NO Quarter (3 page)

The yokel with the mustache wanted me to recommend a place for him and his plump friends to go drinking.
An authentic New Orleans waterin’ hole.
I thought of several places I might send them ... thought wickedly, hidden under my servile face. Thought of all the authentic New Orleans experiences they might find
...
interesting
.

“So skinny,” the woman said, with feeling, just in case I’d missed it.

I recommended a nice, safe tourist club, collected my tips, checked on Nicki before I clocked out and left. She looked through me with cold, bitter, red-rimmed eyes. I lit a smoke and walked out into the hot summer night. It was almost two.

I thought briefly of Sunshine. If we were still together, I’d be going home to her. I immediately wiped it from my mind—it had been a messy breakup, and our last meeting had been even worse. Instead I would collect Alex, who would be getting off from her own job about now. We would probably go hang with the regulars at the Calf in an attempt to erase the day.

The party never stops.

* * *

Excerpt from Bone’s Movie Diary:

Remains of the Day
—Anthony Hopkins’ finest screen performance. Far superior to
Silence/Lambs
& his campy Oscar-winning Hannibal Lecter.
Remains
’ Hopkins is an ice-stiff English butler who gives his soul to serving, sacrificing every human privilege, including the possibility of a wife, & never blinks. Yet we can see his feelings, deep, painful. He knows what he lacks, but he’s too dedicated to change. It’s fabulously bittersweet, not schmaltzy. Appraisals:
Remains
* * * ½; Hopkins * * * *

I dumped the entire case, newly-acquired sword cane and all, back at my apartment rather than take the time to repack it.
Normally I would be worried that word of my altercation might get out and ruin my deliberately low profile, but I knew that Rose hadn’t actually seen anything. The two fools were unlikely to brag about a fight they’d lost—especially to an “old man.”

That still rankled. I may have a little silver in my hair, but I really don’t think of myself as old—just more experienced. And in the Quarter, experience counts.

The brief practice went well, even though I arrived later than planned. Afterwards I relocated to the Calf, along with my pool team co-captain, Padre, who tended bar there. A month ago the owners had changed the name of the bar to “Yo’ Momma’s,” but the regulars, in true Quarter fashion, hadn’t accepted the change. I was no different. In my head it was still the Calf—same bar, same bartender, same regulars, so why call it something else?

By around two-ish in the morning, early by Quarter standards, I had settled in at the bar to wait until the lingering tourist crowd thinned enough so I could talk pool-team strategies with Padre. Besides being a great co-captain, he was also my oldest friend in New Orleans. While stalling, I joined a group of regulars indulging in one of my favorite pastimes, talking old movies. I had gotten to know a number of them because most of them lived and worked in the Quarter and tended to frequent the same bars I did—probably for the same reasons. The Quarter doesn’t lack for watering holes, but I tend toward the quieter places. Since dance and jazz clubs and bars that cater specifically to the tourist trade are usually loud, I go where the locals more or less “own” the place.

We were in the middle of casting a fictitious remake of
Gone With the Wind
. Tom Cruise and Mel Gibson had both been proposed for Rhett, though there was a faction pushing for Harrison Ford. Gwyneth Paltrow was penciled in as Scarlett, with Oprah as Mammy. No one could decide on Ashley.

“Hey, where’s Bone?” T.J. remarked. “He’s the Master of Moviedom. He should be in on this!”

I agreed. Where was Bone? He would have plugged right into the current debate. Bone was never so opinionated as when he talked movies. He usu
ally showed around this time of night to collect his friend, Alex, who worked the gift shop at Pat O.’s, a tourist hot spot across the street. Most nights they met up here after work, hung around for a while to decompress, then walked home together since they both had apartments in the same building.

Bone was a relatively new acquaintance, but we’d hit it off quite well, despite our age difference. I don’t know where he got the name, unless it was because he was thin as a ... well, I’d never asked.

The first time I saw him I mistook him for a low-level pool hustler. He was shooting late night racks for a dollar. I watched him take four games in a row, only to find that no one in that bar wanted to shoot against him for higher stakes. I eased over.

