4 Shelter From The Storm (13 page)

“Are you flirting with me?”

Tubby smiled at her across the Crabmeat Imperial. Over her shoulder, the couple on the silent screen had reversed positions. The woman’s eyes were closed and her mouth was hanging open and repeating some word over and over again while she rocked back and forth.

“Well, it’s okay if you are,” she said. “I guess I came to New Orleans to be flirted with.”

“I’m out of practice,” Tubby said.

“Me, too, to tell you the truth. I’ve discovered that life without men can be very peaceful.”

“What do you like to do for fun, when you’re back home?” he asked.

“I don’t like to go to the movies,” Marguerite replied.

“Really? I don’t either.” Tubby was surprised.

“I love to get away from the city. Sometimes a friend takes me out in his boat on Lake Michigan.”

“I’ve got a boat. I take it out on Lake Pontchartrain or into the marshes. They’re very pretty. Maybe you’d like to go while you’re here.”

“Haven’t you noticed, it’s flooding?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. You ever go fishing?”

“A few times. I had fun.”

“I like to fish,” Tubby said. He was thinking that Jynx Margolis, the woman he sometimes went out with, answered all these questions wrong.

“I know this will sound funny,” Marguerite said, “but I’ve got a motorcycle. It’s just a little Suzuki. I look forward to summers just so I can ride it. Not very adult, huh?”

“You gotta be kidding! I have a motorcycle. It’s a Harley Hydra Glide.”

“No way. You?”

“What do you mean, me?”

“A lawyer and everything?”

“Just because I’m a lawyer doesn’t mean I don’t get a charge when that baby goes ‘Brmmm, brmmm.’” Tubby twisted an imaginary throttle with his fist. “I live to ride.”

Marguerite rested her fork on her lower lip and smiled at him.

“You just might do,” she said.

“Do what?” he asked, but he was thinking that this relationship might be going somewhere.

* * *

“Now, what I want you to do,” LaRue instructed Big Top, “is to tie up these two assholes with their hands behind their backs. Then tie their feet together. Then put them on the floor, back to back, and tie them to each other. Then you and Monk can sleep on the couch or the chair, whatever you like, but be sure they don’t get loose.”

All of those mentioned, who had been finishing up great slices of pecan pie, stared at him.

“I enjoyed the supper,” LaRue said. “Anyone wants the rest of my pie can have it.”

He shoved his chair back from the table and stood up.

“There’s no need to do that,” Edward protested. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

“You’re right about that,” LaRue said. “Monk, while Big Top’s tying them up, you come on back to the bedroom with me and we’ll talk about getting out of here tomorrow, rain or shine. Then you can explain it to Big Top.”

“What about the dishes?” Wendell asked, horrified by the prospect of spending the night trussed up.

LaRue bent over and slapped Wendell hard across the mouth.

“I’ve been meaning to do that since I got here,” he told his shocked victim. “You can save ’em till morning or do ’em now, whatever you please, sweetheart.”

It was Fat Tuesday.

Tubby pulled the curtain aside to see what Mardi Gras morning had brought.

Hallelujah! For the moment it was not raining, but it had been recently and looked like it would be again soon. He put on the soft white bathrobe the hotel provided and slid the glass doors aside to stand on the balcony.

It was early, not much after six o’clock, and somewhere the sun was up. But in the old city of New Orleans a light cottony fog hung low over the buildings.

There was standing water in the gutters, and the street and sidewalks were layered with debris. Bits of plastic, plant life, latex, and paper had been blended together into a single odiferous stew which was deposited in crusty swirls wherever the water had receded.

Shopkeepers and club bouncers were beginning to venture into the street, assessing the damage and checking the sky for another onslaught. A slender brown woman in a tight black cocktail dress and high heels walked rapidly alone through the center of them all in the direction of Jackson Square. She disappeared in the mist.

He heard the TV behind him, deeply inhaled the morning, and withdrew through the curtains. Marguerite had the local news on. She was propped up in bed, eating an apple.

“Police Chief Pendleton said at a news conference that concluded just a few minutes ago that he has canceled, repeat, canceled, the Zulu and Rex Parades due to the extremely dangerous weather conditions throughout the City. Citing the flooding of numerous streets and neighborhoods, the power outages affecting much of our area, high winds, and the need for emergency vehicles to get through, the Chief, after consulting with the Mayor, has canceled the Zulu and Rex Parades. No word yet on the Elks or the Crescent City Truck Parades.

