Natalie stood there, arms crossed, staring at me. The strange look that altered her eyes had faded, but in its place was one of irritation. Natalie had always been an easy-going, fun person. Still, she had a temper. I waited. She rolled her eyes.
“Whatever.”
Sighing for effect, she walked back to the car, her sandals crunching scattered, loose gravel, and reattached the soft top. She even closed the windows without my asking. She then tossed me the keys, saying I’d probably be worried she’d lose them all night. Knowing that the car was no longer screaming, “Take me!” to anyone passing by, I was more than happy to follow her through the rows of cars and onto Decatur Street. Despite the lack of cold that December night, a mild breeze blew across the Mississippi as we joined the sea of others who decided to spend that evening in the Quarter.
In terms of New Orleans’ tourism, its bestselling feature is, and will always be, a good time. There’s a Cajun French expression that has become synonymous with Mardi Gras, a local holiday as unique as the city that celebrates it. “Laissez les bon temps rouler” translates loosely to “Let the good times roll.” In New Orleans, this expression is not seen as a suggestion, but more as a challenge by many of its residents. New Orleans may be hot, it may be humid, but nothing will keep this city from having a good time, not even a hurricane. Speaking of, if you ever find yourself in New Orleans during such an event, see if you can finagle an invite to a hurricane party. They’re pretty fun, but I digress.
“So where to?” I asked, squeezing between a rather large, sweaty man rocking a neon fanny pack, and his tall friend who was so busy staring at his cell phone that he almost walked into a light post. Picking up my pace to match Natalie’s as she hurried across the street, I added, “Bourbon again?”
“Anywhere you’d rather go?”
“That’s fine, I guess.”
“There are other bars.”
A group of middle-aged people, most likely tourists, had stopped at the intersection of Decatur and Toulouse, fearful of getting hit by a car. Natalie realized why they were stopped and groaning, pushed through the mass to jog across the street. I did the same, apologizing when I bumped into an old woman with short gray hair sporting a purple sweater and black slacks. She gave me a snide look, making me want to retract my apology, but by then, Natalie was almost a block away and threatening to blend in with a crowd. Not wanting to get separated, I took off down the street to catch up.
“There are other bars,” she repeated as we melded in with another group. This time college students surrounded us. Based on their choice of apparel, which appeared to be a new, hybrid form of hipster chic, and the fact several were smoking electronic cigarettes and discussing the validity of Kant’s moral theory, I deduced they were freshmen, or possibly sophomores at most.
“Where else would you want to go?” I asked after a pause, having found myself for several long moments enmeshed in a particularly odd interpretation of Plato’s allegory of the cave, which was being used as a rebuttal, and very poorly.
“Depends on what you want to do.” She laughed. I raised my eyebrow at the enigmatic statement. She laughed again. “Look, there are some pretty wild places around here, but . . .” She trailed off. “I doubt you’d want to go there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her comment stung, but it was the look she proffered with it that bothered me the most.
“C’mon, do I really need to spell it out?”
The hipster philosophers, having realized a few “bourgeois pedestrians” as they labeled us, had joined their ranks, inhaled their vapor cigs before taking a sharp left on St. Peter Street just before we passed in front of Jackson Square and the Saint Louis Cathedral. At the center of a city known for decadence, stands the stately church, named after King Louis of France, and built in the early 18th century. People come from all over the world to visit and many people choose to get married inside its hallowed halls.
I used to think the Cathedral would be the perfect place to get married. It was elegant, historical, and romantic. While I still believed that, in theory, with my track record in love, I doubted I would ever make it to such a special day, especially in such a beautiful place. My moment of self-pity brought me again to my recollection of Rick, and then for some reason of Jon, and between the two, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. That knot was made worse when my mind returned to the present. I considered the meaning behind Natalie’s cryptic words.
“What’d you mean?” I pressed, glancing over at the wrought-iron fence that lined the perimeter of the Square, whose gates were locked at night. The festive red and gold bows affixed to it shimmered as lamplight danced upon them.
Picking up my pace to keep up as Natalie followed the path of the hipsters, her intention most likely to take one of the alleys bordering the Cathedral as a shortcut to Bourbon, I waited, but she didn’t reply. Frustrated, I grabbed her arm. We came to a halt in front of a middle-aged woman with a hard face who sat behind a small card table illuminated by the glow of flickering candles. In front of her sat a young couple holding hands, listening as the woman predicted their future with Tarot cards. Natalie was visibly annoyed. Shaking her arm loose, she frowned.
“What?”
“What did you mean I wouldn’t want to go to those other places? Why wouldn’t I?”
She closed her eyes. Finally, she opened them and sighed. “Jordan, I love ya. You’re cool, you’re fun, but there are some things . . . Look, I know you, okay? The places I’m talking about, they’re pretty hardcore. That’s not your scene.” She paused, gauging my response. “It’s not an insult. It’s just . . .” She trailed off again, staring past me with another strange look in her eyes. “There are some things in life you can’t un-see, can’t un-do. This is one of ‘em. C’mon, I really need that drink.” As she started walking toward the Cathedral again, she glanced back. She shot me a mischievous grin. “Maybe Cash’ll be there.”
