NO Quarter (5 page)

I’d known her almost six years, was married to her for one. I was thirty-one. Friends had come and gone, and I was used to that, could accept the fact like a grownup. But Sunshine had been more than that to me. I didn’t want to lose her
...
but I sensed she was going, her life heading toward self-destructive territory well beyond her normal range—sensed, second-guessed, but didn’t
know
. And I didn’t have the stamina, the
cojones
to stick with it, to get her to talk and tell me what was happening to her, to offer her a hand and make goddamned sure she knew that I was still—
always would be
—there for her.

I realized in mid-sip of my rummincoke what my last memory of Sunshine was going to be, what I’d got myself stuck with, and drank off the rest of my drink in a gulp. When Padre came by to repair my glass, eyes small and distant behind his spectacles, he asked, “You taking it all right, Bone?” Padre was in his forties, fit, even-tempered, long hair pulled back into the same ponytail I wore during the summer swelter. He was a first-rate bartender, able to handle capacity tourist crowds here at the Calf without breaking a detectable sweat.

“I’m taking it,” I answered. We were brothers-in-arms, service industry cousins. Sunshine, too, had been a waitress. You could say we’d lost one of our own and wouldn’t be significantly over-dramatizing it. Padre poured Alex another drink as well. Of course, he didn’t know what I had lost.

That last memory of Sunshine, the last time I’d actually seen her
...
it wasn’t pleasant. That pissed me off, and once more tonight there was nowhere to put the anger.

I counted back, fingers tapping the sweating side of my rock glass. Eight
...
no, nine days ago. It had happened at Molly’s, the one on Toulouse, not Decatur. Happened. The Incident.
Shit!

I was off work a little early, just after midnight, had stopped in at Molly’s to shoot some solitary practice pool, where I roll three balls at a time randomly onto the table and take them down in the best order. It gets one thinking strategically, and that’s good, since I don’t always leave myself a decent next shot when I’m playing.

Sunshine came in—no, came
rolling
in with that pitching stagger of someone who is too drunk to be out in public any longer but is being borne along by reflexes and remembered motor skills. You see this particular form of locomotion pretty regularly in the Quarter. It’s funny—sometimes—if it’s a stranger, especially a tourist, since it’s like watching a child who’s snuck half a beer at a Christmas party weaving and wobbling around.

Seeing Sunshine in that state made me wince. Normally she was a very capable drinker. Fact is, most of us Quarterites are. We drink—oh, yes, we do—but getting sloppy or hostile or weepy is looked down upon, and your friends will step in if you start making a habit of it, partly to spare you the embarrassment, partly to keep you from getting into
real
trouble.

There is no last call for alcohol in New Orleans, no 2 a.m. cutoff, no laws even preventing you from walking around with an open container. In short, nothing to stop you from pulling a Nicholas Cage à la
Leaving Las Vegas
—that is, drinking yourself to death. Nothing except those people that might give a damn about you.

Sunshine looked wrecked. I stared at her a few seconds from the far side of the pool table
...
and God help me, my first and surest thoughts were for slipping out the bar’s other door before she spotted me.

She didn’t just look drunk. She was wound up, in a fumy, heaving fury, eyes spinning in opposite directions, like she was going to come apart, right
apart
and right there, in an explosion sure to take out the entire room. I had seen her angry; I had seen her distraught and hysterical. Her emotions could rev high, into the red. But this was new to me.

I quietly laid down the bar cue I was using and—yes, cowardly, totally cowardly—I edged for the door.

Molly’s wasn’t crowded, but when Sunshine saw me, she
shrieked
, and all conversation stopped. The juke wasn’t playing, and there was only ambient street noise from outside. Inside, that sudden instant of silence reverberated.

Being a Quarterite, I’ve dealt with drunks. Being a waiter in the French Quarter, I’ve dealt with them professionally—that is, I’ve calmed them down with overwhelming reason, which is better, though less satisfying, than resorting to physical persuasion. Sunshine, wheeling on me with berserk eyes I didn’t recognize in a face I’d known for six years, was more than drunk. There was an added tweakiness, a terrible elastic intensity to her manner—a craziness booze can’t easily deliver.

Sunshine’s shriek hadn’t had any words in it. It was just primal sound meant to freeze me in my tracks, which it did. Long enough for her to pounce on me.

The bartender, a gal I’d tipped well for the one cocktail I’d bought since arriving, was moving to intervene, but it was a long way around the bar.

