Wolf Howling

by Brian van Brunt

  The music shifted to a new club mix. She stood above him and drew his attention to her breasts. One hand slid across Wagner’s chest and the other behind his neck. She pulled him closer. Jasmine, he thought. That was it. She smelled of jasmine. Cassandra moved in time with the music, her legs against his. Wagner put his hand on her hip. The bass pulsed in time with her against his body. Her mouth was close to his ear and this reminded him of the girl again. Her hand moved quickly from his neck to his throat, she was assertive and pressed him back against the wall. Wagner was surprised by the boldness of her dominance. His head fell back and he gave her the control. Her tongue licked at his ear. Was it a purr or a hiss? He couldn’t tell.

  The first song dwindled and transitioned to a new melody, not an easy thing to differentiate, given the overpowering techno beat overlapping the songs. Cassandra straddled Wagner and he thought about a line from the television show Mad Men, “Every woman is a Jackie Kennedy or a Marilyn Monroe.” Cassandra was a Marilyn; everything she did was a breathy seduction. It was impossible to imagine her doing anything without it being wrapped in honey and lace.

  “Another dance?” she asked.

  “How about a few more?” Wagner responded.

  The alcohol swirled his thoughts and the girl and her dog were once again far from his mind.

  Cassandra’s eyes were warm and she smiled slyly. The tip of her tongue licked the corner of her lips.

  The music from the main stage pounded into their space. Cassandra began to move with the music, sliding slowly out of her dress. Wagner followed the black charm hanging between her breasts like a rube following a carny’s pitch. His breath caught when he looked at that charm. Something about it. Déjà vu again. This faded when she rested her hands on his shoulders and brought her breasts close to him again. Their softness against his face and the smell of the exotic flower hung around him. Cassandra slid over to the side of the couch and brought her long leg up across Wagner’s throat. She pushed him against the back of the couch and looked at herself again in the mirror. She was strong and held him there. Wagner’s hand drifted across her hip and waist in the low light of the room.

  “So…do you trust me?” she asked.

  “Sure. I trust you,” he said.

  “That probably isn’t a good idea.” She regarded him mischievously.

  She raised Wagner’s shirt, the union jack and iconic Rolling Stones lips scrunched together around his neck. She brought her hands across his chest and ran her fingernails on him, holding the rudraksha seed he wore around his neck on a black string. She bit him gently on his neck. Then a second time, harder.

  The pain hit Wagner like an electric shock. He had been bitten before this way. He thought back to the bedroom that overlooked the Quarter with Jackie, but she had never bitten him this hard. His control further slipped away, his grip lessened as the alcohol anesthetized his thoughts. He wasn’t sure what Cassandra would do next. It was rare for him to be out of the driver seat. He felt lost with her, though he didn’t seem to care much.

  Cassandra pulled him into a kiss. Her tongue swam with his.

  It was the kiss that drove Wagner from the club. The taste of gin on her lips. Something too familiar about that. Like he had kissed her before. Goosebumps rose on his arms and then he felt like he was falling. Vertigo. Something was wrong. Like a fly that realized a spider was near. There was a deep, resonate, hollow sound in the darkness pinballing against the machinery far below. A gear had slipped.

  The thoughts returned. The girl and her whisper. There was a floodgate that had opened; water rushed through the sluice, threatening to drown him. Was there someplace he was supposed to be? The more he thought about this, the harder it became to stay in the club. He felt late. White Rabbit late. Very late.

  He pulled back away from Cassandra’s kiss before the full panic hit him. He edged her back away from him. She was surprised by this. Those haunting, purring, hissing seductive eyes were gone. She looked like an actress who had forgotten her lines. Wagner figured very few of her clients left her mid lap dance. Not a woman like her.

  He mumbled something about being sorry and pressed a hundred-dollar bill and some twenties from the clip he kept in his pocket into her hand before he made his way back to the main club. A petite girl with short-cropped brown hair was now on stage. Wagner settled his tab with the deep-v bartender and made his way to the door with a sense of growing panic.

  He stumbled out into the darkness and onto Bourbon Street. He looked down at his arm and saw the sparkle of glitter. Glitter in the dark.

