The Jar of Nephren-Ka

Chasing Leads

New Orleans, Louisiana: 6:31 PM, Tuesday, June 5th, 1984

When I left King Cab, the sun was going a kind of dusky red on its journey towards the horizon. I figured at this time of day, most of the folks at Washington Manor should be home.

I slid into the cruiser and hit a nearby McDonald's for supper, pulling out of the drive-thru with 40 pieces of chicken nuggets and a large Coke. I drove back over to the apartments, popping nuggets into my mouth like popcorn. The taste was just savory salt, but right now I needed the calories, taste be damned.

When I arrived, I circled the block looking for a parking space. Every available space on the streets around the apartments had a vehicle jammed in it. I circled the cemetery and found a spot on the far side. By this time, I had dispatched the last nugget and was digging around for a napkin.

After parking, I wiped my hands and mouth, then checked my teeth in the rearview. I went to work with a toothpick for a few minutes, then readjusted the rearview and exited the car.

The fastest way to reach the apartments was through the cemetery, so that's the way I went. Walking through a crumbling cemetery at dusk bugs some folks, but it didn't bother me.

The way I saw it, an encounter with a ghost or some other spiritual being would at least prove that something persisted after death. As it stood, I believed death was oblivion, so proof that something, anything, existed afterward would be a relief.

I crossed the grounds, admiring the ancient, crumbling vaults standing proudly in rows. The monuments were so old, they looked like slabs of carved chalk which had been sprayed with water until only the barest remnant of the writing remained.

I reached the other side unmolested. Apparently, I'm highly intimidating to creatures of the night.

As I exited the cemetery, I scanned the apartments. Most of the apartments appeared to be occupied, weak yellow light shining through windows. A few residents were sitting out front, rocking and talking to neighbors as the sun went down. The apartment manager's office still displayed the closed sign, lights off inside.

I crossed the street and made my way to the second floor. Sneaking is not my forte, and I didn't even try; I just walked in like I belonged there.

From the moment I crossed the threshold, I felt eyes on me. I continued on as if I didn't notice, climbing the creaking staircase. At the top, I took a left and continued on to apartment 212.

There was an older gentleman, maybe in his mid-50s, sitting in a cheap folding chair on the gallery in front of the apartment. He had skin the color of walnuts, curly black hair graying at the temples and cropped close, and wore a sweat-stained wife-beater and dirty jeans. He was leaning forward, staring out into the cemetery and smoking a Kool.

I walked over to him, nodded slightly. "Evenin' friend," I said.

He nodded and continued to eye me skeptically. He took a drag on his Kool.

I retrieved a card from my pocket. "My name's Rev, and I'm looking for David Kinsey," I said as I handed him the card.

The man glanced at the card, expression placid and bored, then made it disappear into his pants.

"He in trouble?" the man asked, looking back out towards the street as if I had ceased to be interesting. His voice was like gravel tumbling in a barrel: deep bass rumbles punctuated by random bursts of treble.

"Hard to say. Right now, he's just missing, and I've been hired to find him. Seen him around?"

"Where he stay?" the man asked.