by Lynn Lorenz
“Aren’t they ever coming home?” Jimmy asked.
“No. With the house gone and no insurance money….” He shrugged and didn’t bother saying what they all knew. Other than the neighborhoods along the river, the French Quarter, and a very few others, there wasn’t much to come back to. Rebuilding seemed to take forever, and no one had seen much of the promised money from the government.
“Atlanta’s nice.” Scott had never been there but had heard several people say so.
“Yeah, but it’s no N’awlins, dawlin’,” Bob drawled.
Jimmy stood and sang in a sultry voice the old standard “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” The haunting words filled the air. Words of longing, remembrance, and the passing of time.
At the second verse, the others got to their feet and sang backup, giving an impromptu concert for the rest of the patrons. Their voices blended and filled the small dining room with the sounds of the melancholy song, capturing the nostalgia everyone in the place felt about their once-glorious city.
Most of the diners gazed off into space or out the large front windows; a few wiped tears from their eyes. Even Miss Tiffany came out to listen, her hands clasped, her eyes closed, as the men sang.
Scott hummed along with the familiar tune as he bused tables, wiping each of them down until he’d gotten them all done. No, the city wasn’t as it once was, but he had hopes that it would survive. If he could, then so could the city he’d made his home.
The performers finished the song to the applause of the diners, then sat back down.
“You go, girl!” Miss Tiffany clapped as she stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “You sure know how to sing it, Jimmy, you surely do.” She chuckled.
“Thank you, Miss Tiffany!” Jimmy waved, stood, and then after an elaborate bow, he flopped back into his seat. “Give it up for my girls!” He motioned to the other singers, and they all stood, did a perfectly timed curtsy, and then sat as the room roared with laughter and gave them another round of applause.
Smiling, Scott pushed the cart past his boss, into the kitchen, and over to the dishwasher. This had to be the best place he’d ever worked at, and despite being beaten and robbed earlier, just being around these people put a smile on his face. Miss Tiffany warmed his heart with her caring ways, and the customers treated him special, like part of a family. At least, it’s how he remembered a family should be and how it would feel like to have people who cared about him, since he’d never lived anywhere but group homes from eight years old on.
He loaded the dishes and set the dishwasher. That done, it was time to get out on the floor and wait tables. He might not be making the kind of money those guys did, and he knew he could make more as a rent boy at the local gay clubs, but this was good, honest work. His soul and his pride could remain intact, and that was all that counted to him.
Chapter 3
TONY LEANED back and exhaled. He snaked his hand into the pocket of his jeans and grasped the folded money tight.
The kid’s money.
He peeked again and watched the guy he’d saved and then robbed push the dish cart around the room as muffled singing came through the glass. Inside, where it was warm, where delicious aromas teased, where the people looked happy to be alive, that’s where Tony longed to be.
That life wasn’t meant for him, and he knew it. Most of his life he’d been standing on the outside watching the world go by. When he was a kid, he watched good people struggle…. Some made it, some faltered, but most fell. Then from the roof of his house, he’d watched bodies float past. Now, he longed to join the others on the inside of this little neighborhood restaurant.
Once upon a time, he had his brothers and sister there with him. Together, he thought they’d make it through anything. Even their mother’s druggin’ and hookin’.
That was until the perfect storm—the one every man, woman, and child knew would hit one day—slammed down on the city. The levees broke and a wet hell flooded the streets of his neighborhood, black water rising in a dark night to wash away everything that had been good and clean in his life.
His chin quivered as he fought off the thought that this was all he’d ever be or have. No home. No family. No future. He closed his eyes to cut off the dampness gathering in them. The money felt hot in his hand, as if it burned to touch it.
That boy’s money, his grandmama’s voice whispered.
Tony took a chance at another look, not at the food, but for a glimpse of the skinny white guy with the ebony hair. He was nowhere to be seen, probably in the back, working in the kitchen.
