I gave the place a quick visual sweep using the mirror behind the bar again. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the mini-parade heading out the door. It wasn’t a Carnival parade after all, where they throw beads and baubles into the crowd and girls flash their boobs. More important, no one appeared to be watching me to see if I had noticed.
I stood from my stool.
“Gotta roll, Bear,” I said as he came back to my end of the bar. The sweet young thing he’d been talking to when I came in was starting to look pouty, but still hanging around. “Let me have a bottle of water, will you?”
“Sure thing.” He fished one out of the cooler. Bottled water is very popular in the Quarter, since most people don’t trust what comes out of the taps.
“Come by Fahey’s some night,” I said as I clasped his wrist in another handshake. I was in a serious hurry now to get going, but not showing it.
He nodded. “We’ll shoot a couple’a racks. It’s been too long since I kicked your butt.”
“Sounds good, Bear. Later!”
When he turned his back, I quickly dropped a ten on the bar for him. It was a fifty-fifty chance that someone would pick it up before he noticed it, but I had to make the gesture. Then too, he was the Bear. If he weren’t, I would have made his chances one in ten of ever seeing the tip.
I stepped out onto Decatur, my full plastic bottle of water in hand, ready for the trouble I knew was brewing.
I had company. When I managed, a block down Ursulines, to get a glimpse behind, knew it wasn’t company I wanted.
Of course, late at night, you presume anybody else out on the street with you is a danger. But I’d done a casual glance up and down Chartres as I crossed it, and I’d counted one-two-three bodies behind me, half a block back. They weren’t running but moving at a glide, and, most telling, moving as silently as possible. Three young guys walking the Quarter’s streets at two or three in the morning are usually apt to be obnoxiously loud, almost certainly drunk. These three, who looked like typical Decatur punks, weren’t. They were doing business.
Apparently, I was going to be that business.
My heart kicked hard in my chest, but the rummincokes I’d had back at that rathole bar counteracted the adrenaline rush. I kept a sharp eye out for a squad car or cab, but nothing moved for as far as I could see.
Of course—this being the residential end of the Quarter—the homes and apartments I passed were occupied. A number of them still had lights burning in their windows, and those people in there had telephones that could reach the police. I could raise a fuss out here, start yelling and hollering, and no doubt someone would ring the cops. But would they do it in time? My three trailers might bolt the minute I started my hullabaloo, or they might decide to take me right then—jump me, beat me, hell, maybe knife me for pulling the stunt.
I kept a good pace, staying on the “open” sidewalk. The Quarter’s streets are narrow and all one-way. It can make for a hell of a maze if you’re driving and don’t know the pattern. There is only room for parking on one side of every street, though, so you can walk along behind the parked cars or out in the clear. I stayed as visible as possible. My trio already had me spotted, but maybe some insomniac in one of these overlooking windows would see me and the punks and ring the police without any prompting.
I wasn’t holding my breath.
Ursulines would lead eventually to Burgundy Street, and near that intersection was my apartment, where Alex waited for me, probably wondering where the hell I was and why I hadn’t called her. Since I’d told her about the plan, she’d insisted I keep in touch. I’m normally conscientious about that stuff, particularly since Alex never nags. I’d just been all charged up after successfully squeezing info about Dunk out of Piper. I had wanted to keep it going, the energy of the hunt, so I’d gone out trying to ferret out Sunshine’s drug dealer—presuming she’d had somebody who was her regular supplier. Not an idiotic plan. In fact, it was a potential avenue Maestro had put on our hunt’s to-do list. I doubted seriously he would have wanted me pursuing it—too hazardous—but that was too bad.
It was also too bad that that guy, Brock, who looked like he’d had a bit role in Deliverance, had just been jerking my chain about a dope deal. That had pissed me off enough that I’d stalked out of there. Or maybe he’d just been sniffing me out in prelude to selling to me, and didn’t like my scent.
Another thing that was very too bad were the three gutter-punks who’d apparently followed me out of that seedy hillbilly bar.