“We do understand that arrangements are being made to transport Rex to City Hall where he will receive the keys to our very wet city from the mayor, and then to the Hilton Hotel, by boat or helicopter if necessary, to join his Queen. Some of the most severe flooding has been reported in the vicinity of that hotel and on downtown streets.”

“Dick, have they figured out how the Queen of Comus and her court are getting to the hotel?”

“They say they’re working on it, Stephanie. The idea of using a barge has been discussed.”

“What are the most severe conditions, as you are hearing about them at City Hall?”

“Apparently, Stephanie, though this has not been confirmed, Melpomene Pumping Station Number One at Broad and Jackson Avenue failed to function most of the night, further aggravating an overflow situation and contributing to the unprecedented flooding of the French Quarter. Reports that the operators of that station were asleep last night during the worst of the rainfall have been denied by Sewerage and Water Board officials. We’ve got flooding into houses in parts of Uptown, Desire, Lakeview, you name it, it’s general, it’s all over town. It’s all over this part of the state, actually. Plaquemines Parish is under water. But to repeat the main news, just a few minutes ago Chief Pendleton announced that he has canceled both the Zulu and the Rex Parades…”

Marguerite slid out of bed, her nightgown opening to expose a slice of milk white skin, for his benefit he liked to think.

“I have a headache,” she said and wandered into the bathroom. Tubby listened to her brushing her teeth and splashing water around.

“I feel just fine,” he said to himself. He opened up one of the cans of orange juice in the miniature icebox and went back outside to stand on the balcony.

A ragtag army of paraders in colorful costumes and pointy hats was working its way down the street toward him. They were tossing out a few trinkets and trying to carry the tune of “Its Carnival Time” on assorted wind instruments and drums.

“It’s the Half-Fast Marching Club!” Tubby yelled through the curtains. “Marguerite, come quick. It’s a Mardi Gras parade!”

“Hey, Pete! Hey, Pete! Hey, Pete!” Tubby was jumping up and down and waving his arms. “Throw me something! Hey, Pete!” Marguerite, coming out of the bathroom, thought he was nuts.

A couple of the guys in the parade noticed them and fired gobs of beads at the balcony. Marguerite ducked, and Tubby grabbed a handful just before it hit her head. When she opened her eyes a bouquet of red silk roses landed in her hand.

“Oh, this is fun,” she said.

The merry band continued up the street toward a bar that was opening its doors just for them. Their music stuck around after they were out of sight.

“Now what?” Marguerite asked, headache gone. She fixed the roses in her hair.

“I don’t know. That may be it for Mardi Gras.” He put an arm around her waist and they bumped hips.

“I guess we ought to be thinking about breakfast,” he said.

“You’re right. Sex is good, but let’s get down to basics.”

The hotel dining room was down to crackers and coffee. No more eggs. No more milk. No more refrigeration.

* * *

It had been a long night for Edward and Wendell. One might expect to encounter many hassles traveling through the South, but being tied up on a hard wooden floor, rug or no rug, was not one of them.

Big Top had been grateful enough for Wendell’s cooking to leave the knots loose so that slight adjustments in position were possible. Then he had laid down on the couch and hiccupped for the rest of the night.

Monk, trying to get comfortable in his chair, told him to shut up, and Big Top burped. They started laughing.

“Oh, brother, we’re back in high school,” Edward whispered to Wendell, whose head was resting on his shoulder. They squeezed each other’s tethered hands, homesick and miserable together at boy’s camp.

“Brrrp,” chortled Monk.

“Phhbbp,” Big Top cackled. “Hic.”

The sound of a base drum booming right outside the door woke everybody up.

Big Top covered his head with a pillow and turned over on the sofa.

“Damn!” Monk stumbled out of his easy chair and stepped over the tangled legs on the floor to crack open the shutters.

He grinned and started tapping his foot exaggeratedly.

“Bunch of drunks with umbrellas dancin’ in the street,” he reported and closed the shutters.

“Oh, please, I need to go,” Wendell begged.

Unmoved, Monk went to the bathroom and latched the door behind him.

“Big Top. My man. Let us up,” Wendell pleaded.

