As darkness fell, Bourbon was in transition. Parents pushed strollers filled with wide-eyed children down the sidewalk. Exotic dancers emerged from darkened strip clubs offering enticements for those on the street, bikini-clad siren songs to the wandering hoards. Cars were blocked off from the street by large metal barriers. Horse-mounted police had begun their nightly patrols.
The clamor of Bourbon distracted Wagner from the girl who had whispered secrets to him and the musician who played the Bob Dylan song. An entertainer dressed in purple and gold in the style of a medieval court jester bounced and joked his trade to a family of tourists. He lured them with juggling and witty banter. A drunken partygoer took a picture of his girlfriend next to the police horse. She spoke in a high-pitched, excited southern voice and told the mounted officer all about her horses back home. The beleaguered officer looked at her with disinterest and listened to her story while he surveyed the street.
A tall, thin, black man stood frozen and immobile in his white tuxedo and a top hat decorated with the good old USA stars and stripes. He stretched out in the middle of the street with one foot resting its heel very far from the other. In one hand, he held a leash attached to a stuffed toy black dog that sat on the pavement next to a bucket for tips. He didn’t move until people drew near to the stuffed dog. Then he would jerk the leash with a small, practiced movement that made the dog jump. People laughed and left crumpled dollars in their wake.
A group of young, and presumably homeless, early twenty-somethings sat around a box containing a large black dog lying on its back. A poorly drawn cardboard sign explained their dog had died and they needed money for a proper funeral. It wasn’t clear if the dog was dead or merely playing dead. Wagner walked by the macabre scene a bit faster.
Several tarot readers sat at fold-out card tables on the corner of the next block. Their tables were scattered with skulls of various animals, brightly colored candles, scarves, shiny trinkets, and faux gems. Multiple decks of cards lay amidst the tables. They sold a taste of the future based on present hints and tells. Not a bad way to make a living. Everyone wanted to believe in some higher power.
Wagner ducked into Paradise Lost. This was a favorite stop for Wagner since he moved to the city. He knew most of the bartenders and many of the regulars. He wondered if the girl who talked to him earlier would be here. Maybe this was where he was supposed to meet whoever was waiting for him. He looked around but didn’t see the girl or her dog. Instead, he saw Jackie behind the bar. This made him smile.
She wore a black tank top with thin shoulder straps that showed off a good amount of skin. The straps of the tank top and those of her bra competed for space on her shoulder. Wagner liked to watch as her tattoo weaved in and out of his view.
Jackie was his favorite for a number of reasons. He was happy to see her and was caught off guard a bit at how much he missed her. “Hey Jackie, how’s it been?”
She returned his smile brightly and hugged him across the bar, “Hey yourself there, Wags. Whatcha up to today?” Her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and her mermaid tattoo swimming through a deep blue sea drew his eye, as usual.
“Just wandering the city. Taking it easy. Busy?” Wagner ordered a double Jameson rocks and beer chaser from her.
“Not too bad today. Tourists in and out. Wish it would pick up some, make the shift go faster,” she said, pouring his whiskey.
An assemblage of older regulars lined the barstools. There was a fair amount of gawking at Jackie’s more than generous curves that were displayed nicely in her tank top. Nina Simone played from the jukebox, announcing she was feeling good. It was a nice respite from “Don’t Stop Believin’” and “Blurred Lines,” the pervasive songs that drifted from the majority of bars in the Quarter. Another reason Wagner liked it at Paradise Lost.
The bar was dark and matched the nightfall outside. Jackie put the Jameson down along with his beer. “Writing any?” she asked.
“It’s been a little dry lately. I probably need to go find a war to fight in or something, like Hemingway. Get all inspired and such,” Wagner replied.
“Well, drinking helped him too, right? So, you’re on the right path. Just don’t follow that road all the way to the end, you know?” She winked and smiled at him. Hemingway committed suicide by putting a shotgun to his head and pulling the trigger with his toe.
