“What about me?”
“I mean, how do you feel about this whole thing with my being brought in. Don’t you have any problems with that? I should think this spot that’s being set up for me would rightfully be yours.”
“Don’t worry about that, Grifter.” Jerome laughed. “We’ve been talking about this for a long time. Hell, the reason I was up in Michigan was to keep an eye on you and see how you developed. If I didn’t think we’d be better off with you on board, I would have either tried to veto the plan or bailed out myself. No need to worry about me. I’m behind you one hundred percent.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Valerie.
“What I’d like to know,” he said, “is how all this sits with your sister. She has the same bloodline as you do, and she’ll be coming into her secondary powers pretty soon. Is she going to have any problems with your being treated like the big cheese while she stands in the background?”
“Nice of you to think about that, Jerome,” Valerie said. “I’ve never wanted to be the head of anything. I figure to enjoy the city and help out when and if I can. Mostly, I’m here to cover my big brother’s back. He isn’t always as careful as he should be.”
“Well, sure, anyone who’s known him for ten minutes knows that,” Jerome said.
Valerie smiled despite herself.
“I would like to get one thing straight, Jerome,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“You are bringing Griffen into this. If you aren’t up front with him, if this is a trick, a trap, or some cruel college prank, I’m holding you responsible. And you will answer to me, up close and personal.”
There was a moment of silence in the car, broken by Jerome laughing.
“When I said shoot I didn’t mean straight from the hip! Hey, Grifter, it’s Big Jake all over again.”
Catching the reference, Valerie grinned.
“‘Your fault, my fault, nobody’s fault,’” she said.
They both nodded at each other, and the tension that filled the car seemed to seep away.
“It seems we’re in agreement as much as we can be until we actually see the setup,” Griffen said, clearing his throat. “So what’s the plan, Jerome? What do we do when we hit town?”
“We’ve figured to let you take a week or so to get settled in and get to know the town…at least the Quarter. Then I’ll introduce you to Mose and he can start showing you the operation and answering your questions.”
“So where will we be staying?” Griffen said.
“We got a place ready for the two of you,” Jerome said. “Actually, you’ll each have a place.”
“What are we talking about here?” Valerie said. “Rooms at a hotel? That could get real expensive real fast.”
“Better than that,” Jerome said. “You see, we own a few properties around the Quarter. Mostly, we use them to host poker games and sometimes to give out of towners a place to crash. What we’re going to do is have you use one of our slave quarters as a home base until everything gets sorted out.”
“Slave quarters?” Griffen said.
Jerome laughed. “You’re going to have to get used to how we refer to things in the Quarter. A lot of the buildings you see in the Quarter are built around courtyards. Some of the courtyards were used for gardens, and some were used for carriages or horses. At the back of each courtyard is a smaller building. Way back when, it was used to house the slaves, which is why they’re referred to as ‘slave quarters.’ Nowadays, they’re mostly rented out as apartments. Depending on the size, either as a bi-level single apartment, or as two separate apartments, one ground level and one upstairs. We’ll be putting you up in one of the two-unit slave quarters. I think you’ll like them. They’re off the street, and that means they’re quiet…something that’s sometimes hard to find in the Quarter.
“Anyway, I’ll drop you off there with the keys and a grand or so walking-around money. We’ll get you a couple cell phones so you can stay in touch with each other or call me if there are any problems. Then take your time and start getting a feel for the Quarter. There’s enough to do and see that I don’t think you’ll get bored.”
Eleven
The French Quarter was an unending sideshow of tastelessness. It was steamy by day and seamy at night.
Griffen fell in love with it immediately.
The place was incredible enough to pull him somewhat out of his brooding and self-doubts. Failure to change into a dragon, not to mention his troubles coming to grips with the whole situation, faded to the back of his mind as he reveled in his new surroundings. Six blocks wide by roughly thirteen blocks long, it was a world unto itself.
To some, particularly the tourists, it was a Disneyland for adults. Narrow streets lined with old buildings, overhung with flower-bedecked balconies; half-hidden courtyards with picture-book gardens and fountains; antique shops and boutiques mixed with T-shirt shops and adult specialty stores; every corner turned brought new sights and contradictions.
Some tourist towns advertised their scenic nature. When one actually visited them, however, it would be readily apparent that unless one found the exact spot the publicity photo was taken from and hunkered down at precisely the right angle, the scenic wonders would only be visible from between the hotels and office buildings.
Such was not the case in the Quarter. As one walked the streets, the eye and mind were captured again and again by small wonders; the “gaslight” street lamps, the hidden courtyards with flower beds and fountains, the old buildings with their cracked plaster and ferns growing out of the walls, and, of course, the Mississippi River.
While he experienced it, he couldn’t prevent a vague feeling of regret. If Griffen had managed to visit New Orleans while he was still in college, he might have been able to enjoy it more. Now, with worries pressed down upon him, he felt more overwhelmed than anything. There was so much in the Quarter to be overwhelmed by.