“Be quiet and leave me alone or you’ll be tied up all day,” Big Top groaned.

“This is outrageous,” Wendell said.

“My back is killing me,” Edward said.

“I wish we had gone when you wanted to escape yesterday.”

“You had to finish cooking your jambalaya, or whatever it’s called.”

“Soufflé, baby, and I never expected this.” He jerked his wrists.

“Quit that! You’re making the rope cut right into my skin.”

’I’m sorry. I’m just getting frustrated. And I need to go to the BATHROOM!”

“Help,” Edward said softly.

The bedroom door slammed open and Rue stuck his skinny head out, checking his surroundings.

“Big Top, where’s Monk?” he asked loudly.

“In the bathroom,” Big Top said through the pillow.

“How are you boys doing?” Rue asked the anguished pair tied together on the floor.

“Just like you’d imagine,” Edward said.

“Worse than that.” Wendell said. “Can you please release us now.” His tone was sort of surly.

“Sure,” Rue said. Clad in Wendell’s bathrobe, he went into the kitchen and returned with a carving knife.

“Don’t twitch on me or you might lose an artery,” he said, sliding the knife between their wrists and starting to saw.

“I’d let you untie your own feet, but you might not have the smarts for it,” he said pleasantly, and freed their ankles.

The two men rolled apart, and in their private worlds began massaging their extremities.

There was a loud flush, and Monk emerged from the bathroom.

“Next,” he proclaimed, scratching the curly black hair on his mahogany-colored chest. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Ask Wendell,” LaRue said. “He’s the cook.”

Breakfast, it turned out, was yesterday’s French bread and some old fig preserves from a dusty, but sealed and ribboned, jar found next to the last of the dish towels. This was consumed quickly and it became apparent that additional provisions would be necessary to get them through the morning. It would be the middle of the afternoon, LaRue told them, before they would be leaving.

“There’s a Popeye’s up on Canal Street,” Big Top said. “I know that much. If anybody’s open, they will be.”

“If it’s not, one of those raghead stores on Bourbon Street has gotta be,” Monk said. “I know they’ll have candy bars and nuts. Maybe a sandwich.”

“I’ll go,” Big Top offered, running his fingers through his lopsided red hair.

“You reckon you can find your way back?” LaRue asked.

“That’s a bad habit. Thinking everybody’s stupid,” Big Top told him.

“Now, now. Don’t be sensitive,” LaRue told him.

“For all you guys know, I could be a genius-level.”

“Don’t push it,” Monk said. “Who’s got any cash for this mission?”

“What about from the bank?” Big Top asked.

“You’re not too stupid, are you Big Top,” LaRue said. “That stuff may be hot. C’mon, ante up whoever wants something.”

His two confederates went to look for some money in their old pants, and Edward went to get his wallet out of his jacket hanging in the closet behind the bathroom door. He pulled out a twenty, but LaRue followed him and confiscated the wallet. He appropriated the rest of the bills, stuffed them into his pocket, and handed the wallet back to Edward.

“Okay, Big Top, see what you can do,” Rue said. “And if you find anything hot to eat, grab two.”

Wearing shorts and sneakers, Big Top ventured out into the wet street.

“Hey, someone swiped our canoe!” he exclaimed.

“Fuckin’ city,” Monk swore.

Uncertain about exactly where Canal Street was, Big Top set off down the foggy byway.

Morning came to Calhoun Street, bringing scattered showers and an off-key trumpet call from the front porch of the Brownlee residence.

Collette curled her legs underneath her and sat on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Bradley was snoring on a pallet spread on the floor. Mr. Brownlee was standing in the front door, looking out, and Junior was heralding Mardi Gras Day on his golden band bugle. He was outfitted in his red and white Cohen High School marching band uniform, except he was barefoot.

“Good morning,” Collette said to Mr. Brownlee.

“Good morning to you,” he said. “We’ll have you some breakfast in just a little bit. I think the bathroom is free if you want to try to slip in now.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Is Junior marching in a parade today?”

“He thinks he is,” Noah chuckled. “I don’t believe there’re going to be any parades today.”

Collette stepped over Bradley to look outside through the screen. The street remained a long brown river. The water might have come down a few inches, but the bottom step to the porch was still submerged. Junior’s trumpet rang through the neighborhood.