the gift giver. Nobody knows who they are and they change yearly.”

Man she is smart. And who mentioned expensive gifts?

“So what would you like for your birthday next month? Do you still like stuffed animals? How about barbies?”

“Dad, I’ll be ten!” Giggled the girl.

Maurice was suddenly saddened by the fact he has no idea what ten year old girls like.

“I want AutoCAD and a PC that is capable of running it.”

“Is it a toy cat?”

“No daddy.” Laughed. “It’s a program that produces 3-D rendering of architecture designs. I want to redesign New Orleans International Airport. The first design assignment in architecture schools is always redesigning a public space. I figure I'll get an early start on it.”

“Awesome! But don’t you think kids your age should have more fun?”

“I want to finish the project now so I can have more time for fun in grad school.”

Proud and slightly worried at the same time, Maurice hugged his daughter, promised that the gift would arrive soon, kissed her in the hair and was disheartened to realize the baby smell he loved so much was lone gone, and scurried down the roof of the van and continued west on I-10, trying to commit to memory the sensation of the his daughter’s frizzy hair brushing against his cheek.

The girl who saved him from going to jail twenty years ago was also about to turn ten when her parents were murdered. That victims’ daughter, who was crying and trembling during most of the court proceedings, insisted on being a witness, identified one of the culprits convincingly, and then refused to identify Maurice as the other shooter. 

As promising cadets at NOPD, Maurice Kahlo and Juliette Ernst were an item. Maurice was in love. So was Juliette, with Maurice at first, or so she thought, until she discovered what real love of life was when Maurice’s brother visited him from California. Fallen hard for the scalawag, the graduate of an all girl religious school run by rod wielding nuns were willing to do anything, including murder.

The pair descended upon a successful restaurant in New Orleans East after hours, Juliette in her own uniform and the visiting brother in Maurice’s, convinced the owners that they were police needing to discuss some safety violations so they unlocked the door, shot the couple and fled with the loot, neglecting to note that the restaurateurs were the early adopters of video surveillance technology and that their nine year old daughter was hiding in the walk-in fridge.

Juliette was convicted swiftly and later died in jail under questionable circumstances. 

The girl’s insistence in court that Maurice was not the shooter, despite what was obvious to everyone on the video footage, led to enough uncertainty that a mistrial was declared. No jail, but also no career in law enforcement. It was the last time his brother paid him a formal visit. He just turned twenty.

What was her name? Connie? Dotty? Stephanie! That’s it. Stephanie Nyugne - the distraught daughter, the helpless orphan, the stern witness who jailed one accused and freed another. Being a minor and to protect her identity, testimony and cross examination were done through close circuit video where her face was blurred and questions from the prosecutors and defense were answered by writing instead of her own voice. Maurice still remembered her tiny hand which wrote with efficiency, giving concise and convincing answers. “The shooter had a blue mole in the left eyebrow.” She wrote.

Maurice suddenly struck the dashboard with his palm. Left hand! The girl wrote with left hand - a little hand adorned with haphazardly applied, peeling, and patchy green nail polish.

“Melissa Lee was Stephanie Nyugen!” He wailed.

“Took you long enough to figure that one out.”

Startled by Melissa'a voice coming from the back of the van Maurice nearly lost control of the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror he can barely make out her figure in black helmet and black biker suit.

“You've been here all this time?”

“Yap. The whole NOPD and Orleans Parish Sheriff are be looking for an Asian female on a Japanese race bike - I won’t get far with that. Just need a ride to cross the Parish line. For future reference, next time you pinch a vehicle, check what’s in the cargo space first. By the way, there are ten million in duffle bags back here, money your brother pilfered from Tycho Brahe. I will take half as walking-around money. Don't spend all yours in one place. You can drop me off here.”

Maurice exited on Clearview Parkway and pulled over to the side of the road. Melissa Lee pulled back a black tarp to reveal her Honda CBR, and pushed it off the van over a wooden plank.

