Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter (9 page)

He cast a worried glance back in the direction from
which he had come, then laughed and shook his arms in
a futile effort to shed water. “I knew I should have
stayed put,” he said, his glittering pupils the size of pie
plates.

I laughed with him. “Yeah.”

Two or three voices from the other end of the porch
shouted at him. He waved back and grinned at me.
“Tourist?”

“Not really,” I replied. “Wanderer is probably a better word”

He laughed again. “I know the feeling.” He glanced
at the half-full cup of beer in my hand.

I offered it to him. “Want a drink? I’m boozed out.”
He hesitated. I laughed. “Don’t worry. I don’t have anything you could catch”

He chuckled and took the beer, which he promptly
turned up and drained. “Thanks, buddy,” he said, drag ging the back of his hand across his lips. I couldn’t help
noticing a red tattoo on the underside of his middle finger, a red bone.

I forced my eyes away from his finger. “Name’s
Tony,” I replied, offering him my hand.

“Mine’s Jules, but they call me Julie.”

The rain continued to fall. Water began rising in the
promenade around the square and draining south down
Chartres Street. A thousand questions tumbled through
my head, not the least of which was the significance of
the tattoo on Julie’s finger. Was Julie a Redbone? Red
hair, light complexioned, he didn’t have the appearance
of a Redbone.

Flashing red and white strobes cut through the white
veil of rain, and a New Orleans police cruiser pulled
up beside the porch, the runoff water just below its
hubcaps.

Ducking his eyes, Julie leaned back against the wall
and folded his arms over his thin chest.

A young officer in a yellow slicker climbed from the
cruiser and splashed onto the porch. Suddenly, the ongoing commotion at the far end of the porch ceased as
he spoke with several individuals from the crowd.

I glanced at Julie. His eyes had the deer-in-theheadlights look.

Moments later, the tall officer sauntered down to us.
“Hey, Julie,” he said amicably. “How you been doing?”

Julie shrugged. “Making a living, Officer Rusk. Making a living.”

Rusk eyed the slender man’s soaked clothing. “How
long you been here, Julie?”

He gave me a furtive glance. “Oh, twenty, maybe
thirty minutes.”

Arching an eyebrow, Rusk pointed his baton at the
young man’s wet clothes. “Now, come on, Julie. Who
do you think you’re fooling? You’re soaking wet”

“He’s telling the truth, Officer,” I said. “He got wet
helping this gentleman here bring his goods in.” I gestured to the young man with the eyebrow rings next
to me.

“That’s right, Officer,” the vendor said quickly. “He
was helping me”

Officer Rusk studied me. “You new around here?”

“Just a tourist, Officer. Leaving town tomorrow.”

He studied me another moment, then nodded. “Probably a good idea.” He shot Julie a warning glance.

After the cruiser disappeared into the rain, Julie
turned to me. “Hey, thanks, Tony, but why’d you do it?”

With a sneer, I replied, “You mean you got to have a
reason to lie to a cop?”

Julie laughed. “Hey, I understand that.” He reached
in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Zig-Zag
skins. He muttered a curse when he tried to unfold the
thin papers. “They’re soaked.” He looked up at me and
shrugged. “I was going to share with you, but it’ll have
to wait.”

“No problem.”

The rain slackened as the storm moved past, he
tapped me on the arm and nodded to Rigues’. “Come
on. At least let me buy you a beer.”

“Best offer I’ve had all day” I tried to appear indif ferent while at the same time my heart was thudding in
my chest.

“You been to New Orleans before?” he asked as we
sloshed through the draining water.

“Once or twice. Why?”

He pointed to Rigues’. “The bar I’m taking you to is
haunted. Just wanted to warn you.” He grinned.

I gave a shrug. “I’m warned.”

Julie led us to a table in the rear of the restaurant near
the door from which I had seen Punky emerge earlier.

“So, Tony, what’s your line of business?” Julie
asked, sipping an icy mug of draft beer.

“Whatever comes along, as long as the money’s
good and the hours are short, preferably from eleven to
one with an hour and half off for lunch.”

