NO Quarter

by Robert Asprin

  On the other hand, certain bars attract clientele of a particular look, so that if you wander in wearing apparel that goes against the trend, you’re immediately marked as an outsider. The most obvious examples of this are the various Goth bars, where the kids who revere Anne Rice as a vampiric deity hang—and you can wear anything, as long as it’s black.

  The other thing to consider is that if you are too successful at matching the establishment’s dress code, but are unknown to the regulars, it can easily be taken as an attempted infiltration. In layman’s terms, you’ll look like an undercover cop trying to blend with the locals. At the best of times, this can set you apart socially. At other times, like tonight maybe, it could border on suicide.

  The place I was targeting normally was heavy on the “biker look” with a bit of “good ol’ boy” thrown in: denims and leather, boots, flannel shirts, chains connecting one’s belt to who knows what in their pockets. After a bit of thought I settled on a pair of black jeans that were a bit worn, and a pair of boots that were more so. I topped them with a khaki military-style shirt with epaulets and button-down flap pockets.

  My goal was to capture the rough-and-tumble feel of the place without trying to pass myself off as one of the crew.

  Then there was the matter of weaponry.

  I pulled open the big drawer of my bureau for the second time tonight. I rarely carry a firearm. I’ve always felt that unless one is legitimately licensed to carry one, like a cop or a PI, it is apt to get you into more trouble than it gets you out of. Still, things can get rough enough out there that there’s some question of being able to handle situations bare handed, so I normally opt for a knife. You can sometimes talk your way out of a concealed-weapon charge if all you have is a knife. If they catch you with a pistol, your lawyer will have to do the talking.

  Guns have killed a lot of people on the streets of New Orleans, especially among the minority population that is really the majority. I’m not white, but my South Pacific blood doesn’t make me black according to local standards.

  There was no way that I’d walk into the bar I had in mind unarmed, so a knife was a gimme. The only question was: Which one? Or really, which ones?

  My students, the ones who had hung the Maestro tag on me, never ceased to be impressed by my collection of swords, some of which are displayed on a wall in my front room. What few of my fledgling fencers had seen or were even aware of was my armory of knives. A saber is a fine weapon, but you can’t carry it on the street unless you’re on your way to a Renaissance Fair.

  It was one of my old students, in fact, a guy who died in a freeway pileup a few years back, who asked (as he was helping me move into this place, the second apartment I’ve had here) how many knives I actually had. I had to answer him that I honestly didn’t know. I’ve never actually stopped to count. I estimate the collection at somewhere between seventy-five and one hundred twenty-five. I’ve been using and collecting knives a long time, well before I ever even became involved in sport fencing.

  I looked down into the big drawer.

  Simple size eliminated a certain percentage right off the bat: the kukris, dress daggers, and bayonets were never meant for covert work, and I own them for the simple pleasure of having them. The fact that it was summer, and therefore hot and humid, reduced the selection even further. There are rigs for carrying a lot of the rigid blade styles that won’t work without a coat or a sweater to cover them.

  That pretty much brought it down to the folding blade knives. The switchblades and the Philippine balisongs (butterfly knives) were out, as they were immediately identifiable as “fighting knives,” so getting caught with one would be almost the same as getting caught with a pistol. Of course, the idea was not to get caught at all, but prudence pays off.

  I finally settled for an Al Mar Quicksilver for the hip pocket, held upright by my wallet; a SpyderCo with a non-serrated edge and drop point on it for my left pants pocket; and a small Puma Cub for my shirt pocket next to my cigarettes. They were all small, lock-bladed, razor-sharp, and easy to open one-handed.

  All this might sound like a lot, but it let me get to at least one with either hand (even if I were perched on a barstool) without telegraphing what I was doing. With the crowd I would be in tonight, if anything went down, I’d only get one chance to handle it, if that.

  Taking a deep, focusing breath, I decided that I was as ready as I would ever be, so I eased out into the night, locked the place behind me, and set a course for the night’s target bar.