“Who?”
She laughed. “You don’t remember?” I stared at her with a blank expression. She laughed again. “You were so wasted.”
Still laughing, she began walking again. I remained, frozen. Somehow, with those few words, Natalie managed to take my mild to moderate anxiety and cranked it up to severe. Now, I’ve always prided myself on being able to go with the flow. It’s benefited me a lot in not only my line of work, but also life in general. Stuff happens whether you like it or not. It’s best to not let things get to you. Most of the time, that mantra works. For some reason, in this instance, it didn’t.
9
On Bourbon Street, there’s always something happening. No matter what time of day or night, there’s something to see. That may have been where my interest in people watching originated. Some of the funniest, and often strangest, moments of my life happened on that street. But that’s another story.
In recent years, crime had escalated to drastic heights in New Orleans, but it didn’t stop people from going there. That Friday night, there may not have been a Saints game, but the Who Dat nation was out in force. People sporting various players’ jerseys, T-shirts, jackets, and even a Saints-themed Elvis Presley and a Who Dat Santa Claus, hanging out in front of the famous Pat O’Brien’s, reminded passersby that the season wasn’t over just yet. Loud, Mardi Gras-themed music blared from across the street. I watched as several patrons left a local establishment, elongated plastic glasses shaped like court jesters in hand. A group of revelers congregated in the center of the road singing a lively although slurred chorus of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.” Natalie continued on her journey.
As we passed The Old Opera House on the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse, where a live band was getting the crowd going with “Jingle Bell Rock,” I became confused as to where she might be headed. There are many places to party in the French Quarter, including a lot of “hidden gems” known only to locals.
Natalie always gravitated to popular tourist locales. The reason for her preference I never knew. In years past, the area surrounding Pat O’s was her favorite place to mingle. It was always busy and usually so crowded, we could sometimes sneak into bars and avoid the cover charge. Although that was a rarity, it always felt like a great accomplishment.
“Hey! Nat!” Shockingly, she heard me over the noise. She paused. “Where’re we going?”
“I don’t know.” She stopped long enough for me to catch up. “Just gonna walk around ‘til—”
“Look what the cat drug in, or, I guess, out.”
A strong hand gripped my shoulder, pulling me close. Startled, I stared up at a man in his early thirties, with curly brown hair and bright blue eyes. A scruffy beard framed his angular face and he was sporting khaki shorts, sandals, and a sky-blue, button-down shirt that accentuated his eyes. He was also sweating. A lot. And kind of drunk. Grinning, he squeezed my shoulder, his fingers digging into my muscles. I flinched.
“Hey, Cash!” Natalie greeted, kissing the stranger. Returning her affection, he then turned and kissed me.
“How’s it going, Beantown?” He winked.
“Huh?”
“Her name’s Jamestown,” Natalie corrected, yelling to be heard over the beat of the R&B music blaring from inside the Funky 504.
“You said she’s from Boston,” he yelled back. His brow furrowed with confusion as his eyes shifted between us.
“No, I said she lives in Boston.” Natalie pushed him off. He stumbled back a step, but regained his balance. He left his other sweaty arm draped across my shoulder.
“Whatever.” He laughed then motioned at the bar. “Wanna come in? It’s three for one tonight.”
“It’s always three for one,” Natalie countered.
“Not always!” His thin lips curled up into a goofy grin. I took a step forward to get out of his reach. He just shifted his weight. His arm remained. “Come on, y’all! It’ll be fun!”
“Cash, it’s been a long, long day.” She glanced up at the bright neon sign. “I need a little more than anything that place can offer.”
“Nonsense.” He threw his arm across her shoulder again then guided us toward the bar. Finally releasing me, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. As he did, several coins fell out, landing in a puddle with a plop. He paused for a moment, squinting down at the change, but then shrugged. Handing the bill to the bouncer, he added, “These two are with me.”
The man in black said nothing, but took the money without hesitation. I knew from experience the cover for two girls on a Friday night was not going to cost twenty bucks anywhere, but Cash was obviously too drunk to realize that. I also knew the burly bouncer was not going to offer up change. As soon as we stepped inside and squeezed through the sea of bouncy gyration, I felt Cash’s hands on me again. I shook him off.
I followed Natalie through the maze of people with this stranger in tow. I strained my brain to recall him and any possible encounters we may have had. Natalie’s surreptitious mention of him earlier unnerved me. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember anything significant about Wednesday night. And I didn’t remember Blue Eyes at all.
When the band started playing Montell Jordan’s “This Is How We Do It,” the bar erupted with cheers. People began singing along, dancing to the rhythm of the beat. Even Natalie’s frown morphed into a smile at this one. After grabbing two rum punches and handing me one, she started dancing. I must admit, seeing her dancing again, happy again, made me grin. Before I knew it, I was dancing, too.
