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 usually 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 ...”
He rounded on me. “She was my wife!”
“What?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“We got divorced after we moved here. She didn’t want anyone to know.” He looked away. “The Quarter life changed her. Took her away from me. I couldn’t make it work for her. I’m not proud of that.” He looked up, met my eyes. “That’s why I have to see for myself.”
Things fell into place. The occasions when Bone had been the one insisting Sunshine be poured into a cab when she’d had one too many. That strange way he looked at her the few times they were both in the same bar—and the way she pretended not to notice him, pulling away from him—just a little—if he got too near.
“And that’s all the more reason to stay away from the crime scene.”
“Why?”
“Most folks around here may not know you two were married, but the cops will damn sure find that out. They’ll also be keeping track of anyone who shows their face down there. You think it won’t send off alarm bells if the ex visits the crime scene? Do you really want to become the prime suspect? You’re already likely to get questioned once they discover your relationship.”
“So? I didn’t kill her.” But he didn’t seem to like the notion.
For me, avoiding the police is a matter of course—and good sense. I put a hand on his shoulder, this time to show support. “Look, Bone. Go back in, sit down. Get a drink. I’ll go find out what’s happened. But I’d advise you to start getting used to the idea of Sunshine ... being dead.”
He was thinking it over, looking like he really needed that drink, when a cheerful voice hailed us. “Hey, you two!”
It was Bone’s friend, Alex, coming across the street from Pat O.’s, still in her work uniform. She obviously hadn’t heard. I used the distraction to do a fade, throwing her a quick wave. Bone could pass the word on to her. I set out toward the river.
* * *
I’d left my drink on the bartop and the heat was terrible, but good deeds are their own punishment.
The Moonwalk runs along the Mississippi River for about three quarters of a mile from midway through the Quarter to the Aquarium of the Americas and Riverwalk shopping mall. It sits on the edge of the river, just beyond the levee wall built to protect The Quarter from floodwaters. Among New Orleans’ quirks is that the city is several inches below sea level. The Moonwalk’s west end, by the paddlewheel riverboats and the Aquarium, is well-lit and patrolled by bored security men on electric carts. It’s popular with lovers and people looking for a pleasant stroll toward Canal Street. In the summer, the breeze off the river makes it about the coolest place to be found in the Quarter, if you don’t count the air-conditioned bars.
Though pleasant by day, the other end is poorly lit at night and tends to attract only those who don’t want to be seen. Wiser heads tend to avoid that area after the sun goes down.
I was curious to find out exactly where it was on the Moonwalk that Sunshine had met her untimely end. She knew the “safe zones” as well as any other Quarterite.
Unlike Bone, I didn’t doubt the rumor. Grown men will gossip like hens about who’s sleeping with who, who made a drunken ass out of himself and so on, but news like this wouldn’t travel unsubstantiated. Somebody had actually seen Sunshine’s body, probably after the police arrived, before they covered her up and hauled her away.
If she was still lying down there by the river, though, Bone didn’t need to see it. He was wound up, ready to do something stupid, and stupid could take a lot of unproductive forms. I didn’t want him getting in trouble. My protective instinct had kicked in surprisingly strong, and I still wasn’t sure why.
The nearest point of the Moonwalk was only about three or four blocks away from the Calf, if you count Jackson Square as a block. I wasn’t about to go to the river myself. I’d just as soon have the cops notice my face as little as possible. Starting across the Square I could see the cluster of blue-and-whites gathered across Decatur, next to the Jax Brewery. That was down near the Moonwalk’s east end.
I turned to wander casually across the Square and spotted a familiar face. Despite the hour, Rose was still manning her table, along with a few other psychics and artists. Anyone who thinks that street entertainers don’t work should come down to the Quarter and note how many of the artists, mimes, and tarot readers are still at it in the wee hours of the morning, long after everyone except the graveyard-shift bartenders have called it quits.
“Hey, Rose.”
“Maestro!” She scooted around her table and greeted me with a warm hug. I allowed myself to enjoy the moment. I normally don’t like being touched, but I make an exception for hugs from the fairer sex. “You’re okay? Those guys ...”
“Realized they made a mistake.”
She stepped back and gave me a measured look. “You didn’t fight some crazy sword duel, did you?”
“Would’ve been kind of difficult with a pool cue. We had a nice chat, shook hands, and went our separate ways.”
She seemed a little disappointed. “Still, it was kinda nice to have somebody come to my rescue. It’s more than that poor girl got.” She gestured across the street toward the Brewery and the gathering of police vehicles. “Murdered. They say some voodoo cult may have done her. Stabbed her and then held some kind of ritual with voodoo dolls and liquor and a couple of dead chickens. ‘Course, it’s just another crime stat for the Chamber of Commerce to play down.”
“Any word on who?”