  Before continuing, I think a clarification is in order. Specifically, regarding my attitude toward ex-cons.

  There are, I’m sure, ex-cons who are relatively ordinary citizens who have erred once, gotten frisky and gotten caught, done their time or community service, and have rejoined society again without looking back. They’re out there, but I haven’t met them. That’s not being snide, just honest. Simply put, they’re holed up with their families leading normal lives, not hanging around the Quarter clubs whose customers make up my circle of acquaintances. If one pictures “normal life” as a path, they’ve strayed from it, but returned and gone on their way.

  Then there are the ex-cons who are hardened, career criminals, for whom life in the World could be defined as brief spells between stretches in jail. Their lifestyle is fast and dangerous and also outside my normal sphere, particularly in this stage of my life when I am taking great pains to avoid notice from those on either side of the law-enforcement game. They live separately from the citizens, encountering them only when they pick them off the “normal” path, like lions stalking a herd of herbivores. Those types would never dream of trying to pass themselves off as citizens, except, perhaps, under oath.

  The ex-cons that tend to hang in the Quarter are an entirely different breed of cat from the first two types. For the most part, they are petty criminals, brawlers who are heavy-handed enough to have it come up as “assault,” and sneak thieves. A lot of them are also low-level dealers, and while I don’t do drugs myself and avoid them as much as possible, I’ve been around enough to know there’s a marked difference between “dealers” and “pushers.” The people who fall into this class of ex-cons often have regular jobs as bartenders, waiters, or bouncers, and in general consider themselves to be just like anyone else.

  So why was I gearing up so carefully for this fact-finding mission? Because, in my opinion, the Quarter ex-cons are dangerous.

  The physical builds and personalities may vary from individual to individual, but they have one thing in common: an extremely casual attitude toward the law in general and violence in particular. I really don’t know if specific character types are drawn to the outlaw life, or if the life itself brings it out in everyone who partakes, but the common denominator is there. If this is hard for your average suburbanite citizen to grasp, simply imagine a life where going to the cops or the courts for help is not an option. If someone shorts you on a drug deal or the split from a job, you can’t sue them. You settle it yourself. If you have a record, are on parole, or engaged in some quasi-legal activity, and a fight breaks out, you don’t call a cop. You settle it yourself and settle it hard.

  It’s an addictive mind frame that’s easy to slip into, especially if you’re surrounded by people who think the same way.

  Not all of them are bad people. The cross section of personalities is roughly the same as you’d find in any group. Some are nice people, some are schmucks. Some are loyal and generous; others will freeload and mooch you to death, financially and emotionally, if you let them.

  Still, the Quarter’s breed of ex-con is different from the normal citizenry, the way a lynx is different from a house cat. Example: the time I mentioned to a guy on one of the pool teams that I was short on walking cash because someone hadn’t paid me back on a loan. His immediate reaction was to offer to “rough the guy up a little, maybe break his arm” for me, as sincerel
y and casually as a “citizen” friend would offer to spot me twenty dollars to tide me over. They’re different, and the difference can be scary. (Truth is, I never hurt for money, but mentioning things like that “loan” makes people think I’m workaday ordinary.)

  Perhaps what scares me most is how little it would take for me to slip into that mind frame myself. My days with the Outfit were rather long ago, but not, in the end, that long ago.

  Like the off-duty cops, there are a couple of bars in the Quarter where the ex-cons tend to hang out. Quarterites know where these bars are, even if the info doesn’t show up in the guidebooks.

  The place was about a third full when I breezed in. Most had the look of hardcore regulars, but there were a few gutter-punks scattered through the place. I made a point of not checking the crowd out in great detail, but even though only a few heads turned my way, there was no doubt in my mind that everyone in the place had noted my entrance and mentally logged me in.

  “Maestro! Hey, how you doin’, Bro?”