This twitched-out, hag-like, violent-ward-nutcase version of the woman who was once my wife and best friend meanwhile proceeded to lay into me. She went for my guiltiest exposed nerve—where had I been, why was I avoiding her? Who the hell did I think I was? It was a tirade, and barely coherent. She raved, her arms whipping wildly. All heads were turned in the bar, watching, and I was embarrassed to be a part of the spectacle. It was a short hop, though, from embarrassment to resentment.

My shift that night at the restaurant had been typically unpleasant. I’d wanted nothing more than a little quiet time to decompress, which I’d been managing to do before this happened. It was a nasty shock seeing Sunshine like this, and worse, much worse, that she was pulling this psychodrama on me, in
public. Maybe I deserved some of what she was saying. That got me angrier, but I couldn’t just stand there and put up with this shit.

So I gave back what I was getting.

“Yeah, I’ve been dodging you! Take a
look
at yourself, for Chrissake!
Listen
to yourself! You’ve become a doped-out freak lunatic I’d cross the street to avoid! You think you can talk like this to me? Me—
me
?” Or words to that effect. I was suddenly seeing red.

Tripwire
...

The bartender broke it up, and I left, and I didn’t see Sunshine again. And now that was it. That was the end of all our time together, and there wasn’t going to be any more.

My second rummincoke was gone, and I couldn’t remember tasting it. I was reaching for another cigarette. This is what we would do tonight, I realized, Alex and me and the regulars who knew Sunshine. We’d sit in here and drink somberly, and probably more than one of us would get drunk, and there would be more tears and maybe some anger. Sunshine would remain dead, and nothing whatsoever that we did would mean anything.

“Bone
...
?”

Alex was looking at me. I had stood from my stool.

“I’m going to find out if anybody knows anything more.” I heard my words like someone else was saying them. “Want to wait for me?”

“I’ll wait.” She looked at me, in a way that said more than her words, “Be
...
careful.” She squeezed my hand, before letting go.

I looked at her again, and I realized how lucky I was to have a friend like her. She’d been there for me after Sunshine had left me. She was here for me now that
...

I couldn’t think it. I couldn’t think of anything else. I left the bar.

* * *

Excerpt from Bone’s Movie Diary:

I wept when George C. Scott died. Brilliant of course in
Patton
, but also not to be forgotten are his performances in
Anatomy of a Murder
,
The New Centurions
,
The Hustler
, Paddy Chayefsky’s
The Hospital
. For that matter he was terrific in
The Changeling
& even
Firestarter
—say what you will. I wept actual tears. I had seen him in movies since I was a kid. Maybe that familiarity, maybe having him suddenly gone from my landscape, whatever, it saddened me. I felt it personally. I also think it points up a fundamental flaw in me: I prefer movies to people. I don’t say this to sound cool; I’m not particularly proud of this trait. I know, in my head, that the real world deserves more attention than films. Movies are make-believe. Life is supposed to be experienced firsthand. Blah blah blah. Know what? I don’t want to live my every moment to its fullest. I want, sometimes—and probably more often than most people—to watch others living, watch their dramas and interactions, their pratfalls and unlikely coincidences, their terrors, hopes, joys. When a film convincingly conveys these other lives to me, I’m enthralled. I’m entertained. I can feel for these pretend people, I can appreciate the craft of the performers, the talents of the cinematographer and director. I can feel emotions I might not, frankly, ever experience in my life—not with such depth or clarity, anyway. So, it’s a failing on my part. I cried for George C. Scott, not because a flesh & blood person had passed from this world, not because I personally knew him. But because he had been so many different & wonderful people to me. Same when Vincent Price died. And Steve McQueen. John Candy (& if you can’t enjoy him in
Splash,
laughter is a stranger to you), Rod Steiger, Audrey Hepburn, River Phoenix, Bette Davis ... my friends, how I miss you all.

I carefully folded the note and put it in my pocket, trying not to think about the fact that Sunshine had come looking for me
in the last hours of her life—and I had been out dealing with the Flynn wanna-be and his fat henchman. A phone call and a note, and I’d missed both. Were they related to her murder? A cry for help? If so, why me and not Bone? Especially since they had a history.

Bone was gone. Looking around the Calf I spotted Alex, sitting at the bar. A tiny thing, mostly angular bones and big eyes, Alex wore her dark hair cropped so close she almost looked like a young boy sometimes. She was one of those devouring readers that could knock out a book in a sitting—lots of science fiction and fantasy. She also enjoyed counted cross-stitch as a hobby. A knapsack full of yarn sat at her feet, her cross-stitch busywork for lulls at her job at Pat O’Brians gift shop. She looked up at my approach and gave me a wan smile.