Wagner had a thing with Jackie a couple months ago. They started seeing each other and he had walked her to his place after her late shifts. The sex was good and he liked her company. She was smart and clever. His eyes drifted down and he thought about lying in bed with her. Maybe the sex was even better than good.
He began to ask her how she had been. He thought about starting that old conversation about why things hadn’t continued with them, but was interrupted by a pair of middle-aged women wearing beads and Mardi Gras hats in purple, green, and gold stepping up to the bar. Jackie touched Wagner’s hand across the bar, as if she read his thoughts. He forgot how she could do that with him. Anticipate what he was thinking. She walked to the end of the bar by the door and asked, “What’ll it be ladies?” The conversation went back and forth until they both settled on a hurricane, that sweet, red punch-flavored rum drink favored by out-of-towners.
The whiskey burned as it went down Wagner’s throat, a pleasant warm sensation that he followed up with a deep swig of Abita amber. Tom, an old-timer at the bar, slapped Wagner on the back and gave him a Willy Loman salesman smile, albeit lacking some teeth.
Tom wore a well-loved white seersucker suit and Oxford shoes. The suit was discolored from years on the street. His shoes were scuffed and worn.
“How you been, Wags?” Tom asked as bits of nacho fell from his mouth. He wiped the pieces away and then brushed his hands clean on his suit with some mild embarrassment. “Sorry ‘bout that. Grabbing a little snack here.” He gestured to the remainder of nachos piled high on a white coffee filter in front of him on the bar.
“I’m doing well, Tom. Can I get you a shot?” Wagner caught Jackie’s eye without waiting for Tom to respond. Tom never refused a shot; waiting for a response wasn’t required.
“Thank you, kindly,” Tom said, his hand tipping an imaginary hat.
Jackie finished making the beaded tourists their hurricanes as they happily chatted her up about restaurant recommendations in the Quarter. Jackie offered some suggestions in that bright and encouraging way she had with people. She had a great personality for a bartender. She talked to people with respect and interest. Making new friends was something she liked to do. She also knew the bartender’s secret; regulars tipped better. She cultivated new customers where she could.
Wagner set a twenty and a ten down on the stained bar and took a go-cup from the stack on the bar next to the small containers of cherries, lemons, and limes. The go-cup was a staple of the city. Liquor laws were lax in New Orleans and people were allowed to walk around with open containers as long as said alcoholic beverages were in plastic cups. No glass permitted. He poured the beer into a large cup with a single palm tree on a small island surrounded by a blue ocean. He thought of that ocean and her mermaid dancing in the waves.
He wanted to talk to Jackie about what had just happened with the girl, maybe about what had happened with them, but he wasn’t sure she would understand either conversation. Maybe that was why things didn’t work with them. She got some of him, more than most, but that wasn’t quite enough. And in some ways, it was worse than not getting him at all.
“I’m gonna wander for a bit; we need to catch up. Want to get some food after you get off?” Wagner said.
“I’d like that—come back later and get me. I’m off at 11.” Jackie gave him a squeeze on the arm before he left. He thought about them in bed together at his apartment. Had it been two months ago? He remembered Faulkner curled up on her lap while he made her breakfast. She had this way of sitting on the bed with her legs crossed and her hair down around her head, watching him. He missed her.
Masks and beads hung from the display stands in the traditional colors of purple, green, and gold. They represented justice, faith, and power, though that subtlety was lost on most, particularly those wearing beads with little penises attached. The religious traditions of the city had long been co-opted by perpetual spring break college students, mid-life crisis fifty-year-olds trying to recover a lost youth, and the alcoholics pouring in from one day to another. When it came to Mardi Gras, the reason for the season fell a distant second to making a buck.
