They were still sharing the laugh when a black-haired cook dressed in a crisp, white apron emerged from the swinging doors and approached their table.
“Hey, Boo! Where y’at?”
“Pete, how many times have I got to tell you that you’ll never get that `yat’ accent down well enough to convince anyone?”
He quickly introduced Liz, who was still chortling.
“So, what can I get you folks to eat?”
“Actually, we haven’t seen a menu yet.”
“Shucks, Liz,” Boo put in. “Just tell Pete here what you feel like eatin’, and if he can’t cobble it together in that kitchen of his, he’ll just order out for it.”
Suddenly the tensions of the morning slid away from Liz, and she realized she was ravenously hungry.
“You know,” she said, “I think what I’d really like is some of the hot Cajun cooking I keep hearing about.”
“Darlin’, Gen do that for you in a flash,” Pete said, charmingly. “How does a bowl of gumbo sound?”
“Make that two,” Boo said. “And be sure to make mine extra-extra spicy.”
“Mine too!” Liz nodded. “Extra-extra!”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Boo asked as the cook disappeared into his realm. “I though you British liked your food kinda bland.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Liz said with a smile. “Haven’t you ever heard of the English Raj? We invented vindaloo curries. I believe there’s more Indian restaurants than Continental in London today. And lately Thai food has been all the rage in England. We adore hot spices.”
“Well, all right, ma’am.”
True to her word, when the food arrived, she proclaimed it delicious and finished every drop, though in actuality she found it a little disappointing. There wasn’t enough spice in the mix to raise a sweat. Still, she felt it would have hurt the cook’s feelings to complain or add seasoning, as he had hovered over their table anxiously through the whole meal. Both he and Boo watched her as though they expected her to burst into flames. They looked almost sorry that she didn’t seem discomfited. It would have been rude if she hadn’t reacted, so she fanned her face with her hand.
“Oh, my,” she said, echoing one of her elderly aunts who, it would have astonished both men to know, had lived in India with her army officer husband, and had come home from her years abroad with a book of curry recipes and a trunkful of chilies. Both men relaxed, satisfied, and Liz, with a secret smile, finished her lunch.
Walking back to the hotel, she found herself in a surprisingly pleasant mood. Lunch, with the jokes and the prank on Lloyd, had left her feeling well-fed and relaxed. Even the heat didn’t seem as oppressive now. She mentioned as much to Boo, and enjoyed watching his ready laugh.
“It’s the Big Easy,” he said as he held the door into the hotel lobby. “That’s why they call it `the city that care forgot.’ Once you get into the pace of things down here, you can just kind of float along and believe that whatever happens, it will all be all right.”
“Speaking of that, “ Liz said, looking around, “didn’t Lloyd say they were going to meet us here after lunch?”
Boo-Boo shrugged. “Well, `after lunch’ isn’t really a precise time down here. Hang on a second and I’ll check with the desk to see if they left a message.”
Despite the fact that she had just eaten, Liz found herself idly studying the posted menu for the hotel restaurant as she waited. It was extensive and delightfully varied. She guessed that Boo was right. Eating really was a major pastime down here, and the more you got into the pace of things . . .
“Sorry, darlin’, but we’ve got problems,” Boo declared, materializing at her elbow. “We’ve got to get over to the Superdome fast.”
He had her out the front door and into a taxi before she could collect her wits.
“What is it?” she asked, following in his wake. “Was there a message?”
“They didn’t bother to leave one for us,” Boo said grimly, “but the desk clerk remembered the message that came in for Lloyd and Fionna. It seems that one of Fionna’s costumes burst into flames. This time it was on stage in front of half the crew and the band.”
Chapter 8
Liz and Boo pushed their way into the mob of people crowding the barrier set up by the firefighters across the rear entrance to the Superdome. Three fire trucks, surrounded by miles of unreeled hose, flashed their revolving lights weakly in the oppressive New Orleans sunshine. An equal number of chunky white vans bearing parabolic dishes on top announced the arrival of the media. Reporters were clustered to one side by a police officer, but it was clear the cordon wouldn’t last long.
Liz and Boo showed their backstage passes to the sweating security guard at the door. Very reluctantly, he let them crawl underneath the barrier, while shouldering aside a couple of rabid fans with cameras who tried to follow. After the press of the crowd, the soaring, concrete room seemed cavernously empty, all the better to pick up the noises coming from far down the passage. The roar of voices behind them grew louder. Liz spun on her heel.
“Oh, no,” Liz groaned, as the media came jogging toward the entrance, turning the cameras their way. “We don’t need this.”
“Cheer up,” Boo said, waving to the reporters over the security guards’ heads. “You can tell your mama you were on American television.”
“My super told me not to attract any attention!” Liz said.
“He’s not here; how will he know?”
“They have cameras!” Liz said. “Our images will be on the evening news all around the world . . . never mind.”
Boo seemed utterly unconcerned about security. He was even enjoying the attentions of the press. He waved to an attractive, blonde woman holding out a microphone. She shouted something at him, but he held his hand behind his ear, pretending he couldn’t hear her. With a sigh Liz reached into her pocket for the strands of yarn she carried there, and twisted them together. The cantrip should fuzz her image sufficiently so it would be difficult to identify her. Ringwall still wouldn’t be happy, but at least the damage was under control. Now to see what had caused all the to-do. She grabbed Boo’s arm to turn him.
The steel-and-glass doors were pinned wide by dumpsters rolled up from the nearby loading dock. Boo hopped over lengths of hose flung everywhere in the corridor. Liz followed him, wishing she had worn lower-heeled shoes. A couple of people hung out of the dressing room doors, gawking at the two agents as they ran by. Everyone was yelling over the alarms, sirens, and crackling radios.
“Where’d it happen?” Liz called to Boo. He skipped nimbly over a twisting section of hose fifty feet ahead of her. Watching him, she stumbled on the same length and cursed her high-heeled shoes.
“Just follow the trail, I’d say,” Boo said, stopping to wait for her. He grabbed her arm, and pointed ahead toward the double stage doors, braced open with crates. Half a dozen firefighters in yellow rubber coats, shouting to each other, rushed past them with extinguishers and axes. The two agents ran to catch up.
When she reached the stage, Liz stopped beside Boo to stare.
“What happened?” she asked. “With all the equipment they’ve brought in I thought the entire Superdome was coming down!”
After the round-shouldered cramping of the hotel and the restaurant in the Quarter, the chamber before Liz was vast. It engulfed the forty people on the raised stage at its heart like gnats in a multicolored bathtub. Yellow-skinned insects dragged long strands of hose behind them here and there through glistening puddles and heaps of overturned equipment. A bright yellow fire engine a third the size of the ones on the street sat beside the stage, its emergency lights rotating while men in coats and boots scrambled all over it. At the center of all the hubbub stood a single, tiny, forlorn, dripping figure. Two of the firefighters dragged a still writhing hose away from him. It was Thomas Fitzgibbon, the costumer, drenched to the skin. He saw the two agents and waved a hand weakly toward them, dribbling a stream of water from his sleeve.
“I can’t explain it,” the costumer said, when they reached him. He moved locks of his curly hair out of his eyes, and plucked at his wet shirt. He looked close to tears as he held out a scorched wisp of green cloth. “I brought Fee’s dress out here on stage to see how it looked under the lights. The sleeves are gauze, like dragonfly wings. They would be so beautiful. Then suddenly, poof! Flames everywhere! It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to move. I thought I’d be burned to death.” The thin man’s eyes were huge with fear, but he appeared to be uninjured. “And then someone pulled the fire alarm.”