The young man laughed. “Hey, me too. You find one
of those gigs, let me know”

I sipped my beer and casually asked, “What about
you? What line of business are you in?”

The slender young man stiffened, then relaxed. With
a grin, he replied, “Whatever I can to pick up a few
bucks here or there”

“What about jobs around here? Hard to find?”

“Naw. Plenty of work. Minimum wage gigs if you
want to settle for that”

Before I could pursue the subject, Julie’s eyes lit and
he waved to the wide-open front doors. “Hey, Punky.
Over here”

My hunch had been right. The one I’d followed from
the bar earlier was Punky Mancini. Punky looked at me
warily as he approached, then nodded to Julie. “Hey.
What’s up?” He shot me another hard look.

I tried to steal a glance at Punky’s middle finger, but
he had his thumb hooked in a belt loop, the palm face
down against his jeans.

Exuberantly, Julie gestured to me. “This is Tony. He
helped me out of a bind with the cops a few minutes ago”

The introduction didn’t impress Punky, for the wellmuscled, curly haired man just nodded. “That’s good.
You can tell me all about it later.” He skirted the table
and headed for the rear door. “Now, hurry up and finish,
Julie, and get on back here”

Julie nodded eagerly. “Sure, Punky. Sure. Be right
there” He scooted back from the table and turned up
his mug of beer. In several quick gulps, he downed it.
“Hey, I got to go, Tony. Pick up a shipment of seafood.
Earn some bread. Where you staying? Maybe we can
get together tomorrow.”

“Over on Toulouse. La Maison des Fan-I can’t pronounce it, but it’s the one that’s supposed to have
ghosts”

“I know that one, La Maison des Fantomes. Between
you and me, every hotel and bar in the French Quarter
claims to have its own ghosts” He laughed and waved.
“See you around”

“Yeah. “

For several moments, I studied the door through
which Julie had disappeared. There was no question who gave the orders in that bunch. Scooting back from
the table, I wandered outside and found a bench on the
square. The afternoon was warm with the delicious fragrance of jasmine and gardenias.

Five minutes later, Punky and Julie came out through
the gateway behind Rigues’ and headed in my direction. Like a pet dog, Julie stayed right at Punky’s heels.

I slumped on the bench and dropped my chin to my
chest, feigning sleep. Through half-closed eyes, I
watched as Punky and Julie cut down Pirate’s Alley between the Cabildo and St. Louis Cathedral.

At the end of the alley, they turned right behind the
cathedral courtyard. I hurried after them, but by the
time I reached Royal Street they had vanished.

Back on the square, I plopped down on a bench so I
could keep an eye on Rigues’. One of the local derelicts was curled on a bench across the sidewalk from
me. A grimy captain’s hat lay over his eyes. His grizzled beard was gray, and a trickle of drool dripped onto
the bench.

As the sun dropped behind the Cabildo, a uniformed
officer strolled past and tapped the sleeping man on the
worn sole of his running shoe with his baton. “Wake
up, captain. Time to lock up”

Sluggishly, the worn-out old man struggled to sit up.
He blinked his eyes several times, finally focusing on
me. He tugged his hat down on his head and staggered
across the sidewalk. “Hey, pal. How about springing me
for beer.” Dried blood filled the cracks in his lips.

I chuckled. “At least you’re honest friend.” I handed him five dollars. He reached to take it, but I held tight.
He frowned, and I said, “You know anyone around here
by the name of Bones?”

His frown faded, and the look of fear filled his eyes.
“That ain’t a name to go bandying about, not if you
want to stay healthy”

I released the bill. “Thanks”

The remainder of the evening I spent in Rigues’ as
well as some of the other bars and bistros on Decatur
and Chartres Streets, searching for Punky or Bones.

Just after bellying up to the bar at the Raven’s Wing,
a promising candidate for the seediest saloon on Decatur Street, I glimpsed a face in the grimy mirror, a
face that seemed familiar, yet one completely unknown
to me. I shrugged it off, guessing I had seen him in one
of the bars I had visited earlier.