  He walked faster into the cacophony of lights and sounds.

  Chapter 8

  New Orleans, Spring, Tuesday, 6:30pm

  With $400 in her pocket, Ella walked down St. Peter’s Street toward Pirate Alley Ghost Tours. Her shift started at 7pm, and she had to get into costume before her first tour of the night started. She had two tours tonight, at 7:30pm and 9:30pm. They usually lasted about an hour or so, depending on how much she liked the group. She hoped to finish up with enough time to get to get to see Coop open for Vinyl Vixens tonight at 11. He had been trying to get a gig lined up for a few weeks with his band, and she wanted to offer some support.

  She turned the corner and the entrance to the bar was in front of her. Like many of the old buildings in the city, it had a blend of old brick, painted shutters, and iron work. A large, gaudy sign, somewhat out of place among the historic nature of the city, hung above the arched doorway with a ghost being chased by a pirate.

  The bar itself was a combination gift shop, gathering place for the tours, and old-style pub. It had an open seating arrangement, with a dozen or so tables, each set with four of five chairs around it. The bar was made from old, worn cypress and had aged brass fixtures and foot rests. The stools had leather padded tops studded with brass tacks to hold them in place. Most were filled with the first night tour starting shortly. Night ghost tours were always more popular.

  There was a podium where the restaurant hostess would typically stand as you came in the room. It was made to look like a series of poorly placed crates and had some frayed rope hanging off the sides. In a touch of brilliance, someone had glued several gold and silver colored doubloons to the floor next to the check in. Instead of a restaurant hostess, there was Liv. She was short, with long black hair and dressed in a flowy red skirt, white blouse, black bodice, and more than ample cleavage. She smiled briefly at Ella, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere and she seemed distressed.

  Ella paused. Usually Liv was more upbeat, part of the reason she beat out Hope for check-in duties. “You doing okay, hon?” She rested a hand on Liv’s arm. Liv pulled her arm back in pain. “Sorry, clumsy. I hit it on a shelf at the library.” Ella apologized and worried after her some. She seemed truly shaken up. Liv continued, “I’m not doing great, to be honest.” She had an uncharacteristic quake to her voice. “But look, you have a full crowd and have to get ready. I’ll fill you in a little later.”

  “Hmm, boy trouble? You know I could help, come over to my side for a visit.” Ella offered a flirtatious smile, trying to make Liv laugh. It didn’t work. Liv was holding back tears now and seemed panicked. A family of four waited behind Ella to check in for their tour. Ella took the hint.

  “Okay, tell me later. Promise?” Ella asked. Liv perked up some, “Promise.”

  Ella rested her hand on Liv’s back and gave her a squeeze. They weren’t close friends, but she always liked her and always greeted her when her shift started. Liv was in college, working to pay the bills in between classes, studying, friends, and having a life. Ella made a mental note to check in on her after her first tour group. She walked past the check-in station and into the main room.

  It was about half-full, with five or six guys at the bar and another dozen families, older couples, and a group of women with “Brittney’s Bachelorette Bash Bitch!” t-shirts sitting around the back tables. Two small children were having a mock sword fight with the plastic swords they had
taken from a barrel with a sign that read “cutlasses for sale: $9.99.” Other shelves held buckets filled with eye patches, plastic hook hands, cast-iron looking rubber handcuffs, “real metal” doubloons, plush ghost dolls, and Ghost Alley Pirate Tour stickers with the Jolly Roger in red and black. Ella had seen it busier, but this was a good-sized crowd for the night. She wondered who was taking out the first tour. Maybe Dave.

  Hope was behind the bar wearing a laced corset and leather pants. She had a light blue tricorn hat on with a matching choker with a silver metal coin bearing the symbol of the skull and crossbones. She juggled drink orders from the bar and the waitress working the tables. “Hey Ella,” she bubbled at her.

