On the Streets of New Orleans (2 page)

Halting, Tony stared at the sign over the two-story building, his mouth hanging open, watering at the sight and the smells.

Tiffany’s Waffles and Wings

Breakfast served all day

What the hell?
That was a damned long way to walk for some breakfast. What was the kid up to?

Tony moved forward, scanning both sides of the street. Light poured out from the two large windows that fronted the sidewalk, the door to the place between them. Parked cars lined both sides of the street, belonging to either residents or customers; he didn’t know which. Didn’t care.

He crept to the window and peeked in.

The place was crowded, not full, but at four in the morning, not bad at all. He glanced at the table nearest the window and moaned.

The biggest, most bodacious waffle he’d ever seen sat on a huge platter, three pats of butter melting on it, surrounded by three of the most golden, succulent-looking, mouth-watering, crispy fried chicken wings.

Sweet Jesus.
He’d died and gone to heaven.

SCOTT PULLED
his apron over his head and tied it around his waist.

“Where y’at, sugar?” Miss Tiffany greeted him as she looked up from the counter where she tended a row of six waffle makers. “You late.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Scott nodded as he checked out her latest hairdo. This morning, she wore dozens of braids decorated with black and gold beads. They matched the black-and-gold Saints jersey she wore over black leggings. He’d never seen a woman with so many different ways to wear her hair, and he suspected most of them weren’t really hers.

She frowned at him. A beep sounded, and she rotated a waffle machine to cook the other side of the waffle. Then she brushed off her hands and came over to him, snatching his chin and head in her large red-brown hands as she stared at the marks on his face.

“Who did this, dawlin’?” Storms swirled in her deep amber eyes.

“Someone jumped me and took my money. I’m fine.” He knew better than to try to jerk away from her. She was strong as hell from lifting forty-pound bags of waffle mix and gallon jugs of milk. But the rest of her was round as a peach and soft as a goose down pillow.

“He got yo’ money?” She tsked, shook her head, and let him go.

“Just five dollars.” He shrugged. He had more in a savings account in the bank, where he kept most of his money. But it was the weekend, and no banks were open. Any cash he’d need would have to come from his tips today.

“You call the po-po?”

“No. No police.” He shook his head, and she nodded in unspoken agreement. What was the point in calling the police? The cops were overworked and stretched thin. Scott and Miss Tiffany both knew nothing would be done, and then he’d just have the cops noticing him.

Not good.

“Damn. Can’t a boy walk down the street without gettin’ mugged?” She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and a slap on his ass as she turned him around. “Go on. Get in there. I got tables need busin’. Then you can wait tables.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grabbed the bus boy cart and backed through the swinging doors from the kitchen to the dining room.

He scanned the room. Most of the usual customers were there. He nodded to some of them as he pushed the cart around to the first vacant, dirty dish-covered table. The dishes were always empty. No one left Tiffany’s hungry, or without licking their fingers, or without a satisfied smile on their faces. He stacked dishes in one pan, silverware, glasses, and coffee cups in another, and trash into the plastic garbage bag that hung on the back of the cart.

“Hey, blue eyes.”

Scott looked up and smiled. His favorite regulars sat at a table in the far corner. He moved toward them, cleaning as he went. “Show’s over?”

“Yeah, we’re done for the night. Crowd’s still too light for us to do a third show.” Jimmy headlined at the Cage aux Folles club over on Bourbon Street, impersonating Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand. Faint traces of makeup still marked his face. Scott thought the eyeliner looked hot.

“Money good?” Scott had thought about asking them if there was anything he could do there, because these guys always had lots of money. Dressing in drag and impersonating stars must pay well, but Scott couldn’t think of anyone famous he looked like, and he sure as hell couldn’t sing or dance.

“It’s been better,” Bob, a heavyset man with mocha-colored skin, answered. He did an act that segued from Ethel Merman into Bea Arthur, then Bette Midler. Scott had been to the club as their guest once and seen all their acts. They’d sneaked him in the back because at nineteen, he was underage.