Wagner walked down Bourbon and headed to The Bayou, about two blocks down from St. Peter on Bourbon. A neon green sign hung over the street like Spanish moss hanging from a cypress in the Louisiana swamp. An imposing, well-dressed bouncer with a fleur de lis neck tattoo stood outside the club. He wore a dark suit and held a stack of “no-cover” cards in his hand. A short redhead stood next to him wearing a black bikini and pink fuck-me heels. The stretched fabric of the bikini struggled to cover her body. Her freckled white cleavage drew the attention of people on the street walking by the club.
The redhead in the black bikini reached out and touched Wagner’s arm and tried to guide him into the club. He offered little resistance. Wagner finished his beer and tossed the cup into the bin outside the club. The bouncer slipped a no-cover card into Wagner’s hand and walked behind him through the dark entryway. He was the easiest sales pitch of the day. He thought of Jackie stroking Faulkner on his bed. Maybe when he picked her up later they would rekindle things.
The club was neon-new and the air-conditioning kept the temperature around permafrost. Electronic dance music filled the air. The seats were half full, with a mixture of frat boy types, business men, and party-goers; the last group identifiable by the piles of beads on their chests and green plastic hand grenade drink cups in front of them on the tables. The club had a single stage. Its current occupant was a long-legged blonde. She climbed her way to the top of the pole, inverted, and started a slow seductive spin to the stage floor.
Wagner sat at the bar and watched her descent and enjoyed the approaching easy soft fog of a perfect buzz. Not drunk, not sober, but that no-man’s-land of peaceful, easygoing feelings. The stress and oddness of his encounter with the girl had faded. His distraction seemed to be working.
A hand came out of the darkness and pulled Wagner close. He had that startled feeling of déjà vu again. The woman attached to the hand dragged Wagner’s attention away from the blonde spinning on stage. The sight of her broke his mind. She was tall. Easily six feet in her long stiletto heels. She wore a black cocktail dress, cut low and deep. The dress clung to her body like a second skin. A black and gold onyx charm hung in her décolletage, which drew Wagner’s eye. It had this obsidian quality that pulled him in like a black hole. She was stunning and elegant. She had Middle Eastern features and a sophisticated grace. Perhaps Egyptian? She talked to him in a low, salacious voice while she ran her fingers slowly up and down his arm. She never lost eye contact with him.
“You know what you need?” she purred.
Intrigued, Wagner answered, “I don’t. What do I need?”
“Well,” she said and shifted her hand from his arm to his shoulder, “I think what you need is a drink. To start with, at least.”
“I’m not one to argue with a beautiful woman. A drink is just what I need. How about you? What can I get you?” he asked.
“Gimlet,” she said.
“Classy,” Wagner replied, and she smiled at him and their eyes locked together. Time slowed and he saw something ancient in her. Something primal.
Reluctantly, Wagner broke eye contact with her. He closed his eyes, feeling muddled and murky, like she had hit him with a blackjack sap. He lowered his head and turned to where he imagined the bartender was standing. This helped clear his mind. That slow, deliberate motion was done with molasses speed. Though he still felt her grey eyes watching him in the darkness.
Wagner opened his eyes again and focused on the bartender finishing with another customer at the other end of the bar. The bartender walked over at Wagner’s gesture. He wore a tight, black t-shirt with a deep-v and nodded at Wagner when he ordered her drink. He reminded him of a Twilight version of the vampire.
“How about you?” the bartender asked as the knife sliced the lime cleanly in two. He rimmed the inside of a martini glass with half of the lime. “What’ll it be?”
“Negroni? Light on the vermouth?” Wagner figured he’d stay in the gin wheelhouse with his new companion. The Dylan song and the girl with the dog were far from his mind.
“Well gin? Bombay? Tanqueray?” he asked for Wagner’s preference.
“Hendricks,” Wagner said, and the bartender reached from behind the bar for the short, dark bottle of Hendricks gin.
Mr. Deep-V mixed her gin and lime together and then turned to pour the Campari and gin into Wagner’s glass with a splash of sweet vermouth. He put a lime twist on her martini and set it in front of her. “Here you are, Cas.” She smiled and thanked him.