He’d kill to work in a kitchen. To work anywhere. Things had to get better, didn’t they? But it was two years later and things were as bad as ever in his old neighborhood. Wrecked cars. Wrecked houses. Wrecked lives. No one lived there anymore. No one but cats, rats, and snakes. No businesses had reopened. Not even the po-po drove down those streets.
Maybe here they might have a job for him?
His stomach rumbled, reminding him of its need.
“Shut up,” Tony mumbled at his belly. He rubbed his hand over it, but something scratched him. He looked down and groaned.
He had the cash still in his hand. Holding it up, he stared at it as if he’d never seen a few dollar bills before in his life. The wad of bills looked foreign in his hand, as if it didn’t belong there. He curled his hand into a fist and shoved it into his pocket again, pushing the cash to the bottom.
He had the money to buy breakfast right here. He could just walk right in to Tiffany’s and order him up some waffles. And some wings. Maybe a cup of coffee.
Tony nodded, his decision made. He’d just go in there, sit down at a table, and order him some food. He pushed off the wall and headed to the door. Hand outstretched for the handle, he froze. The guy had come back out of the kitchen and now stood next to a table, taking an order.
Tony’s gaze locked on that kid again, like a homing pigeon flying straight to where it belonged. Home.
Shaking his head in denial, Tony backed up, spun around, and hotfooted it down the block. Once he’d crossed Esplanade, he veered toward the river and slowed his stride, his heart still hammering in his chest. Dawn broke as he entered the old Farmer’s Market, the sun coming up over the West Bank across the river. Tony stopped to catch his breath and leaned against one of the large round columns holding up the terracotta-tiled roof of the long, open-sided building that stretched for blocks.
All around him, a scattering of trucks had backed up to the market, and men unloaded boxes of produce, filling their stalls with sugar cane, lettuce, beets, melons, citrus, berries, apples, and nuts. His mouth watered at the sight of all that food, so close but out of his reach.
Just a few yards away, an old, thin black man struggled to get a box of melons out of the back of a rusty pickup truck. His shoulders rounded under the weight as it tilted to one side, and for a second, Tony thought he’d drop the whole box.
Tony bolted from the shadows, hopped down the steps, and ran to the truck, rescuing the box just as it slipped from the man’s white-knuckled grip.
“Hey!” the old man shouted.
“I got it!” Tony grimaced as he caught the heavy weight. He straightened and easily shifted the box to get a better grip. It really wasn’t that heavy, but for the old man, Tony figured it might have been too much to handle. Tony knew all about doing what you had to do, no matter what. He’d failed when it had counted the most, and he swore to his grandmama’s memory he’d never fail again.
The man stepped back and frowned, then he gave a nod. “Put it over there, boy.” He pulled out a blue bandana and wiped his bald head with it. Despite the early morning chill, beads of glistening sweat dotted his brow.
Tony carried the crate to the raised concrete walk that separated the building from the street and placed it behind the stall.
“You need help setting up?” He turned to the old man as he brushed off his hands and gave him the most reassuring smile he could manage so’s not to scare h
im off. Maybe he could pick up a few dollars. The unfamiliar feeling of hope burned in Tony’s chest, and he swallowed it down.
The man chewed on a wad of tobacco like a cow with a cud as he stared up and down Tony’s length. “You lookin’ for work, boy?”
Tony nodded, afraid even to speak, wanting to do nothing to jinx this chance.
The man turned his head and spit, and Tony’s hopes flew with the arc of juice that hit the pavement in an ugly brown splat.
“Two dollars an hour. That’s all I can afford. Now until I’m unpacked and set up. Don’t need nobody to help me sell. Should take about two, three hours.” He shrugged.
“Yes, sir.” Tony nodded and went back to the truck for the next box as the old man bent to open the crate Tony had rescued. In his mind, Tony added up the money the old man would pay him. Four, maybe six dollars. Plus the five he’d picked up in that alley.
No, he’d stolen that money, plain and simple. No sense lying. God knows if you lie, his grandmama always told him, and Tony knew for sure, she’d know too.
Shit.