I got to Royal and turned. If I went right and sprinted, I could maybe reach the 24-hour deli on the next corner. There would be people and a phone. But, again, the punks might overtake me. Petty thieves aren’t professional thieves, and they don’t operate cool. More often, they tend to be self-styled cowboy bad-asses with a lot to prove. The three grungy bastards behind me would probably enjoy rumbling me just for the kick of it.
So I went left, and from the corner of my eye I saw them—apparently still unaware I was on to them—hurrying to the intersection so as not to lose me. If I was going to run, now was the time. But I knew my smoker’s lung capacity would weigh against me. I was thirty-one, and the kids behind me were, well, kids—fast, energetic, veins probably throbbing with adrenaline. I had about fifty bucks left in my jeans after the night’s expenditures. I didn’t want to part with it, but I would, of course, to buy myself out of harm’s way. However, gutter-punks who do muggings usually want your money and your hide.
I didn’t run, but kept that same steady pace. I’ve got a fairly long stride, though, so I cover ground quicker than I seem to. Even so, it was a long stretch down Royal Street to the zone of the Quarter that was still buzzing at this hour. Here, Royal was twin rows of dark antique shops and clothiers.
Shit.
My breath was growing tight in my chest. I knew without turning that they were moving, for real now, breaking loose toward me. I could hear feet pounding pavement, the trio pouncing, and I had better do—
BOOM!
Like when you don’t notice the car idling at the curb and it backfires just as you’re walking past; like the pickup truck that rear-ends the car next to you at the stoplight; like the nearby gunshot you hear just as you’re drifting off to sleep—and in New Orleans you learn that sound, if at no other time, then on New Year’s Eve when yahoos like to fire their guns in the air.
Like any sudden, loud, unexpected surprise-shock incident that makes you jump out of your skin.
In this case, like the thick storefront window that had just shattered thirty feet behind me.
I don’t usually jump at big, unexpected sounds. I tend to go stock-still, every muscle tensed. Here, though, I deliberately spun around, ready to do whatever it was I could to defend myself. This situation would be decidedly different from when I’d punched out that guy in Sin City’s men’s room.
The store’s alarm rang out, blisteringly loud in the night, a heartbeat after the window exploded. The window—broken—why? It made no sense. And there were the punks—all three—yanked to a halt in mid-stride—panicking. Why would they break a window? They scrambled away suddenly—not at me—hightailing it in the opposite direction back down Royal.
It was all herky-jerky, very cinéma vérité.
I did not understand what had just happened, but saw absolutely no percentage in hanging around to wonder about it.
My would-be muggers had gone their way. I went mine. I was, of course, innocent of whatever had just occurred, but did I want to explain that to the police when they arrived? Lights were coming on all along the street. I set off at a good run, and yes, my lungs did burn after about ten strides. I didn’t head for home. Didn’t want to lead anybody there, even if that was Maestro-esque pseudo-paranoia. Instead, I ducked swiftly down to Bourbon. As a local I’m privileged to revile Bourbon Street and its chintz and touristy tawdr
iness, but now I grabbed at it like a lifeline. Here there were people and noise, and I could blend, slowing from my run, forcing myself to step casually but not too casually. I wanted to look like I was going somewhere, not just loitering.
So I decided to go somewhere. I headed for St. Peter Street and the Calf. I heard sirens well before I got there.
* * *
Excerpt from Bone’s Movie Diary:
Superman is, of, course, one of those franchises on a sharply descending quality curve. (Other obvious ones being Jaws, Rocky, Batman—though that last one didn’t have that far to fall.) A single sequel is dicey enough, but making a cycle of films from a single successful movie is a recipe for disaster. No two directors see the main characters/atmosphere/objective of the enterprise the same way. Throw in four different screenwriters hacking at the script, & you’ve got ... well, a summer blockbuster. But—Superman. 1978, with Christopher Reeve a convincing Man of Steel & Gene Hackman blasély brilliant as Lex Luthor. Great fun through & through. That rescue of Margot Kidder, though, early on, with the helicopter spilling off the top of a skyscraper & Superman flying up from the street like a rocket to catch Lois Lane as she freefalls—I’ve always got to laugh at that. Normally I forgive a lot in movies, like audible laser blasts in space and wineglasses that mysteriously empty and fill during a scene. But come on. Lois falling into Superman’s arms at the speed she was dropping would be no different from her hitting the sidewalk. Ker-splat. If I’m ever rescued, I hope it’s by somebody with a better grasp of physics.