Like anywhere, people here are usually friendly if you’re friendly to them first, even after midnight in a bar. We were both warmly cocktailed, and he wasn’t at all hostile when I offered pointers. I didn’t lecture on technique. He had a fair arm, even if he didn’t know where to point his elbow. What I passed along was a little sage advice about pool hustling—advice that with my old crowd up North would have been
da-da-goo-goo
baby talk.

“You’re showing too much too soon, and too cheap.” Meaning he had a decent game, but shouldn’t flaunt it right away, certainly shouldn’t give it away for a dollar.

He stared back at me for a few seconds. “Should I know what the hell you’re talking about?”

Turned out he was a waiter and shot games more for fun than cash. “Not that I couldn’t use the money,” he said, but he knew he wasn’t anywhere near as good as some of the hot sticks in the Quarter. We had a laugh, and I bought a round for the misunderstanding.

Pool may be the basic sport of the French Quarter, but for me it was mostly just something to do. Just like coming out to the Calf to talk tactics with Padre and have an Irish whiskey or two and maybe bump into Bone were things to do. I was dug in, in the Quarter. I liked it here.

I ordered another Irish, still waiting for Padre to get some clear time so we could talk. The regulars moved on to another of our favorite movie-related bar games. It’s gotten to be fairly popular, as any number can play regardless of qualifications, and it never really ends. Simply put, one reflects back on the old film greats, then tries to identify who has emerged from the new crop of talents to take each individual’s place. Case in point: Who would you say is the new Jimmy Stewart? Our answer: Tom Hanks. The new John Wayne? Try Arnold Schwarzenegger. Actors are fairly easy. Actresses can drive you nuts. This can and does go on for hours, as everyone has his own opinion and there are no clear-cut right or wrong answers. The bartenders love it because it keeps people hanging around and drinking, which boosts their rings on slow nights.

We all had our reasons for drinking. Some were social, some not. This was one of those nights when we were all feeling our drinks, but more on the euphoric than depressant side. That is, it didn’t actually improve our humor, but we appreciated each other’s jokes a bit more than usual. Bad humor is the standard language of Quarter bars. If you aren’t witty, you ought to at least be quick with your comebacks. Some nights the puns and crude double-entendres fly so fast it can make your head swim.

Somebody slotted quarters into the bar-top video-trivia game, and the gang went over to kibitz. I already knew Bone had all five high scores in the movie category. Any two players working together were lucky to make a third of his recorded low score. I’m a movie buff myself, but Bone was more like a fanatic.

It was well past two by now. Where was he?

At that moment a young man came through the door and beckoned Padre over. I recognized him as one of the waiters from Poppy’s, the diner a few doors up St. Peter.

Like every other local, I maintained a casual scan on everyone entering the bar, and while the waiter was a known quantity, something about his manner caught my eye.

How does a Quarterite know when there’s trouble brewing? Hey, how does a bug know when it’s going to rain?

After talking intently for about thirty seconds, the waiter headed back out. Padre remained where he was, leaning on his side of the bar, his head bowed slightly.

I hadn’t joined the others at the trivia machine. “Bad news, Padre?” I slid down the bar to him.

He looked at me a moment without speaking.

“You know Sunshine?” he said finally. “The little waitress from Big Daddy’s?”

There was pun potential there. Protocol called for a wise-ass answer. His vibe didn’t.

“Yeah. I know her.” A local, Sunshine was a cute little bundle of irrepressible energy. Big Daddy’s was a strip club, but she worked as a waitress, not a dancer. A casual bar buddy, she had actually called me very late the night before and left a message on my answering machine—something about wanting to talk
to me at noon the next day. Of course, I didn’t get the message until I dragged my night-owl self out of bed at three o’clock that afternoon, well after the requested time, so I didn’t ring her back. Figured that by that time she had either handled whatever it was herself, or had found someone else to hold her hand. Otherwise, she would have called me back. I wondered if this had something to do with that call.

“What’s up?”

Padre’s eyes were grave. “She’s dead. They just found her up on the Moonwalk. Somebody stabbed her. Rumor is it may have been some kind of voodoo thing.”

