Overhead on the first- and second-floor balconies (second and third floors here in the U.S.; Elizabeth realized they counted things differently here), stood crowds of men and women brandishing plastic cups full of beer. People in the dense crowd below shouted up to them, and threw bead necklaces up to the women on the balconies. When one flushed girl in her twenties had collected an armful of necklaces, she hiked her shirt up to her neck. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. The crowd erupted in cheers of joy. New Orleans was more wide open than Elizabeth had ever dreamed.
This part of the city resembled an undermaintained amusement park. Worn, broken pavement, cracking paint, wrought iron twisted like lace and painted in muted colors. Men held up signs that advertised psychic readings, draft beers for $1.00, or that the end was near. Walls sported unexpectedly bright colors, yellow, purple, moss green, Venetian red. Buildings proudly displayed brass or ceramic plaques describing their origins, name, function, and first owners often dating back two hundred years or more. London could take a cue from the Big Easy’s excellence of labelling. World War II had been over for more than half a century, yet the city seemed still to be trying to misdirect invading Nazis.
There were others in the crowd besides tourists. Some, like the shills outside the restaurants and topless bars or the couples selling roses from pushcarts, were obviously workers, not unlike the mounted, uniformed police who sat at each intersection like watchtowers in the flow of humanity. More subtle were the gaudily-dressed individuals who strutted stylishly up and down the street, stopping occasionally to pose for pictures with the tourists in exchange for tips. Also workers, but self-employed, not salaried. Then, there were what could only be thought of as “locals,” making their way through the crowds with bags of groceries or baskets of laundry, obviously running household errands even at this late hour. It was an interesting reminder that the French Quarter of New Orleans was a functioning community where people lived and worked, rather than a planned, constructed amusement park.
Even more noticeable to Elizabeth, however, was that of this latter, non-tourist population, it seemed that at least two out of every three knew her escort.
“BOO-RAY! What’s happenin’, man?”
“Hey, Boo! Where y’at, bro?”
“Boo, darlin’! When you comin’ by again?”
Every five or six steps, Boudreau was pausing to wave at someone or to exchange handshakes or greetings. Despite her impatience to be on their mission, Elizabeth could not help but be impressed with how well-known Beauray was, though she was a bit taken aback by the volume of the hailings . . . by both meanings. That is, they were not only numerous, they were loud!
People down here seemed to do all their conversing, not to mention their casual greetings, at the top of their lungs. If they happened to be across the street, on one of the everpresent wrought-iron balconies, or half a block away, it didn’t really matter. They just reared back and shouted a little louder, neither minding nor caring that dozens of total strangers were forced to listen in to every word. It was completely different than anything in England, even in weekend street markets. Elizabeth put the fault down to the French influence that had founded New Orleans in the first place.
“Do you think we’ll be able to find them?” Elizabeth said, making an effort to wrench Beauray’s focus away from his friends and back onto her and their assignment.
“That depends. Do you happen to know if the folks we’re lookin’ for have eaten recently?” Beauray asked, leaning close to her so she could hear him over the street racket.
“Not really, no,” Elizabeth said. “Why?”
“Well, it’ll be rough findin’ ’em if they’ve holed up in a restaurant somewheres,” he said. “There’re almost as many restaurants as bars in the Quarter, and it’s hard to see into most of them from the street. If they’re just wanderin’ or stoppin’ off once in a while for a drink, we should be able to find ’em with no problem.”
“They seemed to have virtually ongoing food service in First Class, but that was hours ago,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know what they had to eat up there, but the food in Economy Class was pretty ghastly. I ended up making do with a few candy bars, myself . . .”
Beauray halted in his tracks and cocked his head at her.
“Is that what’s wrong?” he asked. “I must be goin’ crazy, forgettin’ my manners like that. Here I am draggin’ you up and down the street, and all the while it never occurred to me to ask if you was hungry. I thought you were lookin’ a mite peaked.”
“I’m not really all that hungry,” Elizabeth protested, embarrassed by the sudden attentiveness. “I don’t think my stomach will catch up with me until tomorrow.”
Beauray squinted at her, the blue laser beams boring into her eyes. “You sure?”
“I’m fine. Really,” she insisted, though touched by his concern. “Tell you what. If it will make you feel better, I’ll have another candy bar. They do sell them here, don’t they?” she asked, playfully.
Beauray studied her for a moment, then shrugged.
“Well, as soon as your stomach catches up with you, you’ve got to promise to let me treat you to some of our fine N’Awlins cookin’. In the meantime, though, if it’s a candy bar you want, I’ve got just the thing for you.”
Taking her by the elbow, he steered her off the street and through the door of one of the numerous T-shirt shops that prospered between the bars and dance clubs.
The icy blast of the shop’s air conditioning was such a welcome relief from the saunalike streets that for a moment Elizabeth thought seriously of asking Beauray to continue the search alone while she waited here. A few breaths later, however, her sense of duty and her companion returned to her at the same time.
“Here. Try one of these.”
He thrust a cellophane envelope into her hands, containing what looked for all the world like a light brown cow pat . . . from an unhealthy cow.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.
“They’re called pralines,” he said. “It’s a favorite candy in these parts. Go ahead and try it. They’re good.”
Unable to think of a graceful evasion, Elizabeth unwrapped his offering and took a cautious bite.
It was heaven!
Like most of her countrymen, Elizabeth had an incredible sweet tooth, and the candy she was now sampling was like nothing she had ever had before. It tasted almost like pure turbinado sugar, but with a smoother texture; like a very sweet toffee, but soft, and had a goodly dollop of chopped pecans mounded in the center.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something more solid to eat?”
Beauray’s voice brought her back to her senses, and she realized guiltily that she had wolfed down almost the entire praline in a very few bites.
“No. This is fine,” she said hastily. “You’re right. They’re quite good.”
Her companion frowned at her for a moment more, then shrugged.
“All right. If you say so,” he said. “I surely do want to see you some time when you do have an appetite, though.”
Elizabeth was inwardly writhing with embarrassment over her brief display of gluttony as they made their way back out onto the street. She was not, however, so uncomfortable as to fail to mark the location of the store in her mind. Before her stay in New Orleans was over, she planned to stock up on a few boxes of those pralines. Delicately, she licked her fingers, and smiled blithely at Beauray. Maybe they even had a mail order business so she could order more from England. A few of these would go a long way toward sweetening Ringwall’s sour temper when she gave her expense report.
* * *
Music, music was everywhere in this city. Fee drifted from door to door, borne on an energy wave that carried her along the street without feeling its cobbles under her feet. The crowds were thick, but no one bumped into her. Fee found herself walking to the beat of the music pouring out of doorways, down from balconies, unexpectedly around corners from impromptu groups who had sat down wherever the muse had struck them, never paying attention to the people passing by. She might have been alone in this mob of people who were simply enjoying themselves.
She almost wished she was.
“Wait up,” panted Robbie-cursed-Unterburger, striding to catch up with Fee and Lloyd on her short little legs. They’d almost lost her in the last crowd clustered around the entrance to a blues bar. They hadn’t, more’s the pity.
All of them were toddling along back there, her band, Green Fire, and her chief techies, but Fee resented Robbie most of all. She was so wet. The girl wanted to get close to Lloyd, and it killed her that she couldn’t. You could see the pain and frustration in her eyes. Too bad. Lloyd belonged to Fee. Such a hunk, and so good when it counted. Like later on, if the music continued to turned her on as it was doing right now.