“And yes it was me who dispatched your piss-of-shit brother. Had to flash his face to make sure of the mole - didn’t want to accidentally bump you off. No hard feelings I hope.”

“No!. I … I want to thank you.” He uttered with a feeling of being given a second life as the bike’s engine roared.

“Did you do Juliette Ernst, too?” He yelled at her as she sped off. Without looking back, she responded with her gloved middle finger.

After the silhouette of Melissa on her motorcycle faded into the onshore mist of Lake Pontchartrain, Maurice restarted the van, and continued his westward journey on the arbitrarily lit and, at this hour, abandoned Esplanade Avenue. 

He drove past the Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton Academy for Boys, slowed, U-turned, and parked across the street from the school, from where he can observe the shattered windowpanes and peeling paint on the once handsome Georgian facade. The relief sculpture of Archangel Michael on the pediment had suffered a broken sword, smog blemished face, and wings sagged by the uncertainty of victory over satanic forces.

“Here at Saint Elizabeth, we have a proud tradition of helping students with difficult family situations to develop their full potentials.” Father Lucca expounded proudly, sitting in front of the bookshelf which was taller than the Empire State Building. “And with your talent Mr. Kahlo, we would like to offer you a full scholarship for the entirety of your secondary education.”

“Our full scholarship graduates are practically guaranteed merit scholarships in LSU and Tulane.” Sister Osheen joined the conversation enthusiastically. “The recipients' alumni include a congresswoman,two state senators, four professors, and one bank president, not to mention many local doctors and lawyers.” She counted them as family jewels.

But Maurice was later seen, by many who could bear witness, climbing into father Lucca’s office in his school uniform, opening the drawer where he kept the petty cash which he never locked, and emptying it. After long deliberation by school officials, sister Osheen, crying, escorted Maurice out of the front gate, and locked it behind him. Maurice stood under the Saint Michael sculpture, barely ten years old, bewildered, and too embarrassed to tell anyone what happened, including his brother who was visiting. "I would be nice for the brothers to get to know each other." The kindly foster parents thought.

The academy has fallen on hard times as of lately as continuing to lease the land the building was erected on has become prohibitive and the effort to raise money to buy the land outright has stalled. 

Maurice fished out one of the money bags from the van, crossed the street, climbed into the corner office where the theft he did not commit occurred thirty years ago, which now belongs to Sister Osheen who has taken over as the chief administrator of the academy, and shoved the duffle into the petty cash drawer which they still kept unlocked. He then exited the window, cut a handful of the azaleas growing vigorously just below the sill with his folding knife, and drove off.

As the sliver of rose-gold started to emerge on the reflective black swamp surfaces along the I-10 corridor suggested the beginning of dawn, he pulled into Providence Memorial Park in Kenner. He had no memory of his father, a marine who died in the Dar es Salaam U.S. Embassy bombing. He had only a singular memory of his mother - the smell of vanilla in her hair when she held him. He ambled up to her grave marker and placed the azaleas in the built-in flower vase. The only other memory he had related to his mother was the adults around him crying about extensive blood loss during childbirth and their inability to save the life of the mother, but the boy was fine. They did not keep siblings in the same foster homes back then. He was one year old and it was the first time his brother came into his life.

“I’m alright but will be a while before bring you flowers again ma.” He muttered on his knees.

Back in the van, he pulled out his brother’s driver’s license. 

“Terrance Kahlo.” He read under his breath, looking at the photo as if staring into a mirror. “16800 Shoemaker Ave, Cerritos, California, 90703. Expiration date - in six months.”

So what’s So Cal like? He asked Sy once, who grew up in Compton.

No beignet, no poboy, decent crawfish is hard to find - Sy always starts with food - but, but, but, the best taco north of the Rio Grande, yes! And then there are the beaches ….

Heading west on I-10 with the rising orange sun at his back, he murmured to himself. “Best get my Cali driver’s license renewed soon.”