4 Shelter From The Storm (3 page)

As they slowly progressed, the sidewalks filled with people. They surrounded the cab, walking in the middle of the block, and getting where they wanted to go much more efficiently than she was in her taxi. The pedestrians also seemed increasingly weird— scrawny tattooed men with sleeveless black leather vests and porkpie hats, a fat couple wearing identical green jumpsuits with cameras strung on the necks, some provocative women in bright red hotpants, and clusters of loud-talking guys and gals carrying clear plastic cups of beer that sloshed as they walked.

Most of them were moving in the same direction.

“Going to the parade,” Hoss explained. “I believe it must be the Iris Parade, which is the longest parade in the world for nothing but women, you know. This is your hotel coming up.”

The Royal Montpelier, she observed, stood in majestic splendor across the street from a burlesque show and a Takee Outee beer and fried rice emporium, and it had tall black footmen regally outfitted in red tuxedo jackets and white turbans who sprang to life as the cab eased to the curb.

One attendant leapt into the street to open her door, blessing her with a magnificent smile.

“Welcome to the Royal Montpelier,” he proclaimed and offered his white gloved hand.

While Hoss got her bags from the trunk and struggled to haul them to curbside, she was escorted to the grand entrance. The giant doorman raised his arm and snapped his fingers at a bellhop, a hefty man with a bristling mustache and slightly wild black hair who was stuffed into a green uniform with red epaulets and tassels on the shoulders. While the gatesman held open the gilded doors, the bellhop, with somewhat less energy than the others, collected her suitcases and led the way into the lobby.

“Checking in, ma’am? Just follow me. I’ll keep an eye on your bags while you get your key.”

The lobby was ornate and busy with potentially interesting male guests, but getting her room was an ordeal. A twisted line followed a pair of golden ropes, made remarkable only by the fact that most of the people in it had heaps of colorful beads piled around their necks and appeared to be inebriated. They were talking animatedly about marvelous “floats” they had seen and how you catch a rider’s eye and yell, “Throw me something, mister,” and how they had managed to snare this strand of silver beads or that plastic cup bearing the krewe’s emblem. Word was that tonight there was an even bigger parade called “Bacchus.”

Finally, Marguerite’s Visa card was accepted, her keycard was slid over the counter, and she found herself in the elevator with the mountainous bellman. His brass nameplate said “Dan.”

“Just here for Carnival?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yes. I’ve never been here before,” she said.

He asked where she was from, and she told him Chicago.

“I used to live there,” he said. “Worked in a packing plant. Not much fun.”

“That’s why I’m here. Just to have fun.”

“Do you know anyone in town?” he asked politely as the doors opened on the second floor.

“No. I wish I did have somebody to show me around.”

He checked her quickly out of the corner of his eye, but evidently she didn’t mean him.

“Well,” he mumbled. “Just take a walk outside. There’s a whole street full of people out there who would be glad to show you things you might not see in Illinois. For starters, you also might try the bar on the roof.”

Edward and Wendell thought they might have to walk all the way to town from the airport, the highway was so crowded. This was their first trip together away from Atlanta, where Edward was a stockbroker and Wendell was one of 193 vice presidents of an expanding regional bank. His specialty was accounts receivable financing, which, he had learned, would stop a conversation at any party. They had picked Mardi Gras in New Orleans as their great getaway— a week of wearing masks, getting lost in the crowd, and holing up together in a Vieux Carré guest house a good friend had recommended as “private and cozy.”

“It’s just a matter of getting there,” Edward mused encouragingly. They nestled like new potatoes in one of the back seats of a ten-passenger shuttle bus carrying a full load of uncomfortable airport travelers.

The driver answered a couple of questions about the meaning of Mardi Gras and how many people came to New Orleans at this time of the year, and then he ran out of things to say and just grumbled about all the bad drivers in all the cars with Mississippi and Texas tags.

And when they finally exited the interstate it seemed that their hotel was the last one on the route. First they had to stop at the Columns, the Claiborne Mansion, Le Pavillon, Comfort Suites, the EconoLodge, the Chateau Sonesta, the Holiday Inn, the Royal Montpelier, and the Maison DeVille. When the driver finally threw the gearshift into “park,” barked “Lafitte’s Lair,” and jumped out of his seat, they had been nearly two hours in the van and were crying out for pain relief.

