by Lynn Lorenz
On the Streets of New Orleans
By Lynn Lorenz
Breakfast at Tiffany’s Waffles and Wings
A year after Hurricane Katrina, Scott is back in the city he loves, the city that offered him sanctuary from rural Louisiana and its prejudices, but living in a homeless shelter can be almost as dangerous as the streets.
The storm cost Tony his family, his home, and his direction in life. Now he’s squatting and stealing to make ends meet, and he’s lost all hope of things getting better.
When Scott and Tony meet, they realize it’s time to stop merely surviving. It’s time to start living again. Together.
Charlie’s Mission
Charlie is an ex-addict plagued by memories of the past. He’s doing penance working at a homeless shelter, staying away from men, drugs, and anything resembling happiness. He’s convinced he doesn’t deserve more.
Devon is determined to keep the dealers out of his neighborhood. No one operates there without his permission. When he brings a sick young man who was selling drugs to the mission, he meets Charlie and can’t stop thinking of the man with the haunted eyes. He’s determined to give Charlie a taste of pleasure, despite Charlie’s claims that he’s not worthy of it.
Table of Contents
On the Streets of New Orleans
Breakfast at Tiffany’s Waffles and Wings
Charlie’s Mission
About the Author
By Lynn Lorenz
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright Page
Breakfast at Tiffany’s Waffles and Wings
I know what it means to miss New Orleans.
Chapter 1
SCOTT TROTTED down the steps of the homeless shelter, pulled up the collar of his threadbare windbreaker, and headed down St. Joseph Street to Magazine Street. At four in the morning, the street was deserted; all the action would be over on Canal Street, just bordering the French Quarter. He swiveled his head back and forth as he checked the shadows of the buildings for signs of life.
Even though he didn’t have more than five dollars on him, he knew there were addicts who would try to take it from him, beat him for it, leave him bleeding and hurt, just to get their next fix.
As he turned the corner onto Magazine Street and made his way toward the Quarter, he relaxed. The closer he got to it, the better he felt. In the Quarter, with its around-the-clock nightlife, bars, restaurants, and tourists, he’d be safe, or at least safer than here in the deserted business district where the shelter he lived at was located. He hated being there, but the only other place to live would be on the streets. He’d tried that when he first came to the city, but after a few times some men had pushed him against a concrete pillar, robbed, and raped him, he figured the shelter was better.
The shelter might smell, and the food sucked, but none of the other men bothered him there. None of them assumed they could take his ass whenever they felt like it. Like him, all these men only wanted to keep to themselves, to lie on a warm cot with a blanket, and to sleep in safety.
Up ahead, the traffic light on the corner of Canal and Magazine shone like a beacon in the darkness. His shoulders eased from riding his ears.
Only three blocks to go.
TONY STOOD in the shadows of the alley between the two buildings and watched the skinny white kid walk down the street. Head down, jacket zipped up to his chin, and collar up against the dampness of the early morning, the guy bustled down the street, in and out of the halos cast from streetlights placed just too far apart to make the illumination continuous.
In and out of pockets of darkness. Coming closer. Fading to dark. Closer. Fading.
Inhaling, Tony pulled farther back into his hiding spot. His stomach rumbled. Fuck, he hadn’t had a thing to eat in two days, and if he didn’t get some cash soon, he’d have to go back to selling his ass on the street. Jobs, much less for people like him, were few and far between.
He’d already promised the memory of his grandmother, embodied in her silver cross around his neck, that he’d never sell his body again. And no selling drugs. Uh-huh. He was clean, and he was gonna stay that way.
Running out of choices, he’d turned to thieving. Grandmama would forgive him that, Tony was sure of it. Which was why he now found himself on the outskirts of the Quarter, looking for someone stupid enough to be walking around down here.
Like this fool kid.
