The Jar of Nephren-Ka

Initial Inquiries

New Orleans, Louisiana: 1:52 PM, Tuesday, June 5th, 1984

Three hours later, I pulled into a parking space by the loading docks at 920 Julia. I unfolded myself from the car, rubbed my knee briefly, and grabbed my battered briefcase.

920 Julia was in an industrial section of the city, surrounded by warehouses, parking lots, and light industrial buildings. The building itself was a large, two-story brick structure, probably built in the 20s, with multi-pane, leaded glass windows and an architecture style probably best described as 'blocky'.

Coventry's black Rolls was parked in a loading zone directly in front of the building, and an older, portly black man in jeans and a faded t-shirt was smoking a Newport by the loading dock doors.

"It OK if I park here?" I asked the black man.

"Bossman, you can park anywhere you goddamn please. Have you seen you?" he said, and laughed at his own joke, a hiccupy, intense sound, full of mirth.

My mouth twitched at the corners. I liked this guy already.

"Just want to make sure my ride doesn't get towed," I said.

"Oh no worries there, I'll keep an eye on it."

"Don't you need to go to work?" I asked, gesturing at the building.

"Oh not me, brother, I'm a driver," he said as inclined his head to an 18-wheeler parked on the curb across the street. "It'll be hours before they finish unloading me, and all I got to do is stand out here and smoke till then."

I limped up to him and extended a hand. "Rev Parata."

He grabbed my hand and shook it firmly. "Rufus Freeman."

"Know anything about these guys?" I asked, gesturing again at the building.

"Not me. I deliver here once in a blue moon. All I know is everything they transport is insured out the ass, know what I mean?"

I nodded. "Well, thanks for watching out for me," I said, and turned to walk towards the entrance.

"Don't mention it, brother," I heard him call out behind me.

Inside, I found a professionally outfitted lobby with a large hardwood reception desk. The interior of the building immediately met with my approval. Except for the desk and accessories, it might have been right out of an old silent film. The roof must have been 12 foot high, supported by great steel girders fully exposed to view. The old building smell was just detectable under the detergent and perfume.

A pretty blond lady, probably in her mid-twenties, was stationed at the reception desk. I hobbled forward.

"Rev Parata, here to see Donald Coventry," I said.

The receptionist looked me over, skepticism clear in her face, then said, "Just one moment, ah, Mr. Parata."

She picked up a telephone, dialed a three-digit extension, and waited.

"Hi Sherelle, I've got a Rev Parata down here for Lord Coventry." She looked me up and down with a doubtful expression. I kept my face neutral.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, OK." She said. "I'll send him right up."

She smiled a smile that didn't come close to touching her eyes. "Lord Coventry will see you. Just go up the stairs and speak to his assistant, Sherelle."

I nodded and headed for the stairs.

On the second floor, I ran into a nearly identical lobby, with a middle-aged, overweight white woman in a flowery dress stationed at an ostentatious desk. I stepped forward.