All the men lived here in the Marigny. Scott knew Bob and the Diana Ross/Whitney Houston impersonator Peter were a couple, but he’d never seen Jimmy with anyone. And the fourth of their group, Derek, had a lover who usually joined them.

“Where’s Max?” Scott asked about the missing boyfriend.

“Out of town. He went to see his parents. They’re still in Atlanta. Been there ever since Katrina.” Derek shrugged and took a bite of his waffle.

“Aren’t they ever coming home?” Jimmy asked.

“No. With the house gone and no insurance money….” He shrugged and didn’t bother saying what they all knew. Other than the neighborhoods along the river, the French Quarter, and a very few others, there wasn’t much to come back to. Rebuilding seemed to take forever, and no one had seen much of the promised money from the government.

“Atlanta’s nice.” Scott had never been there but had heard several people say so.

“Yeah, but it’s no N’awlins, dawlin’,” Bob drawled.

Jimmy stood and sang in a sultry voice the old standard “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” The haunting words filled the air. Words of longing, remembrance, and the passing of time.

At the second verse, the others got to their feet and sang backup, giving an impromptu concert for the rest of the patrons. Their voices blended and filled the small dining room with the sounds of the melancholy song, capturing the nostalgia everyone in the place felt about their once-glorious city.

Most of the diners gazed off into space or out the large front windows; a few wiped tears from their eyes. Even Miss Tiffany came out to listen, her hands clasped, her eyes closed, as the men sang.

Scott hummed along with the familiar tune as he bused tables, wiping each of them down until he’d gotten them all done. No, the city wasn’t as it once was, but he had hopes that it would survive. If he could, then so could the city he’d made his home.

The performers finished the song to the applause of the diners, then sat back down.

“You go, girl!” Miss Tiffany clapped as she stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “You sure know how to sing it, Jimmy, you surely do.” She chuckled.

“Thank you, Miss Tiffany!” Jimmy waved, stood, and then after an elaborate bow, he flopped back into his seat. “Give it up for my girls!” He motioned to the other singers, and they all stood, did a perfectly timed curtsy, and then sat as the room roared with laughter and gave them another round of applause.

Smiling, Scott pushed the cart past his boss, into the kitchen, and over to the dishwasher. This had to be the best place he’d ever worked at, and despite being beaten and robbed earlier, just being around these people put a smile on his face. Miss Tiffany warmed his heart with her caring ways, and the customers treated him special, like part of a family. At least, it’s how he remembered a family should be and how it would feel like to have people who cared about him, since he’d never lived anywhere but group homes from eight years old on.

He loaded the dishes and set the dishwasher. That done, it was time to get out on the floor and wait tables. He might not be making the kind of money those guys did, and he knew he could make more as a rent boy at the local gay clubs, but this was good, honest work. His soul and his pride could remain intact, and that was all that counted to him.

TONY LEANED
back and exhaled. He snaked his hand into the pocket of his jeans and grasped the folded money tight.

The kid’s money.

He peeked again and watched the guy he’d saved and then robbed push the dish cart around the room as muffled singing came through the glass. Inside, where it was warm, where delicious aromas teased, where the people looked happy to be alive, that’s where Tony longed to be.

That life wasn’t meant for him, and he knew it. Most of his life he’d been standing on the outside watching the world go by. When he was a kid, he watched good people struggle…. Some made it, some faltered, but most fell. Then from the roof of his house, he’d watched bodies float past. Now, he longed to join the others on the inside of this little neighborhood restaurant.

Once upon a time, he had his brothers and sister there with him. Together, he thought they’d make it through anything. Even their mother’s druggin’ and hookin’.

That was until the perfect storm—the one every man, woman, and child knew would hit one day—slammed down on the city. The levees broke and a wet hell flooded the streets of his neighborhood, black water rising in a dark night to wash away everything that had been good and clean in his life.

His chin quivered as he fought off the thought that this was all he’d ever be or have. No home. No family. No future. He closed his eyes to cut off the dampness gathering in them. The money felt hot in his hand, as if it burned to touch it.

That boy’s money
, his grandmama’s voice whispered.

Tony took a chance at another look, not at the food, but for a glimpse of the skinny white guy with the ebony hair. He was nowhere to be seen, probably in the back, working in the kitchen.

