NO Quarter (12 page)

“
...
and if you need more proof, check with Phil,” I said and gestured toward the outer restaurant. “He’s here tonight and he was shift manager that night.” I took a deep breath, ground out the remains of my cigarette, and focused
on Zanders. “Look, Detective Zanders, I know you’re just trying to do your job—and you need to understand, that I really, really
want
you to do your job. But the fact that you are here questioning
me
means that you have no idea who really killed Sunshine, do you.”

“I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”

“Right. Now if you don’t mind, Detective, I’ve had a long day and would like to clock out now.” He moved out of the way as I walked past and opened the door, gesturing for him to lead the way out.

“Just don’t go too far, Bone. I may need to talk to you again.”

“Well, you know where to find me Detective Zanders. Always happy to help.” I forced a smile and shook his hand as I escorted him out the door. I knew I was in the clear, there were just too many people who had seen me here that night. But it still felt disconcerting to think that the police might keep tabs on me—especially since it looked like we were going to have to do their job, after all.

* * *

Excerpt from Bone’s Movie Diary:

My personal favorite gotcha! movie moment occurs at the end of
The Mechanic
. Jan-Michael Vincent is the protégé & Charles Bronson (again Bronson; woodenish actor but turned up in some good films) is the seasoned assassin. Fairly standard hit-man-in-training stuff. Eventually the “son” slays the “father,” Greek tragedy-like, & Vincent is smugly victorious, about to inherit it all ... until he gets into Bronson’s car, has just enough time to read the brief note waiting for him—then the bomb goes off. It’s an effective twist, which I admit caught me flat-footed. Gotcha, Jan-Michael.

The rain almost caught me, but the Quarter is full of umbrellas. Lots of the older buildings are fronted with balconies—“galleries”
is the local term—overhanging the sidewalk, usually made of decorative
wrought iron, often filled with potted plants and sometimes patio furniture. When a sudden cloudburst comes along, you can still get around on foot by ducking under a gallery and hopping from one to another of these shelters.

Or you can just go into the nearest bar and wait it out.

I’m aware of other parts of the city, like Mid-City, the Garden District, the Ninth Ward, etc. I know they’re real the same way I know Norway and Thailand are real. But
my
New Orleans is the Quarter, and so I confine my activities to it.

I had been purposely doing a high-visibility walkabout. I was out earlier than usual, by which I mean it was slightly before midnight. Still, it was plenty late enough for the locals to be stirring.

I didn’t bother with Bourbon but strolled up and down the parallel and cross-streets at a leisurely pace. I was on alert, though, of course.

When I first relocated down here, a fellow displaced Northerner summed up what I could expect from the Quarter with one explanation: “Man, these folks down here have one solution to everything—let’s party. Yuh got a new job? Let’s party. Yuh lost yer job? Com’on, let’s party. Y’er gettin’ married? Hey! Let’s party. Y’er gettin’ a divorce? Screw the bitch, screw the bastard, let’s party!”

New Orleaneans in general, and Quarterites specifically, will party down anytime for any reason. Birthday parties, wedding parties, anniversary parties, graduation parties, and leaving-town parties you can find in any city, but the Quarter doesn’t stop there. We also have hurricane parties, bar-anniversary parties, raise-bail-money parties, not to mention holiday parties for every American holiday and several foreign ones I’d never heard of until I got here. Then you toss in a wide assortment of specialty theme parties—like classic toga parties, ’60s retro parties, white-trash parties, barbecue parties, and high-heel pool tournament parties (don’t ask)—that the bars host periodically just to keep things from getting too dull, and you might start to get a feel for what the “normal” nightlife in the Quarter is like.

I enjoy my whiskey, but I don’t expect it to change or solve anything in my life. Drinking is more of a time-killer than anything ... like a lot of what I do these days, it seems. Also, in deference to my age and liver, I tend to go easy on the more hardcore bar celebrations.

Tonight, though, I had figured as a good night for “doing the rounds.” First of all, it established among the sundry bar patrons that I was presently in an “up, party” mood. Second, roaming from bar to bar reestablished me at some of the places I hadn’t hit for weeks or months, as well as let me update my mental files of who was still in the Quarter and where they currently worked.