When I strolled into the Calf, five minutes behind Bone, Padre said he was out back on the pay phone. Since Padre will let just about any regular use the bar phone, I figured Bone had marched straight through. I also guessed he was phoning Alex, not the cops.
Padre held up a glass and threw me a questioning look.
“Yeah, I’ll take one,” I said with feeling, and Padre put the Irish in front of the stool I grabbed.
Five minutes was pushing my luck, a little too close to make my “bumping into” Bone here a likely coincidence. I was sure he hadn’t spotted me at the Bear’s bar, or seen me stalking his stalkers out on the streets. I was doubly sure he’d missed it when I crept up behind a parked car and threw that bottle of water across the street and through the antique store’s window. At that moment the three gutter-punks had been making their move on Bone, and I’d had to act.
Citizens don’t run in the Quarter unless they’re jogging, and they usually do that up along the Moonwalk while the sun’s up. Someone in normal street clothes running is usually either running away from something or after someone. I’d done a discreet float back behind the punks, a “late for work or a date” stride. Walk fast, break into a lope for about four steps, drop back to a hurried stride, glance at your watch and run for another six steps.
Of course, I was doing it silently in my usual soft-soled felon-fliers. The act was just in case someone was watching the parade as it went down Ursulines and onto Royal. While the neighborhood watches aren’t all that effective, they will make note of the time and description of anyone they see running without the identifying shorts and sweats of a jogger, particularly at night.
Bone was either oblivious to the rat-bag gutter-punks a half block behind him, or he was playing it cool. I hoped for the latter.
I suppose I should be more sympathetic toward the nomadic tribes of lost kids that pass through and occasionally colonize the Quarter. From what I hear, a lot of them have tragic histories of abusive homes that they’ve run away from, preferring to beg for pocket change or rummage through restaurant Dumpsters for food. Once, when a delivery guy on a bike stopped me and asked if I wanted to buy a pizza for three dollars because he was stuck with a bunch on a false delivery call, I gave him a twenty for all four that he had, walked them over to the Square, and gave them to the packs of kids that always seem to hang out there. I’m not totally lacking in the charitable department.
On the other hand, they’re scavengers. Their solution to the dangers of their lifestyle, chosen or otherwise, is to band together in groups. Well and good, but in a group they inevitably discover they can take a more aggressive role, and often do, being verbally abusive to anonymous passersby as a partial payback for what life has dealt them. Sometimes it’s much heavier than that.
Kids or not, I see this breed as being as dangerous as a sackful of rattlesnakes with their rattles removed. One night, ten o’clock, on Toulouse Street fifteen feet off Bourbon, a couple of them were panhandling and begging cigarettes in front of a bar. One of the Quarter regulars was having a bad night and instead of ignoring them or simply shaking his head, turned around and mouthed off at them. They both swung on him with knives and ran. One of the blades nicked his jugular and he bled to death long before 911 responded. That was less than a year ago.
Just kids down on their luck. Yeah. I’ll still watch my back around the little bastards.
I took a swallow of my whiskey. It was late, but not too late for me to be showing up at the Calf. There was a thin layer of regulars and two drunk but cheerful tourist couples. I sat and waited for Bone to emerge from the back.
To gutter-punks, twenty dollars is a small fortune. If Bone had been in the Bear’s bar trying to make a drug buy, it was easily assumed that he had money in his pocket. Probably more than twenty dollars. Skinny guy, traveling alone. Worth following to see if he ended up on a dark, empty street.