He’d kill to work in a kitchen. To work anywhere. Things had to get better, didn’t they? But it was two years later and things were as bad as ever in his old neighborhood. Wrecked cars. Wrecked houses. Wrecked lives. No one lived there anymore. No one but cats, rats, and snakes. No businesses had reopened. Not even the po-po drove down those streets.

Maybe here they might have a job for him?

His stomach rumbled, reminding him of its need.

“Shut up,” Tony mumbled at his belly. He rubbed his hand over it, but something scratched him. He looked down and groaned.

He had the cash still in his hand. Holding it up, he stared at it as if he’d never seen a few dollar bills before in his life. The wad of bills looked foreign in his hand, as if it didn’t belong there. He curled his hand into a fist and shoved it into his pocket again, pushing the cash to the bottom.

He had the money to buy breakfast right here. He could just walk right in to Tiffany’s and order him up some waffles. And some wings. Maybe a cup of coffee.

Tony nodded, his decision made. He’d just go in there, sit down at a table, and order him some food. He pushed off the wall and headed to the door. Hand outstretched for the handle, he froze. The guy had come back out of the kitchen and now stood next to a table, taking an order.

Tony’s gaze locked on that kid again, like a homing pigeon flying straight to where it belonged.
Home.

Shaking his head in denial, Tony backed up, spun around, and hotfooted it down the block. Once he’d crossed Esplanade, he veered toward the river and slowed his stride, his heart still hammering in his chest. Dawn broke as he entered the old Farmer’s Market, the sun coming up over the West Bank across the river. Tony stopped to catch his breath and leaned against one of the large round columns holding up the terracotta-tiled roof of the long, open-sided building that stretched for blocks.

All around him, a scattering of trucks had backed up to the market, and men unloaded boxes of produce, filling their stalls with sugar cane, lettuce, beets, melons, citrus, berries, apples, and nuts. His mouth watered at the sight of all that food, so close but out of his reach.

Just a few yards away, an old, thin black man struggled to get a box of melons out of the back of a rusty pickup truck. His shoulders rounded under the weight as it tilted to one side, and for a second, Tony thought he’d drop the whole box.

Tony bolted from the shadows, hopped down the steps, and ran to the truck, rescuing the box just as it slipped from the man’s white-knuckled grip.

“Hey!” the old man shouted.

“I got it!” Tony grimaced as he caught the heavy weight. He straightened and easily shifted the box to get a better grip. It really wasn’t that heavy, but for the old man, Tony figured it might have been too much to handle. Tony knew all about doing what you had to do, no matter what. He’d failed when it had counted the most, and he swore to his grandmama’s memory he’d never fail again.

The man stepped back and frowned, then he gave a nod. “Put it over there, boy.” He pulled out a blue bandana and wiped his bald head with it. Despite the early morning chill, beads of glistening sweat dotted his brow.

Tony carried the crate to the raised concrete walk that separated the building from the street and placed it behind the stall.

“You need help setting up?” He turned to the old man as he brushed off his hands and gave him the most reassuring smile he could manage so’s not to scare him off. Maybe he could pick up a few dollars. The unfamiliar feeling of hope burned in Tony’s chest, and he swallowed it down.

The man chewed on a wad of tobacco like a cow with a cud as he stared up and down Tony’s length. “You lookin’ for work, boy?”

Tony nodded, afraid even to speak, wanting to do nothing to jinx this chance.

The man turned his head and spit, and Tony’s hopes flew with the arc of juice that hit the pavement in an ugly brown splat.

“Two dollars an hour. That’s all I can afford. Now until I’m unpacked and set up. Don’t need nobody to help me sell. Should take about two, three hours.” He shrugged.

“Yes, sir.” Tony nodded and went back to the truck for the next box as the old man bent to open the crate Tony had rescued. In his mind, Tony added up the money the old man would pay him. Four, maybe six dollars. Plus the five he’d picked up in that alley.

No, he’d stolen that money, plain and simple. No sense lying.
God knows if you lie
, his grandmama always told him, and Tony knew for sure, she’d know too.