He had to be about eighteen, maybe twenty, but damn, the boy was skinny. Hair so black it looked blue in the lamplights, skin so white it nearly glowed. Skin so white that, next to Tony’s ebony skin, the contrast between them would burn his eyes.
Somewhere a car horn blared, and the kid’s head snapped up.
Shit, his eyes were pale too. Almost without color. For a moment he stared into the spot where Tony hid, but his steps never faltered. Then he dropped his head, dug his hands deeper into the jacket’s pockets, and kept going.
Booking for the Quarter.
Maybe one of those rent boys on his way to earn a little cash in the clubs.
Maybe he had a little cash on him right now.
Maybe if Tony moved fast when the kid passed him, he could just reach out, grab him, and drag him into the alley. Tony easily had size and muscles over him. It’d be no problem.
Tony held his breath.
The kid passed him.
The scent of soap and something else filled Tony’s nose, stirring a memory from long ago deep inside him. When he had a home, a momma who gave a shit, and two little brothers and a baby sister to care about.
Everything he’d lost in Katrina.
Tony struggled with the wave of grief washing over him, making his knees buckle and his gut ache even harder.
The guy continued on down the block.
A SOFT sniff broke the silence.
Scott swallowed and his ears pricked up. It had come from behind him, he was sure of it. He pulled his hands out of his jacket, fisted them, ready, just in case. He strained to hear any sound other than his own footfalls, and never saw the hand reach out from the alley he’d passed, grab him by the neck, and yank him to the side.
He cried out, his own fists flying blindly, but another harder, bigger fist smashed into the side of his head, shooting pain, along with a harsh warning to shut the fuck up or he’d get worse.
Strong hands cupped under his armpits, dragged him into the darkness of a narrow space between buildings, and dumped him like a bag of garbage on the cold, damp concrete.
Fuck. He’d almost made it to Canal.
Dark, feral eyes surrounded by yellowed whites stared into his face.
“Gimme yo’ money, muthafucka.”
Scott nodded and reached into the pocket of his jeans. His ear stung from the blow, and a warm trickle ran down his neck. The back of his earring must have cut him. Lucky his attacker hadn’t seen it and tried to rip it out of his ear. He leaned closer to the brick wall to hide it. No sense losing everything.
The black man, so much bigger than Scott, pushed his hands out of the way and dug around for the cash, bruising Scott’s hip, crushing against Scott’s cock, ignoring the gasp of pain from his victim.
He pulled out the money and looked at the few carefully folded ones Scott had, then straightened as he went through it. “Shit, man, you ain’t got shit.” He sounded so disappointed. Disappointment was bad. Disappointment could get him killed.
Scott looked up from the ground and prayed the guy would just go away, not get any ideas, or get pissed and kick the living shit out of him. Or worse.
“Fuck you, you little faggoty cocksucker.”
The man put his hand on the wall, leaned against it, and drew back his foot, aiming for a hard kick in Scott�
��s ribs.
Scott curled into a ball, waiting for the first of many blows that would rain on him until he mercifully lost consciousness. Over the last few years, this wouldn’t be the first time or the last. Nothing to do but duck and cover.
“What the—” The man’s voice abruptly ended, cut off.
Scott peeked from behind his arms as they covered his face, protecting it.
A huge man, bigger than his attacker, had his hand around the guy’s throat, and his other hand, a tight black mallet of a fist, landed a punch in the guy’s gut.
“Arggh!” The man’s legs pulled up toward his belly, his hands spasmed open, and Scott’s money fluttered to the ground.
The other man opened his hand and Scott’s attacker fell into a heap, curling around his belly and retching.
A rush of relief followed by disbelief swept over Scott. He’d been saved by a total stranger.
Scott stared through the darkness at his rescuer. Barely discernable, the man had to be the blackest guy Scott had ever seen. His skin, what Scott could see of it, seemed to gleam in the dim light, as if covered in a fine coating of oil, like a bodybuilder.
“Thanks.” Scott pushed against the wall, trying to get to his feet.