Tony shook his head at the undeniable truth.
He’d have to give that money back.
SCOTT WIPED down the last table and pushed the cart back into the kitchen. His shift was almost done and Willis, Tiffany’s son, would be in soon to take Scott’s place for the dinner and late-night shift. Willis enjoyed his sleep, was a night owl, so he said, and preferred to work the late nights. Scott figured it was because the tips were better.
On weekdays Scott would drop by the bank, deposit his cash, and then head back to the shelter to help out there serving dinner. There was nothing else to do besides play cards or dominoes, and Scott didn’t like to play. At the shelter, games frequently turned into gambling, and Scott didn’t have money to give away or fight over.
Or money to be stolen.
Now, thanks to tips, nearly twenty-five dollars filled his pockets. Most of it was coins and ones, so he usually got Miss Tiffany to change it for him so he could carry it easier in his pockets, since he didn’t have a wallet.
Wallets got stolen at the center. Scott kept his cash in his underwear, where he could always feel it and know it was there. He rooted around in his apron, pulled out the bills, and started counting.
“Boy, come over here an’ let me swap those bills out for you.” Miss Tiffany stood at the cash register behind the counter, waiting for him.
“Here, I have twenty in ones, and”—he placed it on the counter, then looked down at the change—“three dollars and fifty cents in coins.”
“Keep those quarters. You might want a soda.” She opened the register and gave him a ten, two fives, and three ones. Scott took them, folded the bills neatly, and shoved them past his jeans and deep into his briefs, so they rested near his hip.
He didn’t like having too much money on him, especially at the shelter. It was just an invitation to the others to take it.
“How about some dinner, sugar?” She grinned at him and pointed to a table. “Sit down an’ let me make you something.”
He smiled back and nodded. Tiffany made the best fried chicken he’d ever tasted, and even after working there for the last six months, he never tired of eating her cooking. The stuff at the shelter only passed for food. What Tiffany made? That was just below what the angels must eat in heaven.
“Can I get you some chicken?”
“Two pieces, please.” Scott slid onto a chair at the counter.
“That’s all?” She laughed. “Boy, you’re too damned skinny for my likin’. How you ever gonna get you a boyfriend?” Without waiting for his answer, she winked, bumped the swinging door to the kitchen with her hip, and disappeared.
“I don’t need….” Heat rose in his face, burning a path up to his hair, as the denial died in his mouth.
Tiffany leaned toward the gap where she pushed the hot plates through to be served and laughed. “You need a waffle, boy. No two ways about it.” Then she disappeared again.
He got up, fixed a glass of iced water, and sat back down. It felt good to get off his feet, and he had a long walk back to the shelter. He glanced over his shoulder out the windows, then his gaze flicked to the clock over the counter. Almost 4:00 p.m.
It would be dark soon. He’d have to eat fast and get going. Once the business district shut down, usually at five thirty, the streets became the playground of men like the ones who’d robbed him.
The clatter of plates on the aluminum counter of the pass-through and the light ding of the bell startled him out of his thoughts. “Order up, boy! Waffles ’n’ wings! Get ’em while they’re hot!”
He jumped off the stool and went around the counter for his meal, scooped up the plate, and placed it in front of his chair. He ran around and sat, pausing just long enough to decide waffle or chicken first before pouring thick, rich, dark cane syrup all over the waffle and digging in. The chicken would stay hot longer.
Tiffany came out of the kitchen and leaned on the counter. Her warm gaze traveled over the planes of his face.
“Damn, I’m sure sorry they done that to you, boy.” She clucked and shook her head. “Skinny white boy like you needs someone looking after you.”
“I don’t need anyone,” he said around a mouthful of waffle. “I can take care of myself. Been on my own for years.”
“Me too. Me and Willis, ever since Katrina.” Her amber eyes seemed to lose some of their spark. Then she looked around the small, nearly empty restaurant and sighed. “I sure wish Rufus coulda seen this place. He always told me, ‘Tiffany baby, you make the best fried chicken in the world. You should sell it.’”