In an odd flip-flop, I’d actually met her before I’d met Bone, and was subsequently surprised when we all crossed paths at the Calf one night. No real reason for my surprise, though. Quarterites’ lives are practically braided together, whether we like it or not. That two people I’d met independently happened to be friends from the same town was nothing extraordinary. I would chat with Alex when our paths crossed, mostly the play flirting that passes for conversation here. It didn’t take me long to realize that she had no real interest in me, but was totally devoted to Bone, though he seemed not to realize that. We still flirted, but nothing serious. It was just a fun way to kill some time without really showing each other any important cards.

“Where’s Bone?”

Her voice was a little unsteady. “He left. Said he’d be back.”

I felt a pang of unease. I had wanted him to stay put. “Did he say where he was going, exactly?” I asked, more directly than I wanted to. Caginess is second nature to me. But, then again, Alex was a good egg, and I only had Bone’s welfare in mind.

“No, Maestro.” Her eyes were a bit red. “He just said something about finding out what people know about Sunshine. Why don’t you sit down, wait for him to get back?” She gestured toward the adjacent stool.

Padre eyed me from down the bar, to see if I wanted a drink. I did, but
...

“Thanks, darling, but no. This has been a rough night. I think I’ll head home.”

Alex gave me a kind of numb little farewell hug. I nodded a goodbye to Padre, leaving him to tend to the crowd of grieving locals that was bigger now than when I’d ducked out earlier. Padre and I wouldn’t be talking pool-team strategies tonight.

I lit a cigarette as I stepped again into the humid outdoors. Another glass of Irish would have been very welcome, but Bone was out here somewhere. I wanted to keep him from doing anything rash or stupid, if I could
...
even though I still wasn’t sure where this protective impulse was coming from.

I started down St. Peter, toward Bourbon. Maybe I was doing something stupid myself.

The Quarter hasn’t changed much since September 11
th
. That’s not a sad commentary on our backwardness or tradition of isolationism. Locals themselves will tell you that New Orleans lags behind the rest of the nation by decades. Our schools and civic services are supposed to be sub-par, of Third World quality. I don’t know how true any of that is. But here it’s easy sometimes to forget about other places. The Quarter is its own world. In some ways it feels like the 1800s have never lost their hold on the area.

It was certainly a drastic change for me when I came down from Detroit ten years ago.

Ten years
...
sometimes that seems like a lot more time than it’s been. Other times, not nearly enough. I mentally snickered at myself. Apparently I’d been living on “Quarter time” too long. I couldn’t calibrate myself with the outside world’s calendar anymore.

Bourbon Street was winding down, though it usually doesn’t completely die until sunrise. The street was littered with plastic drink cups, spilled booze, and assorted bits of trash, and reeked of stale beer—just what you’d expect in the aftermath of any good frat party. Taxis scurried up the cross streets, gathering up partied-out tourists to take them back to their hotels. Two cops rode by on horseback. To the tourists, they were undoubtedly a colorful, quaint sight, but they were out here working. The horses gave them the height to see over crowds and the maneuverability to navigate narrow alleyways. And even the largest, most belligerent drunk would have a hard time pushing around fifteen hundred pounds of horse. I slowed a bit, idly watching as a couple stumbled by across the street—a coed wearing a green boa and one spike-heeled shoe, borne along by a guy who looked embarrassed enough to be her boyfriend.

There is a strong police presence in the French Quarter, but in order for it to be as safe as the theme park most visitors seem to think it is, cops would have to be camped on every corner. On certain occasions that is nearly true. Our city hosted a Super Bowl following September 11
th
. And of course, every year there’s Mardi Gras. Both events sprouted police
everywhere
, not to mention the Feds and the Guard. At such times I tend to lay
very
low.

But this was just a normal, lackluster summer night, with no conventions in town and nothing remarkable happening. Nothing except a murder by the river. Rose was probably right. The incident would likely get played down by those City agencies interested in maintaining a good image for the Quarter.

What else had she been right about? The Moon, the Two of Cups, the Nine of Swords: a dangerous undertaking, the appearance of a lover/partner, and the Lord of Despair.
Swell
, I thought, then pushed it out of my head. Like I said, the cards can get you second-guessing yourself into as much trouble as they can help you avoid.

I had covered two blocks of Bourbon, heading in the direction of the Marigny, taking a casual look into every place I passed. Alex had said Bone had gone out to ask around about Sunshine. I figured that would take him where the most people were. Hopefully he hadn’t actually gone to the river after all.