After downing my beer, I sauntered out onto the
sidewalk, mixing in with the thick crowds of riotous
revelers, enjoying the ambiance of the French Quarter.
A few doors down at the corner of Decatur and
Toulouse, I slipped into the Coral Sea Saloon. Standing
at the bar, I ordered another beer and casually sipped
from it as I surveyed the room. Still no Bones or Punky.

Around midnight I gave up and headed back to the
hotel. On the sidewalk, I spotted the bearded man leaning against a building across the street. I’m no genius,
but it didn’t take one to realize that I was being followed.

I turned and strolled west on Toulouse. The bars and
bistros and restaurants were still open. Music blared up and down the streets. Partygoers and merrymakers
filled the sidewalks and poured onto the narrow streets,
casually stepping aside as taxis sped recklessly along
the narrow brick thoroughfares.

Halfway down the block, I met a crowd of pleasure
seekers overflowing the sidewalk. I fell in with them,
and moments later as we passed an open door of another bistro, I darted inside.

Remaining just inside the door where I could keep an
eye on the sidewalk, I waited. Moments later, my
bearded friend passed, walking rapidly.

I lost no time in heading back the other way, secondguessing myself. Maybe it was simply coincidence, but
if it were, I’d quickly find out.

Turning north on Decatur, I headed for a nightcap of
chicory coffee au lait and powdered beignets at Cafe
du Monde.

On one end of the cafe was a full service room for
customers. Next to it was a covered area for self-service guests, a pavilion open on three sides and extending south about fifty or sixty feet, adding just the right
touch of New Orleans charm to the cafe.

Around one A.M., I ambled back to my hotel without
spotting my bearded admirer. Maybe I had been imagining it after all.

The small lobby was empty. I took the interior stairs,
which were not wide enough to accommodate two people, side-by-side, even lanky ones like me.

Upstairs, I checked my gum wrapper. It was on the
floor.

Grinning to myself, I unlocked the door and stepped
inside. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, but
then, experienced thieves had enough sense to leave
everything just the way they found it, unlike cops who,
when they toss a room, seem to believe it is their life’s
mission to destroy the room as much as possible.

After a quick shower, I checked the locks on the
doors and climbed into bed with my companion for the
night, my .32 Smith & Wesson, which I slipped under
my pillow, assuring myself of sweet dreams.

I was exhausted and don’t even remember my head
hitting the pillow. The day, which started in Opelousas,
seemed like it had been two months long. Whether I
had accomplished anything significant remained to be
seen, but that I would consider in the morning.

Apparently, I had taken the old man’s ghost story
more to heart than I imagined, for I dreamed I was
manacled to the wall that night. At least, I think I did.
I’m not certain, but the rattling of chains from my
closet jerked me awake. My eyes popped open, and I
stared into the darkness above me, the only sound the
whirring of the ceiling fan.

I strained for any other alien sounds, but there was
nothing, just the muted sounds of passing vehicles and
early morning revelers.

Then I heard metal against metal. Without moving
my head, I cut my eyes to the French doors. Through the gauzy curtains covering them, I made out a shadowy outline trying to jimmy the lock.

Muttering a soft curse, I slipped my .32 from under
the pillow and laid it on my chest. I groaned with frustration. I didn’t have a Louisiana permit, and if I had to
use the little .32, I would be facing more questions
from the Louisiana law than my boss could answer.

After a moment, the scratching sounds ceased, and
the doors slowly opened until a dark silhouette stood
between them.

I tightened my finger on the trigger. “Who’s there?”
I said.

For a moment, the burglar said nothing, and then he
growled. “I gots me a knife. Alls I wants is your
money.”

Squinting into the darkness, I tried to discern any
identifying features, but the night was complete. “You’re
outgunned, buddy. I got me a.357 magnum, and to paraphrase the words of that fearless detective Dirty Harry
Callahan, `make my night, punk.”’ I cocked the hammer
on the .32. It sounded like a twelve-pound sledgehammer banging against an anvil.