“I must have wine,” Wendell gasped desperately.

“Surely there’s a store around here,” Edward said, but looking through the limo’s dusty safety glass, it was clear that Lafitte’s Lair was not the run-of-the-mill elegantly restored bed and breakfast that one might find, say, in Savannah or Charleston. There were, in fact, no signs that the establishment had been restored at all. The outside walls were cracked and soiled— quaint, to be sure, but unmistakably deteriorating— and the sidewalk was loaded with bits of food and empty plastic cups. One spilled out a pasty purple liquid when Edward misstepped.

“I fear that sports fans are near,” Wendell said ominously.

Pigeons had taken charge of the litter and were strutting around importantly.

What might be the front door was a boarded-up archway, painted black, with a doorbell and a peephole in the middle. They would not immediately have recognized this as the way one entered had not the limo driver hurried in that direction with their bags. There was, however, a tastefully small painted sign off to the side of the door, bolted to the age-softened brick, with the words “Lafitte’s Lair” on it.

“I guess this is the right place,” Edward said doubtfully.

“Home at last,” Wendell replied weakly. He twitched his nose, trying to decipher the warm richly-odored air, while Edward tipped the driver heavily. They watched him putter away.

Wendell bravely rang the bell.

They stood patiently for a minute or two, assimilating their new, somewhat mildewed surroundings, and then Edward tried the latch. The door creaked opened.

Tentatively, they stepped into a cool, backlit grotto. It was a tiny office partitioned by a polished oak counter on which lay a pile of tourist brochures and an open leather guest book. There was also a credit card machine. The space was surprisingly neat and clean and suggested more luxury than the shuttered exterior.

Finding no one in attendance, Edward tinkled the silver bell on the counter. After a moment, from the beaded curtain behind, a slender figure entered, dressed in a plum leather vest and tight black pants and looking remarkably feline. She had straight black hair, and had chosen glossy black lipstick. There were silver bracelets on her wrists. Her voice had an accent they couldn’t place, but which seemed somehow incongruous with her appearance. A local resident might have recognized it as Chalmette.

“How may I help you?” she asked.

“Edward Doyle. Wendell Rappold. Reservations for the week,” Edward said.

“Now where is that book,” the woman, apparently the person in charge, said. She rummaged about under the counter. “I’m just sort of filling in for the owner of the place while he’s out. Which could be a long time. Okay,” she said and came up with a lacquered clipboard.

With obvious amazement she said, “I see your names right here. There’s a note, too. Let me see if I can read it.” She turned the board sideways. “Want street view. Want privacy,” she read slowly. She put a finger to her lips. Her nails were enameled black. “I guess I’ll put you in the annex.” She winked.

“Is that good?” Wendell asked.

“I would like it.” She smiled and found a key.

“Follow me,” she said, floating around the counter. She stepped through the archway to the hot street outside. She led them around the corner and down the block, to three granite steps ascending to a tall green shuttered doorway.

“Nobody knows how big this place is.” She explained as she worked her key into the old Yale lock. “I think Sidney truthfully owns the whole block. Lots of freaks live on this street. Lots of ’em,” she added to herself. She threw the green shutters aside and stepped in.

She couldn’t find a light switch but knew where some long pink candles were kept.

The two visitors, enthralled by the sense of having fallen through the looking glass, waited at the edge of the sunlight while she got the candles lit. Carefully, she placed one in a saucer on the dining room table and the other on the floor by a fat stuffed sofa in the living room.

“Come on in,” she urged. “I’ve already found you three bottles of wine.”

Oil paintings of old men in muttonchop whiskers came alive in the glow. A comfortable couch, a tall ceiling, narrow shafts of daylight entering horizontally through the slits in the shutters closed over the windows, slowly emerged from the darkness.

“Isn’t it nice?” she asked. “I’m looking for light bulbs.”

She found some in a cupboard.

“Don’t you want to imprint my card?” Edward, very honest, asked.