I found myself in front of Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, an older one-story shop on the corner of St. Ann Street. I thought again about the rumors of a Voodoo involvement in the murder. Would Bone have come here? The shop was closed down tight for the night. If there were any answers in there, they would have to wait.

I looked down Bourbon at clusters of wilted balloons, remnants of some earlier celebration, that hung from the balconies. Music and laughter spilled out of the bars across the street, both still jumping despite the late hour. St. Ann Street supposedly splits the straight and gay halves of the Quarter. From what I’ve witnessed, though, those aren’t distinct realms. I suppose I know a lot more gays here than I knew up North, and in the Quarter they don’t segregate themselves. Neither do most locals give a rat’s ass about anyone else’s sexual orientation. So we get male bartenders with boyfriends working in “straight” bars, and heterosexual couples going into the two mostly gay dance clubs in front of me.

I didn’t figure that Bone would have gone trolling for information in either club, though. I turned around to follow Bourbon in the other direction, toward the CBD—the Central Business District.

“Hey, Maestro!”

I was used to being hailed on the street, but right now I didn’t have time for neighborly chitchat. I did a fast scan and saw someone coming toward me. I recognized the walk before the name came to me. Fencing had taught me to study an individual’s gait and body language.

Jet had been a decent stick when he shot for several league sessions a few years ago. He’d also been a notorious bad sport who contested every close-call shot and made a general pest of himself during the pool games.

“In a hurry, Jet. Can’t talk.” He had asked for a spot on my team roster before, which wasn’t going to happen.

I could smell the alcohol in his sweat as he stepped up, silvered hair sticking up in an unruly wad from his balding head. Jet was my age and drank about twice as much as someone of our years should. “Maestro, ya hurd?”

I guessed he’d heard about Sunshine. “Like I said, Jet, I’m in a
...
”

“Somebody’s lookin’ for yuh.”

I was turning away. I stopped. I measured him with my eyes. Jet was loaded, but not exceedingly drunk. I took a few steps away from the corner, and he followed, to a quieter patch of sidewalk.

“Want to tell me about that?” I kept my voice low and level.

He licked his lips. “Guy goin’ ’round. He’s askin’ for yuh. By name.”

That meant “Maestro,” since nobody but my landlord and Padre knew the name that appears on my bogus state ID—which, of course, isn’t the name I was born with.

“Did you see this
...
guy?”

“Naw. I was up to the Abbey earlier, heard ’bout somebody, a guy, nobody knew ’im, and he’s askin’ ‘Where’s Maestro, any y’all seen Maestro,’ like that. O’course nobody tells ’im shit, y’know. I heard he was goin’ along Decatur doin’ the same thing.”

“This was when?”

Jet’s bloodshot eyes narrowed as he thought. “Half hour. Forty-five. Not too long.”

That was roughly the time that word about Sunshine had reached the Calf. Was that significant? I didn’t know.

“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” I said sincerely.

“Sure. Hey, I
...
” I could see him getting ready to ask again about getting on the team. Then he shrugged and said, “Sure,” and slipped off up St. Ann.

Jet wasn’t a friend, but it wasn’t shocking that he was giving me this warning. There are things that put Quarterites on automatic alert. One of them is strangers making inquiries. Some, but not a lot, of locals are ducking warrants and parole officers. Some are paranoid about the IRS showing up unannounced on their doorsteps. Whatever, xenophobia is the Quarter’s most common disease—though some would argue for alcoholism. Asking questions about a local
quickly causes the wagons to circle. Suddenly, nobody knows
nothing
. Doesn’t really matter if you like the person or not. It’s almost jailhouse code.

I certainly didn’t like the idea of someone looking for me. It could, of course, be a simple misunderstanding. I counted off the bars along Decatur, thought of the bartenders I knew, and who was on what shift. I wanted more information than Jet had provided.

I was still standing there a few steps back from the corner. My eyes were darting around, scanning the people milling around the clubs’ entrances, the occupants of passing cars. My normal healthy state of cautious awareness was turned up several notches, so that the sweat on the back of my neck wasn’t entirely due to the heat anymore.

There were extreme possibilities here, very extreme. I forced myself not to mentally follow them to their conclusions. I’d been in danger much more tangible than this, and at just over half a century old, I was still walking and breathing.

I reversed course back down Bourbon, taking only a few steps before it hit me out of the blue where Bone might be. For a few seconds I’d actually forgotten him, which was why my subconscious had probably furnished the answer. I moved on at a faster pace, hoping I wasn’t right about his whereabouts.