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Unsteady on her sandaled feet, Sunshine climbed the stairs leading up from the French Quarter levee to the Moonwalk. A bit high and a more than a little distracted, she tripped and almost fell. She hesitated on the walkway, looked out across the Mississippi at the riverboat Natchez, a glittering beacon of lights sparkling against the dark water. Live jazz music drifted across the distance in cheerful waves. The Big Easy was a city that never slept, not even on Sunday night. That positive energy was one of the things she loved about New Orleans. The southern nights could be as warm and seductive as a lover.
She’d discovered that those southern nights, and the Big Easy itself, could also be as dark and as cold as the Mississippi depths.
Sunshine was her real name—her middle name, anyway. She liked it better than the first name her mother had inflicted upon her. She’d left that behind, along with her old life, even before she’d chased her elusive dreams to San Francisco. She hadn’t found her pot of gold at the end of that particular rainbow, either, so she’d left California behind, had come to New Orleans to build a new life in the bohemian atmosphere of the French Quarter. Unfortunately, that smaller, simpler dream had been more difficult to find, to hold on to, than she’d expected. Her hopes, her plans, her dreams had shattered in the atmosphere of plentiful booze, all-night parties, and easy drugs that permeated the Quarter. Trapped amid the “easy” of it, she had sunken into a cycle of despair and anger. She’d lost everything that she’d brought with her—love, friendship, and finally, hope. She’d lost her way.
She would change all that tonight. She had a new dream, and she would make this one work.
Shoving her shoulder-length, bleached-blonde hair out of her face, she looked to the right, toward the bright glowing lights of the Aquarium of the Americas and the Riverwalk shopping mall where the Moonwalk began. Like the riverboat, it cast an almost magical glow, just out of reach—just like the life she wanted so badly.
But she finally had a chance to put it all back on track. Sunshine squared her shoulders, wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans, and took a deep breath. At last she had a real shot at happiness—if she could just get through this night, this one last task. She turned to the left and looked down the path to where the concrete ribbon of the Moonwalk disappeared into the shadowed darkness behind the Jax Brewery. Only gutter bums and the occasional street musician hung out beyond the lights. Most who knew the Quarter avoided the dark end of the Moonwalk at night, especially if they were alone. Sunshine told herself she wouldn’t be here either, if she thought she had a choice.
Something on the ground caught her attention. She moved closer. Someone—probably a tourist—had left one of those fake Voodoo dolls lying on the walkway. She walked over to it and poked it with her toe, trying to ignore the feeling of dread that crawled up her back. It was just a toy, nothing more. Drawing in another deep breath, praying she wasn’t making a huge mistake, Sunshine walked into the shadows.
* * *
Mouse just wanted a place to sleep where no one would hassle him. With a bottle of his favorite juice to keep him company, he headed for a secluded spot down by the river, a safe place hidden deep in shadow. But when he pulled the hedges aside he found someone was already there, sleeping in his spot.
His first reaction was indignant anger. It was still early by Quarter standards. No one should be crashing in his spot. He pulled out his little flashlight and flicked it on, meaning to wake the bitch up and make her move on. But then, when he saw the blood that stained her face and soaked her t-shirt, he realized that the blonde girl wasn’t just sleeping. It took a few seconds more for his fogged brain to notice the fluffy bits of red-streaked white that lay scattered around the girl’s thin body. In morbid fascination he picked one up of the pieces. The bloody head of a decapitated chicken stared back at him. Mouse jerked back, throwing the gory thing down. Scrambling up the bank toward the light, he left a trail of scarlet footprints as he ran. His prized bottle, forgotten, stood amidst the destruction like an offering left on a desecrated altar.
For the first time in his life, Mouse actually wanted to find a cop.
Before I came to live in the French Quarter, I believed that the number one recreational activity in the Quarter was drinking—usually heavily—often followed closely by losing the ability to walk upright or talk. For many, the next step involved becoming closely acquainted in a personal manner with gutters and pavement. Among the tourist crowd, that proved mostly true. But among the people who live and work within the Quarter—those known as “Quarterites”—the most popular recreational pastime (that you can do in public, anyway) is shooting pool. I can’t think of many other athletic competitions where you can smoke and drink heavily and still be a champion. We have pool-playing leagues here—one for eight ball, one for nine—and our teams shoot out of the participating Quarter bars. It’s more social than competitive. At least it’s supposed to be. I had been playing for several years, had proved myself a “fair stick” (as good pool players are called) to the point where I was co-captaining a team. It had proven to be a great way to meet people and to blend myself into the local scene.
Of course, while some people use pool league as an excuse to get together and drink, some of us actually like to win. Winning requires practice. This particular Sunday we had a late practice scheduled at Fahey’s bar. I wanted to stop off on the way to show Padre one of my custom cues. Unlike my usual cue stick, which broke down into several small sections, this one had been carved from one solid piece of mahogany and inlaid with Mother-of-Pearl. Despite the fact that it was a sweet shooter, I didn’t use it often because I don’t like carrying a full-sized pool cue around the Quarter. Even in its case, something that long draws too much attention. But I had promised to show it to Padre and let him try it out.