  “Hey yourself, Hope,” Ella said back. Hope was cute, though not the brightest light on the Christmas tree. But, she was sweet. She had relocated from southern California to New Orleans and had very much kept her San Diego charm, along with some great access to weed, which Hope used liberally. Blonde and thin, her positivity and exuberance surpassed her small frame. She was very popular with the customers, several of whom who were currently pushed up to the bar with drinks and snacks, likely waiting for their tour to start. The bar served some pirate themed food like Parrot Wings, which were regular chicken wings, Dead Men’s Fingers, which were little smokies sausages, and something called Captain Malick’s BBQ, which looked like pulled pork with a dark red sauce.

  Hope set down a double whiskey in a plastic go-cup with two ice cubes. Ella thought, “Alright Hope!” and reached through the throngs of tourists at the bar and took the whiskey with a wink and a “Thanks, babe!”

  Hope gave her best “for sure!” The door at the far side of the bar had the sign “Captain’s Quarters” above it. The door opened, and the owner came out.

  “Avast yea! Scallywags!” Cliff said, waving to his employees and the customers around the bar.

  He was an enormous man, often mistaken for being of Samoan descent. He wore a red and black long pirate coat with a black, tricorn cap. He had a wig of long black curls that came down around his head, and well-worn, black leather boots with an authentic looking sword at his side.

  “Hope! Ella! Shiver me timbers! It is good to see ye!” Cliff said.

  The pirate talk could grate after a while, but with Cliff, it was easier to put up with since he genuinely loved it so much. He was like the ghost of Christmas present when it came to pirates. Just super enthusiastic in a contagious way that made you play along.

  Hope responded with, “Aye, Capt’n. No black spotted, bilge rats around today trying to hornswoggle us!” Ever since she almost burned down the bar, Hope was the most enthusiastic responding to Cliff in pirate voice.

  Ella waved hello to him and then opened the Crew Only door. It was decorated with an isolated desert island with a single palm tree.

  Dave was in the back of the staff room sitting at the computer. He was already dressed in full tour pirate garb: white flowy shirt, brown coat with brass buttons, and leather gauntlets. A dark brown sash hung across his black pants. No real swords were allowed in this establishment. Dave made up for it with a blue stuffed parrot named Zazu, which while technically not a parrot and from Disney’s The Lion King, was popular with the little kids on his tours.

  “Avast ye, ya scurvy dog,” Ella greeted as she sat down and sipped her whiskey with her boots now kicked up on the table with the computer.

  “Ahoy, wench,” Dave came back, smiling to himself, without looking up. “Full crowd for you later tonight. About half a group for the early gig.” He clicked back and forth on the computer screen.

  “Not too bad, I guess. Maybe I’ll get some tips.” Ella finished her whiskey, stood up, and walked over to her locker. There was a pirate-themed privacy screen that folded out in a tri-fold, behind which the lady pirate tour guides could change.

  “You always get tips. You have tits,” Dave said, switching the scheduling software over to solitaire. “Are you planning some kind of Amsterdam-style, anti-fascist coup with that chain and knife?” he asked, gesturing to the bike chain around her waist and the knife handle sticking out of her boot.

  “It’s not just tits, I give the people entertainment, fucker!” Ella said the last with a flourish and opened her locker. It was nice of Cliff to give them lockers so they didn’t have to walk through the streets in their costume. Not that anyone would have noticed. She took off her top. She hung it in the locker and took out her white, low-cut pirate blouse, red boned corset, and black flowy pirate wench skirt.

  “Hey, I use what I got, ya know?” she called at him over the screen, “Can you believe this? Some fuck stole my bike!”

  “No way. Didn’t you have it locked up?” Dave said, moving a King of Spades onto his first column.

  Ella rolled her eyes from behind the privacy screen with pirate ships fighting a cannon battle across the sea. “Listen here, rapscallion…sure, that would have been a good idea.”

  She was pissed at herself for leaving the bike unattended when she ran into PJ’s Coffee for a double espresso on the way to get the rent from Kara. The guy making it was super high and it took literally forever to get her drink. And when she came out, the bike was gone. The chain and lock, however, were still secured to her waist.

  She unlocked them with a key fastened to her wrist and hung lock, chain, and key on the hook in the locker. She put the $400 from Kara on the shelf under the lock and chain. She pulled her skirt on and added the red sash with silver coins attached to it. It looked a little more gypsy than pirate, but the powers-that-be gave her some wiggle room on accuracy and cultural appropriation.