It was elemental groundwork. I might not need any of it. This hunt that Bone had in mind for Sunshine’s killer might come to nothing for any number of reasons. But if it actually happened, I didn’t want anyone remembering me as brooding, maybe thinking dark vigilante thoughts about Sunshine’s murderer. As for re-circulating my face ... you never know which contacts will do you good when. Use what resources are at hand. I had saved myself immeasurable hassle in my career days with the Outfit simply by making the right casual acquaintances.

While I was out and about, I was also accosted four different times in four different bars by acquaintances of varying familiarity who told me about somebody walking Decatur two nights earlier, looking for me. Nobody had a description as thorough as the one the Bear had given me, of course, but it was the same early thirties, clean-cut male. Nobody knew who he was. Nobody had told him anything. The Quarter’s traditional conspiracy of silence was working in my favor.

To each of these four giving me the heads-up, I said casually, “Thanks, I know. I know the guy, but neither of us has a phone number or address for the other. If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him too.”

It’s never good to be the prey. As a former pro tracker, it seriously rankled me to think of someone hunting
me
. It wouldn’t do. If this guy surfaced again asking questions, my message would very probably reach him, and might give him pause.

But more disturbing, I ran into Mother Mystic—or rather she found me—just outside of CC’s coffee shop, which was closed for the night.

“Maestro! You are quite a hard man to find.” She grabbed my arm and walked with me toward my next bar.

“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. Were you looking for me?”
Somebody else hunting me—great!
Only Mystic had found me. She asked if we could go somewhere to talk, so we stepped into the next available bar. After
throwing a few hello’s to those I recognized, we grabbed a table in the back corner. I ordered a coke and Mother Mystic had coffee. I sipped my coke and waited for her to speak.

“You remember the day you came to visit me? You ask about that girl—your friend—who was murdered? You asked about the
Vodun
?” She looked around nervously, leaning forward. “I did not say it then, but the night before she died, someone broke into the Voodoo Museum. They desecrated the shrine, and took some powerful
gris-gris
—the kind that could be used for evil purpose by those with dark hearts.”

She took a deep breath. “But that is not why I looked for you, Maestro. When you came to me, I was angry. I had been asked to do black ritual by a man I didn’t know. It happened days before the girl died. I refuse. Not unusual. The world is full of those who look to the dark rather than face their own faults. But
...
” She looked around again and dropped her voice so low I had to strain to hear her, “I get a call today. This man speaks to me, that if I do not do his ritual, I end up like the girl by the river—and he will use my blood to feed the
Loa
.”

“What did he look like?”

She sat back in her chair. “I have never seen him. He has only used the phone and e-mail. I do not even know if he is in the Quarter.”

I could tell she was upset. “What are you going to do?”

“I do not know. But the
Loa
will protect me. I will be fine. I just wanted you to know.” She looked around again. “I must go.” She got up and quickly left the bar. I waited a few minutes, long enough to socialize with the few folks I knew and to make certain no undo attention had been paid to my meeting with Mystic, then left. I had no idea if Mystic’s mystery man was actually our murderer, but her story had certainly been disturbing.

I continued my rounds, even putting in appearances along Decatur, a track that is more for the younger crowd and not one I frequent regularly. It was too early for the Bear to be on at his joint, but I still made nods and hello’s and
whatcha-been-up-to’s
at several places. I caught up on a lot of unnecessary bar gossip, but never stayed around long enough to get totally sucked into anything.

Mind you, I was not, repeat
not
, having a cocktail every time I stopped. Had I been, experienced drinker or not, I’d have been flat on my face before long. It’s usually not any big deal if you want to go out in the Quarter and not drink alcohol. You can sit with a soda, coffee, or a juice, and no one looks at you sideways. The fact that I was tipping for Cokes, even though I only drank one sip, kept the bartenders happy.

During my rounds, I even passed the restaurant where Bone worked, also on Decatur. I glanced in the tall front windows, but it looked busy so I walked on. Work is the curse of the working class. The last time I had a square job—my boyhood paper route—Eisenhower was president.