  The Bear broke off his conversation with a sweet young thing and strode down the bar to greet me, grabbing my wrist in the “warrior’s handshake” he reserved for a chosen few. The rest of the crowd relaxed visibly.

  “Pretty good, Bear,” I said, grasping his wrist in return. “It’s been a while.”

  The Bear was among those very few people I called a friend, not an acquaintance. Though we’d spoken on the phone recently, I realized a little guiltily that it had been over a month since I’d actually seen him.

  “Too long,” he said, unintentionally rubbing it in. “Can I get you one? It’ll have to be Jameson. We don’t have Tullamore Dew here.”

  Your typical bartender may forget your name, but if you have a “usual” they’ll often remember it.

  “That’s fine.” Jameson was my normal default Irish whiskey anyway, when Tully wasn’t available.

  The Bear tossed a few ice cubes into a squat tumbler, filled it to the brim, and set the drink in front of me, pushing my five back across the bar with his other hand.

  “This is on me,” he said. “You know your money’s no good when I’m workin’, Maestro.”

  Once, years ago now, the Bear had needed a place to hide out. Literally. Someone from his military past was in the city and wanted to see him. The Bear didn’t want to see this person. I was under the impression this visitor quite seriously meant to kill him. The Bear was in my sword club at the time, probably my best student, very disciplined. He solemnly asked me, his sensei, for asylum. I gave it. (Like I said, the Bear’s a friend, not an acquaintance.) So he hid out for six days. This was at my old apartment, when I lived on Conti. I had a room with no windows where I put him. I cooked the meals. I brought him his cigarettes. I asked no details, and six days later he left, everything normal, the threat passed.

  Ever since, as part of his “paying me back,” he pours me free drinks on his shift at every bar he’s worked since then. It’s the main reason I don’t hang at his bars very often. Too much like taking advantage of him. Besides, if my own past ever catches up with me, it would be nice if the Bear still felt he owed me.

  “I got that perimeter set up, like I was talkin’ ‘bout,” he said, serious and low. “Tank an’ Jane an’ Condor, Paulie at the Abbey, Apache at Shim Sham, y’know, like that. If your nosy friend comes up for air, we’re gonna know.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “So how’s the team doin’ this session?”

  “On again, off again,” I said, taking a deep sip of my drink. “We’re in first place in nine ball and sixth at eight ball. Go figure.”

  “Padre still on your team?”

  “Uh-huh. Co-captains both teams.”

  “Man, he was in here a couple’a nights ago an’ kicked my butt all over the table.”

  “His game’s gotten deadly lately,” I confirmed. “Don’t really know why. As near as I can tell he’s practicing less than he did last session.”

  We chatted a bit more, than he had to wander down the bar to serve the other customers. I figured it was about time to ease into my specific questions.

  When he came back, though, he leaned in close and dropped his husky voice, “Say, Maestro, do you know that dude on the table? Skinny guy with the dark hair in the ponytail?”

  I did the mirror trick to check it out without turning my head, carefully keeping my face expressionless. It was a good thing I went poker-face before I looked. Bone was there, stick in hand, apparently talking intently with his opponent.

  “Seen him around the upper Quarter a couple of times,” I kept my voice as low as the Bear’s. “Shoots a pretty decent stick. Why?”

  “He’s been tryin’ to talk Brock back there into a dope deal for ‘bout twenty minutes.”

  “Selling?” My tone remained admirably steady.

  “Buyin’. When Brock came up for the last round he asked me an’ some of the regulars if we knew him. Nobody does, so Brock’s prob’ly not gonna sell.”

  I didn’t remark on the Bear’s rather casual attitude about drugs moving in his bar. It wasn’t any of my business.

  “I didn’t know you needed credentials to buy dope,” I said.

  “Nobody likes a strange face.”

  “Well, as far as I know he’s not law.” I shrugged. “Think he’s a waiter someplace.”

  I took another sip of my drink, tracking the level carefully. If it got too low, the Bear would have it filled again before I could say anything.