I had learned the “full plastic water bottle” trick from a lover a few years back, who’d never had to use it herself. She routinely walked a short stretch of Dauphine after work in the wee small hours. She refused to take a cab for four blocks, and wouldn’t let me gallantly escort her night after night. So she packed a folding Buck knife (women who dig knives are an old weakness of mine) and a bottled water. One of those liter bottles makes a nice weight. Throw one of those through a window and you’ll suddenly have a lot of attention focusing on you. Probably more than enough to scare off a would-be mugger.
It had been lucky, if that’s the word, that Bone had led his stalkers onto Royal Street, which is lined with numerous small businesses, all of which have alarmed windows.
After I’d hurled my plastic missile through the storefront, about six feet behind the punks, I’d stayed ducked behind the parked car long enough to make sure they and Bone scattered in different directions. Then I quickly got myself the hell out of there.
I did a fast swing over Chartres and came down St. Ann. I gathered my weaponry in one hand, ready to ditch it under a car in case the cops beat all records in responding to the alarm. They didn’t.
When I hit Bourbon, I saw Bone yet again, and again wasn’t seen by him. He was a block ahead, walking at a calm pace, and had also had the smarts to come to Bourbon, not try to duck home through the empty streets. I hung back, watched him turn onto St. Peter, gave him five minutes, and followed him into the Calf.
I threw him a wave when he came back into the bar from out back. Feigning surprise at seeing him wouldn’t make sense, since Padre would have told me he was here. I didn’t want Bone knowing I’d shadowed him all the way from Decatur.
He didn’t look pale like when he’d come in after being interrogated by the police detective. Neither did he look too surprised to see me, returning my wave and coming over. His T-shirt collar and the edges of his hair were wet, like he’d splashed water on his face. He looked composed.
“I got one for you, Maestro.” He took the neighboring barstool. “Who’s the latter-day Spencer Tracy?”
“I give.”
“Gene Hackman. Think about it. Both have an ease on the screen that’s very similar. Neither’s an over-the-top emoter. In fact, it’s tough to actually catch them at acting. They’re both character actors, even though they’ve usually played lead roles. Both are two-time Oscar winners.”
“Sensible,” I said, but I didn’t want to talk
movies right now. Casually I said, “What’re you doing out so late tonight? Don’t you usually go straight home from work on Alex’s days off? Hey, let me get you one. Padre—”
“Just a soda,” Bone said as he pulled his cigarettes out. “Believe me, I’ve already had enough.” He lit a smoke. “Anyway, I went out doing a little operating ... or trying to. First, though, let me tell you what I did that worked ...”
I suggested we relocate to the back booth, out of any immediate earshot. There Bone told me he was going to take a leave of absence from his restaurant gig, at least for a few days, in order to concentrate on the hunt.
“Makes sense,” I said, checking my line of sight to the Calf’s front door. “Can you afford time off work, though?”
“I’ll scrape by.”
“I could front you some scratch if it’s tight.”
It was the first time I’d ever offered him a loan. I knew some people could get weirdly offended about such things.
Bone thought about it a few seconds, then shook his head. “Not now. Maybe later. Thanks, though. Anyway, what I was saying. I bribed this kid named Piper with a sandwich and a beer and got him to tell me about Dunk—that scumbag I found in Sunshine’s apartment? Said he was her boyfriend? Well, I found out he’s a serious doper, but he’s also a musician, a sax player.”
Calling yourself a “musician” in the Quarter is easy as saying you’re a “novelist.” It’s all horseshit until you’re getting paid for it.
Bone continued. “Dunk’s got a gig at Check Point Charlie’s this weekend. He plays in a quasi-punk band called Clamjaphry. I figured to check out the show, get a longer look at him. Maybe find a way to question him. What do you think?”
I realized Bone wasn’t asking my permission. How much more comfortable I would have felt about this whole thing if he were acting strictly on my orders. I was the experienced party, after all. Bone, though, had the driving motive to see this hunt through to the end. Immovable object meets irresistible force? Maybe.
NO Quarter Page 18