I left my place around 11 p.m., carrying my cue stick packed lovingly in its own soft-sided cue-case, and headed down the sidewalk towards Fahey’s. Within the Quarter, the “sole express”— foot power—is the preferred manner of transport, followed closely by bicycles. The narrow one-way streets and scarcity of parking make automobile travel largely impractical. So, like most Quarterites, I walk everywhere. I no longer even own a car, using a taxi or a streetcar on the rare occasions when I have business outside the Quarter itself. After all, walking is not only great for keeping fit, it allows me to keep close tabs on the “feel” of the neighborhood.
There was no moon. Deep shadows lurked in the doorways and recesses along the street. But the streetlights still provided plenty of illumination to spot trouble, for someone who knew where to look.
“Did you think you could do me like that and not pay?” The voice, originating from a deeply shadowed alcove just ahead, sounded loud, angry, and male.
A second angry, male voice joined in. “You’re gonna pay tonight!”
A third voice replied, “I didn’t mean anything! Come on, take it easy!” That voice was female, very frightened, and quite familiar to me—Ruby Rose, one of the Tarot Readers who worked the square.
Without altering my pace or manner I quickly checked to be certain my knives were within easy reach (I rarely leave home without at least two or three concealed blades), shifted my cue case to a more comfortable position, and chose a path that would take me right by the alcove. I knew from the voices that there were at least two guys, but there could be more. As I reached the alcove I turned into it, as if on purpose, then feigned casual surprise to find it occupied.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t know somebody was here.” There were only two of them. Late twenties or so. One was tall, dark haired, and very angular, and he had Rose pinned against the wall with a long, wooden walking stick. The othe
r—a short, very stout guy—looked like he could have been a college linebacker if only he’d laid off the burgers and fries. He leaned in close to Rose, trying to loom ominously over her. Rose had at least two inches on him, which ruined the whole threatening henchman effect and left Burger-boy looking a little ridiculous.
Ridiculous or not, I could see that Rose’s fear of him was very real.
“Maestro!” She seemed relieved to see me.
“Hey, Rose, I’ve been looking for you.” I improvised madly, determined to keep this from escalating into something nasty, but I was equally determined to get Rose out of there. “Didn’t we have an appointment for a card reading?”
“Yes, we did!” Rose was quick to see where I was going. “I ...”
The stout one said, “The bitch ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘till we’re done, old man.”
The tall fellow stared at me. “Maestro? Are you the one who ran the sword club? That Maestro?”
Nicknames are a way of life in the Quarter. At first you’re surprised at how few people you know by their real names, but after a while you get used to it. There’s Bicycle Rob and Jersey Rob, Puerto Rican Rita, Aardvark, Confucius, Little Jim, etc., etc. It’s almost like hanging with my old Outfit.
Here in the Quarter I’m known as Maestro. It comes from when I started an informal sword club, which I ran for a while, teaching both traditional fencing with foil, saber, and epee, and the more flamboyant forms with rapier and dagger. My students took to calling me Maestro, even though I tried to deflect it.
“Maestro” is a particular title one has to earn as a sword instructor, one that involves passing tests for certification. I’d never done any such thing, and I winced when people assigned me the unearned rank. I tried to discourage it, but I gave up when it got to the point where even the Quarterites who had never been in one of my classes started using it.
Honor is well and good, but sometimes you have to yield to reality. If they were going to call me Maestro, that was the way it was whether I deserved it or not. Nicknames are usually self-chosen down here, but not always. Just ask Snuggles. He didn’t pick that name.
The guy in the alcove knew my nickname, so I decided to make it work for me. “Yeah,” I said. “I used to run a fencing club.” I wasn’t sure where this was leading.
“Great!” He lowered his cane from Rose’s chest. “Then we can duel for the lady! That will be almost as much fun as cutting her up!”
He pulled his cane apart to reveal the long, nasty blade hidden inside. I immediately recognized it as one of the more flamboyant—though impractical—sword canes they sell at the weapons gallery on Royal. Usually only tourists or collectors buy sword canes ... them, and the idiots who seem to think they can channel Errol Flynn.
He brandished his blade a few times, proving to me he knew very little about fencing. That actually made him more dangerous because he obviously had no control over the three feet of edged steel he was slinging about. He dropped into an exaggerated enguarde position and waited expectantly. What the heck? I started to tell him I didn’t have a sword, then I saw him looking at my cased cue. I realized he had mistaken it for a sword.
“Fine,” I said, “but I don’t duel just anyone. You have to prove you’re worthy. Let her go first, then I’ll be happy to fight you.”
He looked doubtful.
It was critical that I get Rose out of there. She was within easy range of that blade. The weapon had a wicked edge, which wouldn’t require a lot of expertise on the part of its owner to be lethal. “Look,” I said, “if you win, you will have bested me, and you will have a reputation. You won’t need her.” And when I win you’ll wish you had never bothered her, I added silently to myself.
After another moment of deliberation, he signaled to Burger-boy, who backed away to let Rose get past him to the street. She hesitated and gave me a questioning look. I grinned at her—the grin that shows all my teeth and isn’t at all friendly—letting her know I had it under control. She nodded and disappeared down the street.