“You do.” Scott nodded as he picked up a wing and bit into the piece of crispy chicken. He licked his fingers and then wiped them on the paper napkins he’d pulled from the dispenser.
“Thanks, child.” She leaned her elbow on the counter and stared out the window. “It’s gettin’ late. You best be goin’.”
He swallowed the last bite of turnip greens and washed it down with the rest of the water, then slid off the stool. “Thanks, Miss Tiffany. You need anything else?”
“No, just get going. You make it home before dark, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took his plates to the sink in the kitchen, rinsed them off, and stacked them in the dishwasher.
As he passed Miss Tiffany, she grabbed his arm. “You leavin’ here without givin’ me my sugar?”
Heat burned in his cheeks again. “No, ma’am.” He leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on her cheek. She swatted him on the arm with a dishrag and chuckled.
He scooted out the front door of the restaurant with a smile on his face but a weight in his heart. Proud of his day’s work, but sad to leave the one place where he felt welcome.
Chapter 4
SCOTT CROSSED the wide stretch of Canal, dodging a streetcar bearing down on him, its bell clanging a warning, and headed down Magazine. Despite the sun still being up, shadows cloaked the streets of the business district, its tall buildings blocking the last of the daylight.
Office workers scurried to their cars, to streetcars or buses, anywhere but hanging around the district. Scott knew that by six, the place would be nearly deserted.
He hurried down the street, unable to shake the feeling someone followed him. Every time he paused at a street to cross, he threw a quick look over his shoulder.
Plenty of people were on the street, but none of them looked like they were up to no good. He’d learned how to spot them years ago, when he first came to the city. It had been a matter of survival, and Scott knew avoiding trouble was the best way to stay out of trouble.
He turned the corner at St. Joseph. The shelter was just a few blocks away. By the darkening of the shadows, he knew the sun had set. He didn’t have a watch—they got stolen—but the shelter had alarm clocks you could borrow to wake you up, if you had someplace to be. He counted himself fortunate he did; most there didn’t.
Scott stopped at the entrance to the
shelter to say hello to a few of the men. One of the workers, his friend, an older man named Charlie, greeted him.
“Hey, man! Where y’at?” Charlie nodded at him, his thick New Orleans drawl making Scott smile. After he’d first come to New Orleans, it’d taken about a year for him to get used to hearing that soft, singsong version of the Bronx accent.
“I’m good. You?” Scott shook his head as Charlie offered a crumpled pack of no-name cigarettes.
“Makin’ out just fine, man. I passed by the Mid-City Shelter today. The priests need some help. Wanna move down there for a while?” Charlie lit his own cigarette and took a deep drag.
“Naw, but thanks.” Scott leaned on the handrail of the stairs. “I have a job.” He couldn’t keep the touch of pride out of his voice, and he read the look of respect in Charlie’s eyes.
“That’s right. Down in the Quarter.” A stream of gray smoke plumed from Charlie’s nostrils as he exhaled.
Scott didn’t try to correct him; he just ducked his head. From experience, he knew to keep his business to himself. If he went to Mid-City, it might be farther to walk, but it’d be a bit safer. And the Catholic priests who ran that shelter were strict and no-nonsense.
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know. This shelter’s getting full, and the boss wants me to see if I can shift some of the guys over to the Mid-City building.”
“Yeah, I noticed some new guys hanging around.” Scott hadn’t liked the looks of them either. To him, they seemed a bit too interested in the comings and goings of the other men.
“Yeah, well, keep your eyes open, man. Just sayin’.” Charlie flicked the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and shrugged.
“You gonna stay here or move over there?” Scott turned to go inside, and Charlie followed behind him, stopping at the door to the office.
“Guess I’ll move between the two. Wherever the boss says I’m needed.” He ducked inside the office and shut the door.
Scott walked over to the checkin, signed the register, and waited as Charlie, now behind the steel wire cage, handed him a padlock for the locker to store his things while he took a shower.
