A Good Night for Ghosts (3 page)

“Uh-oh,” said Annie. “No money.”

“Uh-oh,” said the boy. “No paper.” He started to walk away.

“Wait, please,” said Jack. “Can you just tell us the date?”

“October thirty-first, the eve of All Saints’ Day,” said the boy. “You didn’t know that?”

“Uh, not really,” said Jack.

“And what year is it?” Annie asked.

The newsboy scowled. “It’s 1915! Don’t you two know anything? Who are you?”

Before Jack could think of an answer, Annie blurted out, “We’re musicians. We came all the way from Frog Creek, Pennsylvania.” She held up their trumpet.

“Oh, right. And it’s a different year in Frog Creek, Pennsylvania, than here in New Orleans, Louisiana! I forgot!” The newsboy headed up the
street, laughing at his own joke.

“Well,
yeah
,” said Annie.

Jack laughed. “Okay, Louis Armstrong was born in 1901, so if it’s 1915…”

“He’s fourteen years old,” said Annie. “So that means he’s playing with kid bands in the streets. Excuse me!” she called to the buttermilk man. “Can you tell us where some kid bands might be playing today?”

“Try Jackson Square in the French Quarter,” said the man.

“What’s the French Quarter?” asked Jack.

“It’s the oldest section of the city,” said the buttermilk man. “Catch that streetcar that’s stopping up ahead! It will take you right there.”

“Thanks!” said Annie. She and Jack ran up the sidewalk.

“So I guess those train cars in the street are called streetcars,” said Jack.

“Makes sense!” said Annie.

Jack and Annie ran to a streetcar stop. They
stood in line and then climbed aboard. “Oh, wait,” Jack said to Annie. “We can’t! We don’t have money!” He started to leave.

“Hey, sonny, are you coming or going?” said the conductor.

“Sorry. We made a mistake,” said Jack. “We don’t have any money.”

“Don’t worry, there’s no fare today. It’s the eve of All Saints’ Day,” said the conductor.

“Oh! Good,” said Jack. He and Annie chose a wooden seat near the door and sat down.

“Could you tell us when to get out for Jackson Square in the French Quarter?” Annie asked the conductor.

“Sure thing,” the conductor said.

Annie rested their magic trumpet on her lap. “Lucky for us we came here on the eve of All Saints’ Day,” she said to Jack.

“Yeah, but what does that mean?” said Jack. As the streetcar headed along Canal, he looked up All Saints’ Day in their book. He read aloud:

“The eve of All Saints’ Day sounds like Halloween,” said Annie. “It’s the same day, too: October thirty-first.”

“Yeah,” said Jack. “But what do they mean, ‘a good time for ghost sightings’?” He kept reading:

“Ooh, sounds scary,” said Annie.

“Huh,” said Jack. “Well!” He slammed the book shut. “Forget ghosts. We didn’t come to New Orleans to look for ghosts. We came here to look for Louis Armstrong, the King of Jazz.”

T
he streetcar turned onto a crowded, busy street. Lively music blared from restaurants and dance halls.

“We’re in the French Quarter now, and you’re the next stop,” the conductor said to Jack and Annie. “Head down St. Peter Street toward the Mississippi River. You’ll run right into Jackson Square.”

“Thanks!” Jack put the research book back in his bag. Annie tucked the trumpet under her arm. When the streetcar came to a stop, they hopped off.

“Good luck playing that horn, missy!” said the conductor.

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” said Annie.

As the streetcar pulled away, Jack and Annie looked around. “Hey, this is Bourbon Street,” said Annie, pointing to a street sign. “Isn’t that the street with the haunted blacksmith shop?”

“Don’t think about that,” said Jack. “Let’s head down St. Peter.”

Jack and Annie left Bourbon Street and started down St. Peter Street. They passed tall, narrow houses painted pale green, yellow, and pink. Vines grew up walls and twined around iron balconies. Alleys led to courtyards with trickling fountains.

“I like the buildings in New Orleans,” said Annie.

“Yeah, and it smells good, too,” said Jack.

Delicious food smells filled the air. From a mule-drawn cart, an old woman cried out, “Waffles! Get your waffles here! Yes sir, fresh, hot waffles!”

Jack was getting hungry. Outside a restaurant was a sign that read:

“Gosh, things are cheap in 1915,” said Jack. “Too bad we don’t even have a dime.”

“Yeah,” said Annie. “Oh, look!” She pointed to a grand cathedral with soaring spires. “A cathedral! That must be the place with the ghost of the Spanish priest.”

“Why do you like ghosts so much?” said Jack.

“I don’t like ghosts so much,” said Annie.

“Well, you keep talking about them,” said Jack.

“I’m just pointing things out,” said Annie. “You’re the one who brought up ghosts in the first place.”