“Give me a minute to get my weapon out.” I backed out into the light, turned partly away from the wanna-be Errol, and made a show of kneeling and fussing with my cue case. “You’re really gonna love this baby. She’s a beautiful piece.” I bubbled with enthusiasm, and as I hoped, both Errol and Burger-boy stepped forward. One step, then another, I slowly unzipped the bag as they came closer. Errol bent over for a closer look—just as I stood up and snapped my elbow back, slamming the butt of my cue into the bridge of his nose. He went down onto his knees, shrieking, dropped the sword cane, and grabbed his nose with both hands.
“Oops. I’m sorry. It slipped.”
Burger Boy, perhaps smarter than he looked, moved fairly fast. He grabbed me, pinning my arms in an attempt to keep me from using the cue on him the way I had his friend. He had quite a bit of weight and muscle on me. I went very still.
“I’d let go if I were you,” I said.
“What makes you think I’d let you go now, old man?” He tightened his grip, no doubt meaning to crush the breath out of me.
“Look down,” I said.
He did, and his eyes got big as he saw the knife I held in my left hand, blade back, positioned only a hair’s width from his gut.
“Why don’t you two just walk away?” I said in my most reasonable tone. “We’ll call this an accident. Errol there tripped and fell. I won’t tell anyone, and neither will you.”
Burger-boy nodded, carefully released me, and stepped quickly back out of range of my knife. He didn’t realize he was still in range of the pool cue.
“And you both promise to leave the young lady alone,” I said. “If not, you get to find out what I’m like when I’m the one picking the fight.” I grinned dangerously. “Oh, by the way,” I said as I picked up the sword cane, “I’ll be keeping this. Don’t buy another one unless you plan to keep it at home. Otherwise, you might get to find out how it would feel jammed up your ass.”
I sheathed the blade and watched as Burger-boy obediently gathered up his wounded friend and made a quick exit. I watched for a moment to be certain they were headed away from the square, then I slid both the sword cane and the cue stick inside my case. I would now have to backtrack to my apartment to get rid of the sword. No reason to court trouble by taking an illegal weapon into a bar. Padre would just have to wait to see the cue another time.
So much for getting out early.
Cop-car lights, red and blue—they were something for the eye to follow. They sped fast along Decatur, silent but for the gunning motors. I didn’t see the first, just glimpsed the second squad car. Red and blue lights splashed the building fronts and colored the windows of parked cars, and were gone.
I had three plates stacked up my left arm, from hand to elbow ... a balanced load, if you know how to do it, but the dishes made three hot spots that would start burning if I left them there. In my right hand I carried a fourth, and I had a fifth plate on my right arm.
I dealt them off onto the table clockwise, making certain each diner got his or her proper plate without me needing to double back. I had taken the orders for the table, complete with multiple substitutions, without writing anything down. I can remember almost anything I hear or see—if I want to. It is my one special skill, often good for tips. But for this group, it was a wasted effect. All four of my feeders were craned about, looking past the restaurant’s front windows after the police lights.
“See?”
“Two of ‘em, even.”
“Wonder what they’re after ...”
“Aww, I don’t believe any of it.”
“See?” Again, said like a point was being made.
I had nearly burned myself, but my face stayed neutral. Never flinch. Somebody brands the back of your thigh with a careless cigarette or coffee pot, don’t cringe, don’t respond. Nobody likes
to hear about a waiter’s problems. Certainly not your customers, who want a dining experience where they and they alone matter in the universe.
“You live ‘round here?” I was being addressed by the See?ing one. Addressed flat and direct, the way lords of the manor talk to servants in period-costume dramas. A demanding voice.
“I do,” I said.
“Here’n the French Qwardah?”
“Here in the Quarter.” I waited by the table. I had two other parties—two-tops, locals I knew. I’d already brought out their plates. They were eating, happy. They would tip decently.
My foursome here were out-of-towners, but Southerners. I can’t distinguish the subtleties of cracker accents, so I couldn’t say from where. Two couples, middle-aged, dressed for the heat. The women were heavy, the men heavier. Drunk, the gals would make public nuisances of themselves, and the guys would become belligerent. I could extrapolate their behavior at a glance. Luckily they weren’t drunk—not yet, anyway. This late-night supper would fortify them all the way back to Bourbon Street. They were off the normal tourist beat here at this far end of Decatur Street, near Esplanade, here at this restaurant that’s mostly a locals’ hangout.
“Tell me sump’in’.” He leaned toward where I was standing. Latent aggressive air. “What’s it like? Inna Qwardah, livin’—acsh’ly livin’ here. What’s it like?”
I don’t know what tourists see when they come here. When Sunshine and I arrived two years ago, we got busy scrambling for jobs, hunting up an apartment—not much sightseeing time. The Quarter very quickly became, simply, our neighborhood. It was real. It was where we lived. There are a good many residents here, more than you’d guess, residents to whom Bourbon Street is just a street. The endless stream of tourists—and regardless of the season, they never really stop coming—have different expectations.
I offered my table a smile that didn’t involve my eyes. “The party never stops in the French Quarter,” I said with a leer in my voice.
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