I was having a good time, but with Wednesday night’s “good time” and with the painful aftermath of Thursday morning fresh in my mind, I decided to pace myself with the drinks. Natalie, it seemed, didn’t share my hesitation. Two songs and three drinks later, she was definitely feeling better. Cash was more than happy to dance with us both, but I stuck close to Natalie. Cash wasn’t the only guy dancing with us. And I knew it had nothing to do with me. Natalie had something, something that couldn’t be described, that drew people to her.
It had always been that way. Even back in school, people wanted to be around her. In a small school like ours, classes were not big. Over the years, you get to know all of your seventy-five classmates pretty well. Sometimes, too well. Social cliques form and shift, but through it all, one thing remained the same: everyone wanted to be around Natalie. It appeared, all these years later, not much had changed.
“Here,” she exclaimed, shoving another drink in my hands. In her zeal, she tilted the plastic cup forward. She poured a quarter of it on the floor, spraying me in the process. Covering her mouth with her free hand, she laughed. “Oops!”
“Nat!” I groaned. I grabbed the cup before she could do anymore damage.
Taking a gulp from her own, she rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I’ll get you another one.”
“No.” I grabbed her arm as she headed toward the bar. Around us, people continued to dance. “I don’t need another one. I just don’t wanna wear it, okay?”
“Boo-hoo.”
I stared at her. She burst out laughing. For some reason, I did too. We started dancing again. Cash moved in closer. I still ignored him, but was no longer annoyed by his continued presence.
I don’t know how long we were there. I tried gauging the time at first based on the music, but I lost count after the first couple of songs. I was still being cautious about how much I was drinking, but like the song count, I lost track of drinks after a while too. It may have been December, but in that cramped, hot space, it began to feel like a sauna in July. I found it difficult to breathe.
I stopped dancing, taking several deep breaths. Some frat guy wearing a Green Wave T-shirt, who had a little more Red Bull than vodka, was bouncing up and down, flailing around like a fish out of water. When I stopped moving, he slammed into me, hard. He sent me flying forward where I slammed into the back of someone leaning against the bar.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! This guy came out of nowhere and—”
As soon as the man turned around, I lost my train of thought. Before me stood one of the most gorgeous guys I had ever seen. He wasn’t that tall, maybe six feet at the most, with disheveled, black hair and light-green eyes. The lack of light made it difficult to tell if he had stubble or if I was looking at shadows dancing across his chiseled face. But there was one thing for which I was certain—he was ticked.
“Watch it,” he growled, narrowing his beautiful eyes menacingly.
“Excuse me?”
“Watch it,” he repeated, following it up with an unflattering expletive.
As I continued to stare, I felt my mouth drop open in disbelief. I could tell my reactions were slower. Had anybody talked to me like that when I was completely sober, I would have had more than a few seething comments to sling back at him. As it were, all I could muster up was, “You watch it.”
“Jamestown. My song!”
Before I could blink, I felt my arm being yanked out of its socket by Natalie. Surprise, surprise, she had another drink and was dancing to the Boyz II Men classic, “Motownphilly.” I loved the song. I was having fun, but I couldn’t help but think about that cute jerk. For some reason, his attitude really bothered me. As we danced, I thought up several good comebacks for his nastiness. I decided when the song ended that I would tell him off.
How dare he talk to me like that? It’s not my fault some hopped up spaz knocked me into him, spilling a few drops of his precious scotch on the rocks or whatever it was he was drinking. If he had a problem with being so close to people, he shouldn’t have picked a popular bar on Bourbon Street. I mean, seriously? Where was the logic in that? The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. When the song ended, I broke free from Natalie. I squeezed through a group of guys wearing shirts with Greek symbols I didn’t recognize, determine
d to put him in his place.
As I approached the bar, I found him there. This time, facing me. In his hand was a drink. On his face, a blank expression. The walk from Natalie to the bar couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, but it felt a lot longer. As his eyes burned into mine, the distance became greater. My nerve began to waiver. By the time I reached him, I was questioning my decision.
“What?” His deep voice cut through the noise. Taking another sip but not breaking eye contact, he smoothed the front of his black cotton pullover.
“I . . .” My face flushed. The room became warmer. All my witty comebacks were gone, carried away by the rhythmic beat and his piercing eyes.
“What?” He continued to glare.
“I . . .” My mind went blank. He had unnerved me so much I almost went into panic mode, my heart pounding in my ears. All the euphoria I had been experiencing vanished. I was left looking and feeling like a complete moron. “I . . .”
“As much as I’m enjoying this . . . conversation . . . I’m gonna call it a night,” he said, taking one last gulp of his drink. Tossing a few crumpled dollars on the bar, he paused. Looking me up and down, he added, “You’re not my type, but hey, it’s the holidays. My place isn’t far if you want to go—”
“What?” My voice returned, reaching an octave I didn’t know possible. I was kind of surprised no bar glasses shattered. With that, my senses returned. Furrowing my brow, I gritted my teeth. “Not in this or any other lifetime, sleezeball!”
Simple Misconception (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 8