“Word is it’s Sunshine. You know, the little blonde waitress from Big Daddy’s?”
It’s an exaggeration that everyone in the Quarter knows each other, but not much of an exaggeration. No six degrees of separation here. More like a degree and a half.
“Yeah. I know her ... knew her. Damn. She was a nice kid.”
“Well, nice don’t cut it for armor around here.”
“Nothing much does except for maybe eyes in the back of your head. Did you see her before it happened?”
“Not that I know. I had a couple of readings so I wasn’t watching real close, but I don’t think she came by here.”
“Too bad. Well, I just wanted to check up on you. Watch yourself, okay?” I started to leave.
“Hey! I owe you. How about a quickie reading?” She stepped back around her table and reached for her cards. “On the house. Payback—for saving a foolish damsel in distress.”
I hesitated for a few beats. Normally, I avoid the cards. If anything, these days I believe in them too much, and sometimes getting a warning in advance only makes you so wary and nervous that you end up precipitating the very thing you’re trying to steer around. Still, turning down a free anything from someone you know in the Quarter is a sure way to ruffle feathers, and if she felt it would balance the scales, I owed her the chance.
“Sure. Why not?” I slid into the customer’s chair, trying to appear casual. “So what was that guy mad at you for, anyway? Did you get his reading wrong or something?”
“No.” She started shuffling the deck. “Problem was I got it right. Cards told me his girl was steppin’ out on him. I told him. He insisted I was full of shit—refused to pay. I let it go. Then, when he found out it was true, he came after me. Said I put some kind of mojo on her to make it happen.” She snorted. “And some people think denial is a river in Egypt!” She set the deck in front of me.
I did two fast cuts and set it back on the table. Like I say, I believe in the cards. Shuffling doesn’t really do much. If they have something to tell you, they’ll rearrange themselves to deliver the message no matter what you do to the deck physically.
Rose peeled off the top three cards one at a time. It’s an old quickie reading she’s done for me before, considerably faster than the complicated spreads she does for the tourists.
“The Moon,” she said as she glanced at the first card. She knows I can read the cards myself, but is in the habit of doing her readings out loud. “A dangerous undertaking.”
I silently absorbed that.
The Two of Cups was next.
“Lovers or partners,” she pronounced, “someone new in your life, or an old friend at a new level of awareness. Looks like it will work out pretty well.”
I nodded.
When she turned the third card, we both stared in silence for a moment.
The Nine of Swords.
People who don’t know the cards are always afraid of the Death Card. They shouldn’t be. All it means is the end of one cycle and the beginning of a new one. The Nine of Swords, however, is the one I always dread. I stared at the card, a very distressed man in bed with nine swords around him—the Lord of Despair and Cruelty. Also known as the martyr’s card, it can mean many things, both internal and external, almost always bringing changes borne out of conflict and suffering. All swords indicate some level of change, but the nine of swords usually involves a lot of change. I have reasons for wanting things unchanged, and I’ve never been a big fan of suffering.
“Well ... it could mean worry or anxiety,” Rose suggested, then glanced up guiltily. Never kid a kidder. We both knew it could also mean downfall, death, or imprisonment.
“Yeah. Well, thanks, Rose. I’ve got to get going.”
I stood up and put a fiver on the table. Even if the service is free, it’s always good to tip well. Besides, the reading had been interesting. I wandered on and hung a right onto Decatur Street as if that had been my destination all along.
I considered the area where the police lights gathered. That was important. I knew where Sunshine worked and vaguely where she lived. The end of the Moonwalk nearer to the French Market was not along any remotely logical route from her work to her home. Whatever happened, it probably wasn’t random violence, like running into a mugger. It looked like a deliberate act aimed at her. What’s more, odds were she knew whoever had killed her. Why else would she travel so far off her normal beat? But the whole voodoo thing didn’t make sense. So far as I knew, Sunshine had never been involved with any of the religions in the Quarter. She certainly never mentioned any interest in Voudon. Had she gotten mixed up with some kind of cult? Was this whole thing some ritual gone wrong? If so, the Moonwalk seemed a particularly poor location for it. And from what little I knew of the tradition, stabbing was not normally a part of any of its standard practices—but then, neither was murder.
When I got back to the Calf after making a long circle, Padre was waiting for me with a slip of paper. He didn’t look happy.
“Found this after you left.”
He handed me a folded piece of paper with Maestro scrawled gracefully across the outside.
“I let the new kid, Hound, watch the bar for me for a few while I grabbed some stock from the back. Says some girl came by around eleven looking for you. She left this, said she had to go. The kid forgot about it until I found it under the edge of the register.”
I unfolded the white paper and read the brief note scrawled inside:
Maestro, we need to talk.
It’s important. Please call me.
Sunshine
I stared at the signature. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My fingers felt like they’d frozen to the paper.