  For the last touch, she took her silver knife from her boot and attached it to the garter sheath that she’d made especially for her outfit. Her father taught her to never travel without a knife. She adjusted the sheath to her thigh and let the skirt fall down around it.

  Dave finished his game and watched the cards bounce around the screen pleasantly. It was five minutes to seven and he stood up to go meet his tour. Ella shut her locker and came over to the desk. She laced and tightened the white rope ties that fell over her cleavage.

  “Little help?” Ella asked. She turned around for Dave to fasten the corset. It wasn’t a traditional laced corset, but rather one that had a series of clasps. Ella had gotten the first few and needed him to finish the top couple for her.

  “Sure.” Dave latched the remaining clasps and his parrot jiggled all jolly-like as he gave her a final pat on the back.

  Ella took up her post on the computer and clicked back over to the scheduling software. Dave gave her a wave and she said, “All hands hoy. Get ye some booty out there.”

  Dave gave a final, “Aye, Bucko,” and left the staff quarters for the bar to gather up his group.

  Ella sat and gathered her thoughts while waiting for Dave to take his group and clear out the main room. Liv would check her group in and then she could go out and lead the tour. She had been doing this for a few months and had the tour shtick down cold. Lots of walking and three ghost stories: The Two Sisters, Captain Malick, and Marauding Jack.

  She found herself thinking again of varying apartment options, with a growing discomfort of living with Kara and, oddly, back to that man who sat on the street outside of Rouses wearing that Rolling Stones t-shirt. Older, but still kinda hot. There was something about him that stood out in her mind, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Like this feeling of déjà vu. Almost there, but then gone. She looked at the clock. Shit, time to get to work.

  Ella stood and adjusted her ensemble, making sure her cleavage was in that sweet spot of eye-catching but not indecent. She grabbed her jade-colored antique bottle from the bookcase next to the desk. Dave had his parrot, Ella had tits and beer. A good night could bring in at least $100 in tips. That and usually a few phone numbers that ended up in a jar at the end of the desk. Dave liked to crank call them on his breaks.

  She opened the door and was greeted by a raucous smash as a shot glass shattered against th
e brick wall near her head. Ella didn’t jump. She expected it.

  Three girls wearing colorful beads and waving cash lined the bar in front of Hope. They all wore “Brittney’s Bachelorette Bash Bitch” t-shirts. A tall, wobbly blonde, who could only have been Brittney herself (her t-shirt declared this), took another shot and threw the glass against the wall. She was all smiles and woo-hoos, along with bright flushed cheeks from the large amount of alcohol she’d consumed during her bash. Ella could only hope that the big day was not tomorrow for Brittney.

  Hope said in a chipper, sing-song voice, “Avast ye wenches! I be pouring another cannonball for the next lass! Unless she be too lily-livered to walk the plank!” The three women were, in fact, not too lily-livered and handed Hope another twenty for three more shots.

  The shots were served in ice glasses made in special molds. According to the stories, there was a bar on Bourbon Street called The Swamp that used to serve them with some kind of peppermint or spearmint mix. Once they did the shot, the customers would throw the glass against the head of a concrete alligator in the corner of the bar.

  Here at Peg-Leg Pete’s, the shots were a mixture of fireball liquor and cherry juice that the bar cherries came in. Always efficient in getting people racing on sugar and booze. The trouble was freezing enough of the shot glasses each night. Hope went through several dozen. That was why the Swamp stopped serving them; well, that and the likely lawsuits from drunken tourists on Bourbon throwing rock-hard ice glasses at each other.

  Several families jostled for position on the other end of the bar near the front entrance around a raised dais that read, “The Crow’s Nest.” A stylized, faded and burned pirate map gave them a full relief version of the city with the tour stops marked out. You could see Captain Malick’s ship docked off-shore and the spots where Marauding Jack found his victims. The map had lights and its own theme music that was sufficiently creepy to have parents asking if this tour would be “too scary” for their little ones.