Then there was the music. It was next to impossible to escape the music in the Quarter even if one wanted to. In addition to the expected blues and Dixieland, there were Cajun and zydeco fiddles and accordions, Chicago blues, piano bars, Irish folk music, rock clubs, and even country/western hangouts. The jukeboxes in the various clubs featured anything from Glenn Miller to Billy Holiday to Janis Joplin to Frank Sinatra to Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show to The Stones, etc., etc. The list was seemingly endless. Even the street musicians were good, supplying hammer dulcimers, Appalachian groups complete with cloggers, jazz flute or violin, and one guy who would play classical music on an array of water filled brandy glasses.
Food was something Griffen had never really concentrated on. Growing up, his diet had consisted mostly of institutional food and restaurant fare, the latter being mostly Chinese or German. It seemed that in New Orleans, food was almost a religion. At the very least, it was a major pastime right along with drinking and partying. There were almost as many restaurants in the Quarter as there were bars…which was to say a lot. Along with the upscale Creole and Cajun local food, there were an assortment of other ethnic dining opportunities present, including Chinese, Japanese, Siamese, Tai, Italian, Mexican, and Greek.
Nor were the low-end diners neglected, as there were delis, gyros shops, and the traditional KFC/Pizza Hut fast food assortments. What was more, to Griffen’s delight, many places delivered directly to your door and would also provide groceries, cigarettes, a newspaper, and a pint of liquor if you added it to your order. All in all, it was a marvelous place to sleep late, order a brunch delivered while letting the world come slowly into focus, and not have to face the world until you were good and ready. When you threw in the twenty-four hour bars, it was small wonder that the Quarter was such a favorite vacation spot for tourists.
Of course, there were other aspects of the Quarter Griffen had a bit more difficulty adjusting to.
For one thing, there was the custom of “hoo-rawing” people on the street. This consisted of hailing to someone a half block away or on a balcony,
then continuing the conversation at the top of your lungs until at least pleasantries were concluded, and often until the latest gossip had been exchanged. As someone who was accustomed to conversing in normal speaking tones, Griffen found this practice vaguely unnerving.
A bit more ominous was the vague feeling of danger that settled over the streets after the sun went down.
Since his normal activities while in school had included countless late-night poker games, Griffen was used to watching his back when he walked alone on the off chance that one of the other players decided to try to recover his losses in ways that did not involve skill with cards.
In the Quarter, however, with its round-the-clock bars and steady flow of drunken tourists, it was apparent to the most casual eye that there was a thriving cottage industry of muggers, shakedown artists, and hustlers, ever ready to separate the unwary from the contents of their wallets, purses, and/or pockets. While the main drag of Bourbon Street was well lit and closely policed, a mere block off that thoroughfare and one was on their own. People tended to watch the other pedestrians as they walked, and were quick to change sides of the street or to duck into an open bar if they didn’t like what they saw coming toward them.
Griffen was particularly distressed by the terrain in this claustrophobic community. The campus and small college town that had been his old stomping grounds were honeycombed with alleys, doorways, and shortcuts that one could duck into or through at the least sign of trouble. In the Quarter, by contrast, all the side streets were narrow and one-way with parking allowed only on one side. What was worse, all the buildings were built flush with the street offering no cover at all. Openings into courtyards or passages between apartment buildings all had locked gates topped by daunting coils of barbed or razor wire to discourage casual entry. Overall, during his late-night prowls, it gave Griffen the same feeling of security as a rabbit would feel on a cut-over field with hawks circling. He made a mental note that, if the feeling persisted, he would have to talk to Jerome about the wisdom of carrying a firearm.
He kept thinking, what if something serious came at him. There was nowhere to hide from someone truly pursuing him. Even the bars that one could duck into had open fronts and many windows. The constant patrol by local police gave some solace, but not enough. If something went wrong, someone really out for a dragon, all a policemen might do was fill out the paperwork afterward.
Still, all this was not enough to detract from Griffen’s enjoyment of the Quarter. By the end of a week he had a good feel for the layout of the streets, and he had even found a bar to frequent that was more local service industry than tourist. It was a little Irish pub (that rarely if ever played Irish music) two blocks off Bourbon. It had two coin-operated pool tables that were surprisingly well maintained and had a good selection of Irish whiskey including Griffen’s personal favorite, Tullamore Dew. More important, it seemed to be a regular hangout from an interesting assortment of attractive young ladies in their twenties and thirties who did not seem at all adverse to striking up a conversation with a newcomer that went beyond “May I take your order?”
He was sitting at the bar there one night, idly watching a closely contested pool match, when his cell phone went off. He glanced at the caller ID, more for show than anything else as there were only two people who currently had his number, then flipped it open.
“Hey, Jerome. What’s up?”
“You got anything planned for tomorrow? During the day?”
“Nothing special. Why?”
“I’ll swing by in the morning around noon and pick you up.”
“Okay. What’s the deal?”
“Figure it’s time to take you shopping.”
Twelve
“So what’s wrong with the way I dress?”
Griffen was mock protesting as Jerome led the way down the stairs from his second-floor apartment in the slave quarters. In the back of his mind, however, he had a horrifying image of Jerome outfitting him in some flashy pimp outfits.