“Maybe I should,” she said, as if the thought of payment had just struck her. “Want to give it to me?”

“I guess.” Edward located his wallet and handed the green plastic over to her.

“I’ll leave it up front for Sidney,” she said, and drifted outside.

By candlelight, Edward and Wendell began poking about their new digs. Edward, mystified about how he had lost possession of his American Express card, stumbled upon a yellowing issue of a magazine called
Gambit
that had a map of Lee Harvey Oswald landmarks. Wendell discovered the Merlot.

“I like this place,” Edward said, tossing the magazine aside.

“Do you think they know we’re here?” Wendell asked, seeking a corkscrew.

“I wonder if she’ll bring back my card.”

“Shall I close the door?”

“Never mind.” Edward uncorked the bottle he was handed and dropped the lead foil to the floor. He moved into the sunlight washing through the doorway, leaned against the wall and sighed. “Let’s just let it happen.”

Tubby’s favorite part of Mardi Gras was Thoth. If what you wanted to do was crash into people, drink beer, eat fried chicken, and hop around for rubber monkeys, almost any parade would do. Over the past twenty-five or thirty years, he supposed he had made a fool of himself at the feet of every king, duke, knight, maid, and big shot in the Carnival Kingdom, sometimes with a screaming child on each shoulder and sometimes with nobody but himself to blame. He had carted home wheelbarrows full of trinkets and couldn’t tell you where any of them were today. He had shouted himself hoarse, stared awestruck at teenage bosoms, and swiped bouncing cups from the grasp of babes. Of Mardi Gras, he had seen it all. What he liked best was Thoth.

It was a nice old parade that rolled slowly through the neighborhood he lived in on the Sunday morning before Mardi Gras Day. It followed a circuitous route past the numerous old folks’ homes and hospitals that dotted the area. The theme was cheering up the shut-ins. If you picked a location near a platoon of old gray-haired gents or ladies in wheelchairs you were certain to get clobbered with beads. There were also some convents along the way, and the nuns who came out on the sidewalk in their habits got tons of good stuff, too.

Since the krewe rode Uptown in the daylight, there were hoards of children out for the event. As far as some of the little kids knew, this was Mardi Gras. Their parents never ventured out of doors on Fat Tuesday itself because, hell, nowadays you could watch the whole thing on television. And when you wanted a cold beer and a ham sandwich, or needed to use the bathroom, hey, no problem.

Lots of people Tubby knew held Thoth parties. Usually they would open their homes or backyards an hour before the parade. They would set out the tiny muffalettas, or the roast beef, or light that crawfish pot and start mixing Bloody Marys right after they fed the kids breakfast. Then all the little boys and girls could run around like maniacs, painting their faces and spreading rumors about when the parade would pass, while their parents and grandparents enjoyed the sunshine outside and carried on the city’s oldest tradition.

Since his divorce from Mattie, Tubby had noticed with interest and some regret how their once-common friends had dealt with party invitations. Mainly, he did not get as many. First to abandon him were several high-class attorneys who lived in the immediate environs of his old house on State Street. They had correctly understood that it was Mattie Dubonnet who was the more scintillating around the grillades and grits and that Tubby, though undeniably a lawyer, kept a fishing boat in his driveway. He did not truly view them as companions.

Tubby had, however, kept the cream of the crop in his opinion. Such as Jerry Molideau, the financial advisor, who lived on Chestnut with his girlfriend Bonita. She was good enough to send Tubby an invitation to their annual pre-Thoth celebration addressed by hand to “Tubby Dubonnet and Guest.”

Collette, his youngest daughter, had agreed to join him for the occasion. She still lived at home with her mother. On the phone she offered to meet her father at Magazine and Jefferson, right where the parade passed and in the thick of the crowd. Knowing her proclivity for diversion, he said he would pick her up instead and they would walk together down State Street. Okay, they made a deal.

So now he found himself by the curb outside the house where he and Mattie had raised a family, and he was wondering if she would ever paint the porch. He had mowed around the trees and azaleas in this front yard so many times he could probably do it in his sleep, and he had to admit he missed it. But did he miss Mattie, who still called herself Dubonnet? Not on your life.