Suddenly, the rest of the bar receded a million miles away as a collage of film clips played in my head.
Sunshine, flipping back her impossibly blonde hair, laughing at one of my notoriously bad puns.
Or hunched over the drink of the hour with red-rimmed eyes as she shared the latest train wreck in her life. I’d sat and listened to her emote about whatever guy she had just broken up with at least a dozen times. She had notoriously bad taste in men. Once upon a time, I’d made my own interest known to her. She had looked shocked, then she’d gently but firmly rebuffed my advance.

I wasn’t put out. At my age, hurt feelings, particularly over a female’s friendly brush-off, are rare. Since then we’d drifted into being casual bar buddies. Along with a couple of other Quarterites, I took turns watching over her when she was too drunk to repel the random guys that endlessly hit on her. We often poured her into a cab to get her home, even if we had to spring for the fare ourselves. Locals tend to watch out for each other, especially for those who don’t always handle their drinks well.

Now she was dead. Nothing could change that. No sense second-guessing myself. Right.
Of course
. She’d called me late on Friday night, and I wasn’t there to answer. Now, it was late on Sunday, and she was gone.

Too late. Let it go.
Sure
.

As the bar swam back into focus, I saw the news traveling. Padre poured drinks, the regulars all raised glasses to Sunshine. The night’s earlier euphoria began its slide into maudlin morbidity. It was going to get ugly.

I wasn’t eager to join what was going to quickly become a grief-fest. Part of me still felt the shock. But I also mentally noted that murders in the Quarter were rare—very rare, compared to the homicide statistics for the rest of the city. The French Quarter is a vast source of revenue for New Orleans, so City Hall takes a pointed interest in keeping it safe.

I also noted that Bone knew Sunshine—knew her well, if I recalled correctly from previous conversations. I had the vague sense that they’d been a couple once, but that was long over before I really got to know either of them. Bone was from the West Coast and had known Sunshine out there. This would probably hit him deeper than those acquainted with her only casually from the bars.

Right then he stepped through the door, his face grim, and made a beeline for the bar. He didn’t look like he’d heard, more like he’d had a bad night at work. Before Padre could work his way back down to this end, I edged over.

Earlier I had been looking forward to seeing him. Now, given the sad occasion, I figured he might as well hear the news from me.

“Maestro,” he said curtly as he lit a cigarette. “Jesus, what a night,” he grumbled.

“Bone,” I said, nodding a greeting. Then, with no easy way to say it, I simply told him. “Sunshine’s dead. Murdered.” What else can you do in such a situation? The bereaved either handles it or he doesn’t.

Bone didn’t exactly handle it. His eyes went wide and still, and his cigarette dropped from the corner of his mouth onto the bartop. I put it in an ashtray.

“You’re sure?” He spoke in a strained whisper, like he couldn’t find the strength for anything else.

“That’s the word. You can call it scuttlebutt if you want. But I doubt seriously anybody would make up a story like this.” I didn’t say anything about voodoo. It was probably just wild talk and rumor, nothing Bone needed to hear from me.

He stepped back suddenly from the bar. “Then I’m finding out for sure.” He stalked toward the door.

I moved fast. No time to think it out or even examine closely why I was doing it. I caught Bone by the upper arm as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was headed toward the river.

I don’t lay hands on people without cause. Anyone who does that around here quickly unlearns the habit or gets himself painfully rehabilitated. But I had figured out where Bone was going and didn’t think it was a good idea. I applied just enough pressure to stop him briefly, which he did, rounding on me with a snarl.

There were several ways I could manage him if he got violent. His balance was off, stance bad. You learn a lot from fencing.

“Look,” I said in a calm, reasonable voice, “you don’t want to go to the crime scene.” I let go of his arm.

He stayed put for the moment, though I could practically see the fight-or-flight adrenaline pumping through him. It was hot out here on the street,
especially after the Calf’s air-conditioning. The humidity was high, even this late at night. That’s how summers are in New Orleans.

“I’ve got to find out!” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit around wondering if her getting
killed
is just a rumor!”

“I know she’s your friend
...
”