“Blue jeans and T-shirts may be fine for a college boy who’s hustling card games,” Jerome said. “For what you’re going to be doing down here, though, your wardrobe definitely needs an upgrading.”
They reached ground level, but instead of heading off across the courtyard, Jerome stopped in front of Valerie’s door and rapped lightly on the frame. Almost at once the door opened and Griffen’s sister stuck her head out.
“Hi, guys!” she said. “Hang on, I’ll be with you in just a couple more minutes.”
“How come we’re taking Val along?” Griffen asked after she disappeared.
“Couple reasons,” Jerome said. “First of all, I thought she might enjoy doing a little shopping herself. Second, women usually have a better eye for clothes than men, so she can help us out.”
Jerome glanced at Griffen and gave him a quick wink.
“Third, having her along will keep you from worrying that I’m going to dress you up like a pimp.”
Griffen flushed slightly, then laughed.
“Okay. You caught me on that one,” he said. “Seriously, though, what kind of clothes are we looking for?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, you can tell a lot about people by how they dress…especially in the Quarter,” Jerome said, leaning against the wall. “Mostly, we’ll be working on what we don’t want you to look like. Like I said, the way you’ve been dressing, you look like some college kid in from LSU to whoop it up on Bourbon Street. That’s not good.”
“Of course, there are some other looks to steer clear of. Dark slacks and a white tuxedo shirt marks you as service industry…either a waiter or a high-end bartender. Loose, baggy pants and comfortable shoes will have people thinking you’re a cook. If you wear a suit or a sports coat, you’ll either be some kind of a businessman or a conventioneer…which is the same thing but on a tighter time table.”
Jerome shot another sideways glance at Griffen.
“Of course, the best dressers…the ones who pay the closest attention to fabric and cut…are the gay guys. Lord knows we have enough of those in the Quarter. By and large pretty good people, but you probably don’t want to be mistaken for one.”
“So what kind of look are we trying for?” Griffen said, starting to get interested in the proceedings.
Jerome shook his head.
“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t rightly know. There aren’t many guidelines for how you should dress. We don’t want you to look preppie, but you can’t look like you’re shopping cut-rate either. I guess that’s what this whole expedition is going to be about…figuring out what kind of image you should have and how to express it in clothes.”
That was the start of one of the strangest afternoons of Griffen’s life. While he had occasionally shopped for a shirt or a new jacket, it was nothing like when Jerome and Valerie led him on a frenzied safari through the New Orleans clothes jungle.
There were three big shopping centers within an easy walk of the Quarter: the upscale Orleans Plaza perched across from the casino on the edge of the Quarter, the Riverwalk with its strolling jazz bands and magnificent view of the Mississippi, and the Orleans Center near the Superdome. All three had to be cruised and perused before his guides and coaches were satisfied.
Griffen was quickly numbed by the parade and swirl of names and brands as Jerome and Valerie swept him from one changing room to another. J. Riggings, Banana Republic, Tommy Hilfiger, Rockport, all danced by him in a dizzying array, occasionally punctuated by Jerome saying, “We’ll take these two…he’ll wear this one.”
When Griffer tried to comment on the extent of their shopping venture, Jerome just laughed.
“This is nothing, Grifter,” he said. “Be thankful you missed being here for carnival, when shopping really gets crazy…especially the women and their ball gowns. Just think of this as practice.”
As their trek progressed, Griffen’s current outfit metamorphosed noticeably. Toward the end, he could not help but notice that the sales
personnel were getting much more attentive and deferential toward him. Of course, that might have been affected by the growing number of shopping bags they were accumulating as they went.
Griffen himself was becoming more and more enamored of his new ensemble. A pair of comfortable walking shoes, a must in the Quarter, had replaced his old, battered running shoes. His blue jeans had given ground to a pair of lightweight wool slacks, and instead of a T-shirt, he was now wearing a raw silk shirt with a slight drape to the sleeves. It was still a casual outfit, but Griffen felt noticeably classier just wearing it. He mentioned this to his guides, and they both smiled at him.
“You’re looking really good, Big Brother,” Valerie said. “We should do this more often.”
“You’re getting there, Grifter,” Jerome confirmed. “Get used to wearing these clothes, and in a few days we’ll go see Mose. In the meantime, wear that outfit into that little Irish bar you’ve been hanging out at and see if the ladies don’t sit up and take notice.”
“You know where I’ve been hanging?” Griffen said, a little taken aback.
“I like to keep track of things,” Jerome said. “You’ll see. The Quarter’s a whispering gallery. Not hard to keep track of who’s who and what’s going on.”
Thirteen
Whether it was his new clothes, or simply that he had been frequenting the same local bar for over a week, Griffen noticed that it was easier to start conversations than it had been when he first arrived. More and more often, people would recognize him and wave hello when he came in, or wander over with a new tidbit of gossip, or pick up the threads of an earlier conversation they had had with him.
He was pleasantly surprised at how well-read the various people he talked to were. Oh, there was the customary sports talk that went on in any bar, and a certain amount of cross talk that went on about movies and television shows, but there were also conversations about books people were reading or passing back and forth. He had envisioned himself coming to an intellectual wasteland, and was delighted to be proved wrong.
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