Carpooling with Carlos, Ch. 8

The infusion of moisture from the Gulf and the lingering effects of another humid and miserably hot day gave West Bank dwellers a majestic sunset.

Rich hues of purple, orange, yellow, and red intersected with streaks of white, gray, and black as the sun softly floated deeper into the western sky. In moments like these, Louisiana residents could take a short respite from a day of lingering heat to let their troubles fade as they embraced God’s artistic touch in a tranquil bayou sunset.

Petey slapped the narrow sun visor down on the Econoline van as he turned onto Highway 90 driving west into the late afternoon tapestry. The windows for both doors were rolled down and both front window vents were tilted out to catch any remnant of air that was pushed into the cab the faster the vehicle traveled. Sal was drawn to the colors that were changing before his eyes as the van continued its westerly path. Driving past Waggaman, Pete turned south onto a parish road that bordered Jefferson and St. Charles Parishes. Another turn and the Econoline was kicking up dust on a gravel and shell road that took them deeper into an area that mostly comprise of Cattails and Saw Grass dotted swamps, with pockets of land that was barely wide enough to stand on. From time to time a few brave souls in olive green colored hip boots could be seen wading into the alligator and water moccasin infested water to fish or release crawfish traps.

The road they were driving on traversed an area of about 7,000 acres of farmland, swamp, ponds, woods, and about every imaginable form of wildlife, insect, and waterfowl known to inhabit Southern Louisiana. As swampland receded and solid land took its place, big barns and metal shops appeared. It felt like a small, backwoods settlement that had managed to stay hidden from civilization and wanted to remain two decades behind the rest of Louisiana. Isolated and unprotected, the buildings scattered throughout the property were not for show but were used in various aspects of the businesses of Carlos Marcello. The property was formally called Churchill Farms but most people simply said, the Farm. Sal and Petey didn’t care what anyone else called the place, their main concern was taking care of the business at hand and not looking back as they drove away.

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A mile past the tiny village, Petey slowed as he came to a T in the road, coming to a complete stop. Checking both left and right for any oncoming cars (an unlikely sight in this village) he turned left and gradually the gravel became dirt, then the dirt became overgrown grass and brush. After about 5 minutes Petey once again slowed and then stopped and turned off the Econoline’s engine.

The anxious, fearful grunts and moans from the passengers chained to the floor in the back of the van mingled with sweat and wisps of smoke from hand-rolled cigarettes that Petey inhaled. Eyes wide with desperation were transfixed on the back of the heads of the driver and his riding companion. Compared to the eyes of the two men in the front of the truck that were calm, almost lazy and without angst of what was to come. Groves of virgin cypress trees created a canopy of branches and leaves over the road.. The thick cover of timber blocked any hope of an afternoon breeze penetrating the quagmire of mud, swamp gas, mosquitoes, plants, and animals.

Despite the oppressive surroundings they found themselves in, this was not the first time Petey and Sal were called upon to do the Old Man’s dirty work. “Money talks, ugly women trying to hitchhike home, walk,” Petey was fond of saying. More times than he wanted to admit, Sal tried to tell Petey the cliché had more to do with excrement walking but Petey being a good Catholic boy until the age of 10, still held on to some virtues of his days as an altar boy at St. Joseph the Worker Catholic Church.

“The water seems to be down since our last visit.” Sal said as he scanned the dark brown waters of the bayou that fed into a small catch basin partially hidden by Palmettos and Yucca plants ,while the water’s surface was nearly covered with water hyacinths. “What do you think we should do,” he asked?

“Well, you know what the old man said to do. You aren’t chickening out, are you?”

“No of course not, it’s just, well, oh hell,” Sal stammered. “Let’s get it over with. I need the money to fix some of the siding on my house from that last storm.”

The men exited the van and walked around to the rear doors. Sal swung both doors open and took in the prey that found themselves trapped like parakeets in a cage.  These caged birds weren’t singing though, their whimpers gave off the impression they knew that minutes, not hours, separated them from their doom.

“Boy’s I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” Petey said as he pulled out the revolver from his waistband, taking noticing of the terror-filled eyes of his prisoners. “Me and my buddy here, being the good church boys that our mama’s still think we are, have never killed one person and we don’t plan on starting with your sorry asses tonight.”

“Actually, we thought we’d bring you three out here so you could enjoy a little bit of what we refer to as ‘The Sportsman’s Paradise,” Petey said while chuckling and temporarily enjoying his occupation, as it was, working for the Old Man. “In fact, my buddy and I hoped you might enjoy a nice swim in one of our beautiful ponds. It’s a great way to wash off a working man’s sweat at the end of the day.”

Taking over for Petey, Sal reached into the van, unlocked the padlock that secured the chains and the men to the floor of the vehicle. Telling the three men to ease out of the van, Sal pointed to a nearby cypress tree that had taken root at the edge of the pond.

“Stand over by that Bald Cypress.”

The men unfolded themselves from their sitting positions, causing vertebrae and bones to crackle from being compressed in accordion positions for the last few hours. Slowly and gingerly the three walked to the cypress tree.

A splash from the water next to the three startled the three men from Ohio. But at that moment they were more afraid of the two crazy Louisiana boys that had captured them than what might be lurking in the putrid water inches from their feet.

“Here’s where it gets fun,” Petey said. “You three are going to take your sorry asses into the water behind you and decide which direction you should swim in order to make it safely out of this lovely swamp. Sal and I are going to get in our van, turn it around, and slowly drive away. Being the good sports that we are, if you can swim, walk, crawl, swing, or hell, even fly out of this little paradise, you are free men. No hard feelings boys.”

Not sure if the man with the gun was joking or just talking crazy, neither of the three moved an inch. A thunderous explosion from the gun that echoed off the water and cypress trees, sending bullets whizzing by the men’s heads, jerked them back to reality and helped each man decide it might be a nice evening to take a swim.

Petey and Sal eased backwards toward the van without taking their eyes off the three men. Accepting their fate, each man reluctantly turned around and waded into the water with fearfully, but also with a glimmer of hope this was either a very bad dream or a short swim to freedom. As the men found themselves up to their shoulders in the brown water, green pond scum, and water lilies, the first set of red eyes pushed out of the dark water surveying its surroundings, curious as to what had stirred it from its peaceful, sunset swim. On cue, a half-dozen more sets of eyes emerged from the abyss and began swimming leisurely toward their next meal.

As the two men drove away, the hum of the Econoline’s engine, the crunch of shells being crushed by tires, and the staccato sounds of the AM radio coming from the van’s speakers were not enough to drown out the blood-curling shrieks of misery as the gnashing of sharp, jagged teeth meeting bone, muscle, and flesh.