The bartender added an orange twist to Wagner’s drink and set it down. Wagner paid and turned his attention back to the woman in black.
“I’m Wags. It’s nice to meet you,” he said over the electronic music pounding around them from the stage. Over on the main stage, the blonde crossed on all fours, catlike.
“Cassandra. Pleased to meet you as well,” she said.
Cassandra sipped her drink and looked at him with her grey eyes without saying a word. Wagner couldn’t take his eyes away from her lips. He rocked his drink around in his hand and thought about what to say. He remembered the old adage about not talking first when negotiating a deal. This, in turn, made Wagner think about making a deal with the devil. An odd thought.
Cassandra’s skin sparkled with a faint dusting of glitter in the light of the club. She caught his gaze on her lips. Wagner looked up and smiled, discovered staring.
“So, what brings you to my city?” she asked. “Business or pleasure?”
He liked the way she said pleasure. Her hand moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck. Her nails raked softly against his skin. He thought again about vampires and deep-v black t-shirts.
“Always a little of both. I’m working on a book,” Wagner answered.
“Ah, a writer type. I like writer types. What’s it about?”
“A story of intrigue and deception. The great American novel.”
“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it,” she said and sipped her drink.
Wagner was surprised by her quote. “Coelho, one of my favorites. You do like writers.” The Alchemist was indeed a favorite of his. The story of a boy who followed his dream. Not a common reference for her to have made. An odd thought again.
“Well, I like to stay well-read,” she said. Those eyes again. There was something so familiar in them. She had a deep, soft voice and long black hair that came down across her breast. Wagner’s gaze was lost in her cleavage, drawn to the silver locket that hung against her perfumed skin. The scent was familiar; some flower he couldn’t quite place. And there was something about her necklace that seemed off.
“You know what you need?” she asked, and Wagner felt her fingernails cross the back of his neck.
He sipped his drink. Tried to play coy. “Another drink?” He was not good at playing coy.
She smiled at him. Bewitching. He would build pyramids for her if she asked.
He glanced at her cherry red lips again as she took another slow sip of her drink. For the briefest of moments, the tip of her tongue was against the red lipstick. There was something reptilian about the way s
he drank.
“You already have a drink.” She brought her hand down from his neck to his thigh. “Such thirst doesn’t always permit for tact. You need to take me in the back,” she told him this with a definitive certainty.
Wagner smiled at the line. She was intriguing.
“To the back?” He raised an eyebrow.
He knew what she meant, but also enjoyed the tango here, the seduction of it. The VIP section of the club. Lap Dance. He had already made up his mind about going back with her. Something to further help clear his head from the day’s twists and turns. A quick dance, another drink, and then he would head back to feed Faulkner and try to write again. Then he would get Jackie for dinner.
Her eyes shone and the purr returned to her voice. “Well, here’s what I’m thinking. It’s darker back there. More private. Maybe give us a chance to talk more about your literary aspirations.”
“Ah, so you would encourage me? A muse, of sorts?” Wagner answered back, playfully.
She liked that word. Her eyes brightened. “Yes! I shall be your muse. Come to the back with me and I will certainly inspire.” She stood with her drink in one hand and took Wagner’s hand with the other.
On stage, the music faded and the blonde collected her scattered outfit. She gathered the dollar bills strewn across the stage, sweeping them up like leaves on a November sidewalk. The bills went into a velvet purple Crown Royal bag looped around her wrist. She shimmied into a red dress and disappeared into the darkness behind the stage.
Cassandra led him back into a room separated from the hallway by a red curtain. There was a dark leather couch in the corner. She guided him to it. Wagner sat and watched her adjust the single, dim light emanating from the corner lamp with a beaded Victorian style shade. There was a mirror behind the couch and Cassandra looked at herself, her hand slowly following the lines of her hip and upper thigh. She guided Wagner over to the center of the couch. A low table was in front of them. She moved like a snake through high grass. Without effort.
Wolf Howling Page 6