  “Speaking of the law,” I said, leaning even closer to him, “do you know of anybody in trouble with the parole board? Someone out fairly recently?”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  The Bear was all attention now. I noticed he hadn’t answered my question.

  “I was in Fahey’s a couple’a nights ago, and there was some guy in there asking around trying to locate someone.”

  “Lotta that goin’ around, seems.”

  “One of the Cajun Cabin crew was shooting a rack and said the same guy had been in there asking around as well.” I took another sip. “To my eye, he had ‘parole officer’ written all over him. Thought I’d pass the word. If you know who he’s after, you might want to tell him to check in or lay low for a while.”

  That was the story I had settled on after considerable thought. It let me fish for the information I wanted without having to come right out and ask. The Bear was a friend, but the fewer people who knew I was operating, the better.

  “What’s the description of the guy your parole officer’s lookin’ for?” he asked.

  “White male, late twenties, athletic build, close-cropped blond hair, a swastika prison tat. He prettied it up, but that’s the bare bones I got.”

  Like the story, the description was fabricated. Plausible, but it didn’t fit any of the Quarter regulars.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” the Bear said with a frown. “I’ll pass it along, though.”

  “Nobody I recognize either. That’s why I thought it might be somebody fresh out.”

  “Only recent arrival I can think of even close is a dude called Juggernaut, and that’s only ‘cause he’s white and male. Man, this guy’s so big he makes me look runty. Mean as a fuckin’ snake, and he’s been havin’ problems with his love life that haven’t made him any sweeter.”

  That got my attention.

  “Girlfriend troubles?”

  “Not Jugger.” The Bear rumbled a laugh from his big midsection. “He’s only into guys. Young guys. Seems that when he got back out, his boy toy had hooked up with someone else.”

  “And you say he’s the only white guy?” I tried to steer the conversation back to the original point.

  “That’s right. There are two black dudes just out of OPP, and one Hispanic guy, but Juggernaut’s the only new white one.”


  OPP is Orleans Parish Prison. “Parish” down here in Louisiana means county, an example of the Deep South’s cultural religiosity, I guess.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Back up. You said Hispanic. That wouldn’t be Hector, would it? I thought he was up in Angola with at least another year to go.”

  I was pretty sure it wasn’t Hector. Both the Bear and I knew him from when we’d all been on the same pool team before he got sent up, and if it had been Hector, the Bear would have mentioned him by name.

  “Far as I know, Hector’s still in. Man, I really miss that little guy. ‘Member that thing he could do with his thumbs? Always busted me up. No, this one’s name is Jo-Jo. Mid-thirties. Mexican. Bit of a pretty boy. The ladies love him, though. Hangs at the Stage Door. I think he’s started workin’ at the Court of Two Sisters. He’s also got this thing about voodoo—keeps one o’ them protection spells on him all the time.”

  I let the conversation drift on to other subjects after that. It was good seeing the Bear, but my mind stayed preoccupied. This Jo-Jo character interested me, but I didn’t want to show it by asking more. Both the Court of Two Sisters and the Stage Door were within a couple of blocks of Big Daddy’s, where Sunshine had worked. And he was into voodoo. Very interesting.

  The Bear went off to open a couple of beers. At that second Bone went past my stool in the dimness, apparently not seeing me as he headed for the door. He looked annoyed. Back at the pool table the scruffy guy he’d been playing looked pissed. There was a cue lying across the table, apparently dropped there unceremoniously. I guess he’d decided not to sell Bone any dope after all.

  Out the door he went, turning down Decatur in the CBD direction.

  Bone had once sworn to me, when it came up in casual conversation, that he didn’t do drugs. What the hell was this about then?

  While I was wondering that, three gutter-punks who had been slouching near the pool table suddenly went sliding toward the door, moving with uncharacteristic haste. Somehow I wasn’t surprised when, after a quick glance up and down the street, they turned and headed in the same direction Bone had gone.