NO Quarter (19 page)

“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.

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 tawdriness, 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.