“Well, let’s forget them,” said Jack. He didn’t like ghosts. He didn’t even like thinking about them.

Soon Jack and Annie came to a huge green park with an iron fence around it. A sign at the entrance read:
JACKSON SQUARE
.

“We found it!” said Jack.

Outside the iron fence, in the hot afternoon sunlight, small bands of barefoot kids were playing music. Some strummed banjos. Others played harmonicas or long tin horns. Three boys sang in harmony. A couple of the smallest kids passed around hats, collecting money for the different bands.

“Where’s Louis Armstrong?” Annie asked Jack. “No one here looks like the picture in our book.”

“Of course not,” said Jack. “The picture shows him as a grown-up. He wouldn’t look the same when he’s fourteen.”

“I’ll ask,” said Annie. She went up to a small girl passing a hat. “Excuse me, is there a musician here named Louis Armstrong?”

“Louis Armstrong? You mean Dipper?” asked the girl.

“I guess…,” said Annie.

“Hey, Little Mack!” the girl shouted to the biggest kid in the singing trio. “Where’s Dipper Armstrong?”

“Just saw him—he’s at the River Café!” shouted Little Mack.

“Where’s that?” Annie asked.

“Down by the river,” said the small girl. She pointed beyond the square. “Walk down Decatur Street and you’ll see it.” The girl held up the hat, as if asking for a donation.

“Sorry, no money,” said Jack.

“But thanks for your help,” said Annie. She and Jack left the square. They hurried along Decatur Street.

“So Dipper must be a nickname for Louis Armstrong,” said Jack.

“Yeah,” said Annie. “And Dipper must be playing music at the café.”

“There it is,” said Jack. He pointed to a red sign on a slanted rooftop.

“Doughnuts, yum,” said Annie.

Jack and Annie walked under a striped red awning. Waiters in white jackets were running around with trays of coffee and delicious-smelling doughnuts. Jack’s mouth watered.

“That’s funny. There’s no music here,” said Annie. “Excuse us,” she called to one of the waiters. “Have you seen Louis Armstrong? Or Dip—”

“Did you come here to buy something, kids?” the waiter interrupted rudely.

“No, we don’t have any money—” started Jack.

“Then out, boy!” the waiter shouted. “No begging in here!”

“He’s not begging!” said Annie. “We’re looking for—”

“I know beggars when I see them! Out!” said the waiter.

“Let’s go. I don’t think Dipper’s in here, anyway,” said Jack.

“Wait a minute, I have to tell them that we’re not beggars!” Annie said.

“It’s not worth it, come on,” said Jack.

Jack was mad, too, but he pulled Annie out from under the awning. “I think it’s the way we look,” he said. “Our clothes make us look poor. And we don’t have shoes on.”

“It’s not fair,” said Annie.

“Forget it. We’ll ask someone else where to find Dipper,” said Jack.

On the street by the café was a mule cart filled with coal. A young teenager was putting a bucket and shovel into the back of the cart. He was barefoot and wore clothes like Jack and Annie’s.

“Excuse me!” Jack called. “Do you know Louis Armstrong? Or Dipper?”

The boy turned. When he saw Jack and Annie, he grinned. He had the friendliest smile Jack had ever seen. “Louis Armstrong?” he said. “That’s me. How can I help you, man?”

Jack was at a loss for words. He hadn’t thought about what to say to Louis Armstrong when they found him.

“Hi, Dipper!” said Annie, walking up to the boy. “We’re Jack and Annie from Frog Creek, Pennsylvania. Friends of ours told us to find you when we came to New Orleans.”

“What friends?” asked Dipper.

“Teddy and Kathleen,” said Annie.

The boy looked puzzled. But then his gaze fell on Annie’s trumpet. “Hey, nice horn. Can you play that thing?”

“Only when the time is right,” said Annie.

“And when’s that?” asked Dipper.

“I won’t know till I feel it,” said Annie.

Dipper smiled his radiant smile again. “Ha! I know just what you mean!” he said. He wiped his hand on his pants and held it out to shake. “Any friends of Teddy and Kathleen’s are friends of mine.”

As Jack shook Dipper’s hand, he sputtered, “You—you know Teddy and Kathleen?”

“No, man, never heard of them,” said Dipper. “But I consider everybody my friend.”

“Oh. Oh!” said Annie. She and Jack laughed.

“Only problem is I can’t hang out with y’all right now,” said Dipper. He climbed onto the mule cart.

“Where—where you going, man?” asked Jack.

“I’m making my rounds with this coal cart,” said Dipper. “And I have lots more work to do today. But be sure to look me up the next time you come to town. And say hi to my pals, Teddy and Kathleen.” Dipper waved at them and then shook the reins. “Go ’long, mule,” he said.

The mule clopped over the brick street, pulling the coal cart away from the River Café.

Louis Armstrong was gone.