Without a word the man leaned over, picked up the money the guy had dropped, and shoved it into his own pocket. Scott frowned. So much for his rescue.
He swallowed down the urge to declare that was his money, when a warm chocolate-brown gaze, interested but cautious, cast up and down his body.
Then the guy backed out of the alley and left.
What the fuck?
He’d been robbed. Then his robber had been robbed.
Shit.
He scrambled to the street and looked up and down it, but it was deserted.
Hoarse coughing brought his attention back to the alley.
Scott turned, fighting the urge to add his own kick to the bastard on the ground. But what good would that do? He’d only be waiting tomorrow night for Scott, and Scott might get the worse part. He shivered at that thought.
Maybe if he just left, the guy would think he had a protector and leave him alone. Scott didn’t want to rely on anyone but himself; he’d learned that lesson the hard way. Still, even a pretend protector would be worth losing the five bucks.
He straightened his clothes, brushed off his jeans, and wiped the blood from his neck with his hand. Giving the alley a last look, he spotted a single dollar bill caught in the trash on the ground. He jumped over the man, grabbed the one, and then ran.
He didn’t stop until he’d crossed Canal Street and entered the French Quarter.
Chapter 2
TONY BROKE from out of the shadows and dashed after the kid, keeping far enough behind him to keep him in sight, but so he couldn’t hear Tony’s footfalls.
He crossed the wide neutral ground at Canal, where the buses and streetcars ran, then to the far side. Even at four in the morning, streetlamps illuminated the boulevard. The warning clang of a streetcar echoed in the night from down near the river, but he kept his gaze locked on the kid ahead of him on Decatur Street.
Tony’s head buzzed with questions. Why the hell had he saved that skinny kid? And why was he still following him? Maybe guilt? Maybe some sort of feeling of responsibility? He hadn’t been responsible for anyone but himself in the two years since Katrina. His good-for-nothing junkie momma had left his brothers and sister with him in their rundown shack of a house and saved her own skin, leaving town with her latest pimp, never to be heard from again.
Then the waters had risen, trapping the kids and him in the house.
Tears filled his eyes, but he dashed them away with the back of his arm. He wasn’t gonna think about that. No way. That was done—over and done—buried in his past, buried wherever they had put the unidentified victims of the flood.
The kid had stopped running, and now he quick-footed it. Tony managed to get within a block of him. They were coming up on the Café du Monde, and when the smell of the frying beignets hit his nostrils, his tummy growled. Yeah, they sure would taste some good right about now.
And he had the money to buy them. And a cup of good café au lait too.
He licked his lips as he paused on the sidewalk across from the place. All he had to do was cross the street, sit in a chair, and order up some.
Tony glanced back at the kid. He’d crossed to the next block, and soon he’d be out of sight.
With a deep inhale, Tony sucked in the aroma of the beignets, then took off down the block to catch up with the white guy. He’d get the food on the way back, for sure.
He closed the gap between them. Where the hell was this guy heading? Esplanade Avenue was just ahead, and once he crossed that, he’d be in the Faubourg Marigny.
The kid stopped for a lone car, then crossed Esplanade, the shadows of the huge oaks plunging him into darkness. For a moment Tony thought he’d lost the guy, but he stepped up on the far sidewalk and back into the light.
Tony smiled and hurried on.
Two blocks in, his target turned into an alley and disappeared.
Halting, Tony stared at the sign over the two-story building, his mouth hanging open, watering at the sight and the smells.
Tiffany’s Waffles and Wings
Breakfast served all day
What the hell? That was a damned long way to walk for some breakfast. What was the kid up to?
Tony moved forward, scanning both sides of the street. Light poured out from the two large windows that fronted the sidewalk, the door to the place between them. Parked cars lined both sides of the street, belonging to either residents or customers; he didn’t know which. Didn’t care.
He crept to the window and peeked in.