After sitting out the rain, I picked my way through the sidewalk puddles that were already being sucked back into the air. If this were the fall or spring, we’d probably be treated to a nice thick fog eddying in off the river. In the summer, though, all a heavy rain does is turn the night into a steam bath.

I swung back to my pad and shed one shirt for another. Sometimes I wondered why I bothered. Thirty seconds after stepping out of the shower down here in summer, you’ll find yourself dripping with sweat. I don’t wear eyeglasses, but up North your lenses fog up in the winter when you step from the icy outdoors to the cozy indoors. Here, in the summertime, they fog when you step
out
of the nippy air-conditioned bars into the sauna-like streets. It’s just another little item of culture shock that after ten years doesn’t seem so bizarre to me anymore.

No messages on my machine, but that was how it usually was. I loaded up with a fresh pack of cigarettes and headed out again. It was late enough that Bone ought to be off work and at the Calf.

The Two of Cups from Rose’s tarot reading meant the appearance of a lover or partner. I felt quite safe that Bone wasn’t the former, but he was certainly looking like the latter: a partner. Thing was, did I want a partner?

Evidently I did, I thought as I made my way toward St. Peter Street. I had invited myself into Bone’s undertaking to find Sunshine’s killer. Frankly, I wouldn’t be tackling that venture on my own initiative. I liked Sunshine, but I’d never been in the revenge business
...
not for personal reasons, anyway.

Bone apparently was, or at least he was looking to break into the field. His ex-wife had been murdered, and he had a real stake in seeing her avenged. And I had—what? A stake in not seeing him get himself into irreparable trouble, maybe get himself killed? He was going to be taking on a rough customer, an ex-con, one who’d punched an ice pick
twice
through his ex-wife’s heart—one who might possibly be dabbling in the occult.

I still found it more amusing than irritating that I’d had to present Bone with my “credentials” to qualify to come on board this thing. But amusing or not, it showed me I was serious. Obviously I wasn’t in the habit of revealing my past to people. Bone, then, was different.

When I entered the Calf, a nod Padre’s way was all it took to get me my Irish. When he brought it over, I asked, “Has Bone been through already?”

“Nope.”

I waited. The regulars popped up one by one or in pairs, but I didn’t join in any of the conversation clusters, not even when they started casting a fictitious remake of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.

The night Sunshine had been murdered, Bone had gone off to Big Daddy’s asking questions. Bad move. It was sticking his head up unnecessarily, letting people know he was interested in the killing. The only one who really knew I was interested was Mother Mystic, and I knew she was trustworthy. She had proven that by sharing her information tonight.

The clock was creeping up on two when I finally admitted I was worried. Bone still hadn’t arrived. I had an ashtray full of butts in front of me, which Padre spotted and dumped.

“Another, Maestro?” He nodded at my rock glass.

Should I go out looking? Did I really want to partner with someone as frankly amateurish as Bone? If he got himself in dutch, was I going to get pulled down with him?

It was easier to answer Padre’s question. “Yeah. Please.”

A short while later, Alex showed up and spotted me. “Thank gods it’s Friday,” she said as she gave me a swift peck and hug. It was the end of her workweek. I slid a bill toward Padre to pay for her drink and smirked at her “thank gods” comment. It indicated she was of the neo-pagan persuasion, a vague amalgam of earthy, aboriginal worships that seems to be the dominant religion in the Quarter. (I’ve been in the Deep South ten years. It may be the Bible Belt, but I still don’t personally know any Baptists.) I wondered fleetingly what beliefs Bone had, if any. I would have figured him for a devout atheist.

Alex looked around as she took the barstool next to mine. “Seen Bone around anywhere?”

I shrugged. “Must be running late.” I made it sound casual.

She took a long pull on her cocktail. Obviously it had been a grueling week for her. She dug her cross-stitching out of her knapsack to show me her latest project, and I paid dutiful attention. And continued to wait.

Bone doesn’t have much skin tone, even for a Caucasian, even for a Quarter night waiter. But he looked extra pale when he came through the Calf’s door.

Alex hurtled off her stool faster than I guessed I could move even during swordplay. I hung back, waiting, very antsy now. Bone was quickly reassuring Alex, their voices below the level of the jukebox that someone had fed a few bucks.