The place was crowded, not full, but at four in the morning, not bad at all. He glanced at the table nearest the window and moaned.
The biggest, most bodacious waffle he’d ever seen sat on a huge platter, three pats of butter melting on it, surrounded by three of the most golden, succulent-looking, mouth-watering, crispy fried chicken wings.
Sweet Jesus. He’d died and gone to heaven.
SCOTT PULLED his apron over his head and tied it around his waist.
“Where y’at, sugar?” Miss Tiffany greeted him as she looked up from the counter where she tended a row of six waffle makers. “You late.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Scott nodded as he checked out her latest hairdo. This morning, she wore dozens of braids decorated with black and gold beads. They matched the black-and-gold Saints jersey she wore over black leggings. He’d never seen a woman with so many different ways to wear her hair, and he suspected most of them weren’t really hers.
She frowned at him. A beep sounded, and she rotated a waffle machine to cook the other side of the waffle. Then she brushed off her hands and came over to him, snatching his chin and head in her large red-brown hands as she stared at the marks on his face.
“Who did this, dawlin’?” Storms swirled in her deep amber eyes.
“Someone jumped me and took my money. I’m fine.” He knew better than to try to jerk away from her. She was strong as hell from lifting forty-pound bags of waffle mix and gallon jugs of milk. But the rest of her was round as a peach and soft as a goose down pillow.
“He got yo’ money?” She tsked, shook her head, and let him go.
“Just five dollars.” He shrugged. He had more in a savings account in the bank, where he kept most of his money. But it was the weekend, and no banks were open. Any cash he’d need would have to come from his tips today.
“You call the po-po?”
“No. No police.” He shook his head, and she nodded in unspoken agreement. What was the point in calling the police? The cops were overworked and stretched thin. Scott and Miss Tiffany both knew nothing would be done, and then he’d just have the cops noticing him.
Not good.
“Damn. Can’t a boy walk down the street without gettin’ mugged?” She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and
a slap on his ass as she turned him around. “Go on. Get in there. I got tables need busin’. Then you can wait tables.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grabbed the bus boy cart and backed through the swinging doors from the kitchen to the dining room.
He scanned the room. Most of the usual customers were there. He nodded to some of them as he pushed the cart around to the first vacant, dirty dish-covered table. The dishes were always empty. No one left Tiffany’s hungry, or without licking their fingers, or without a satisfied smile on their faces. He stacked dishes in one pan, silverware, glasses, and coffee cups in another, and trash into the plastic garbage bag that hung on the back of the cart.
“Hey, blue eyes.”
Scott looked up and smiled. His favorite regulars sat at a table in the far corner. He moved toward them, cleaning as he went. “Show’s over?”
“Yeah, we’re done for the night. Crowd’s still too light for us to do a third show.” Jimmy headlined at the Cage aux Folles club over on Bourbon Street, impersonating Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand. Faint traces of makeup still marked his face. Scott thought the eyeliner looked hot.
“Money good?” Scott had thought about asking them if there was anything he could do there, because these guys always had lots of money. Dressing in drag and impersonating stars must pay well, but Scott couldn’t think of anyone famous he looked like, and he sure as hell couldn’t sing or dance.
“It’s been better,” Bob, a heavyset man with mocha-colored skin, answered. He did an act that segued from Ethel Merman into Bea Arthur, then Bette Midler. Scott had been to the club as their guest once and seen all their acts. They’d sneaked him in the back because at nineteen, he was underage.
All the men lived here in the Marigny. Scott knew Bob and the Diana Ross/Whitney Houston impersonator Peter were a couple, but he’d never seen Jimmy with anyone. And the fourth of their group, Derek, had a lover who usually joined them.
“Where’s Max?” Scott asked about the missing boyfriend.
“Out of town. He went to see his parents. They’re still in Atlanta. Been there ever since Katrina.” Derek shrugged and took a bite of his waffle.