Itâd been a long night. I packed my old Voodoo Strat back into the worn leather case. My throat was raw. I didnât like to do vocals, but Jamie had a gig in Central City. Somehow, Ron, Pete and me survived the twelve drunks and sixteen hick tourists that strolled into the club to make dumb assed requests and down gallons of cheap booze - Just another rainy weeknight in the Quarter.
Finally, I was ready to hit the road. The rain had stopped, and a fog was rolling in off the river. Ron and Pete left a few minutes ago. I looked up toward the front door, squinting through the smoke from my cigarette. I damn near let go of my guitar. The cigarette fell from my lips. My mouth dropped open.
Like a gothic princess appearing from the mist, she stood; an ominous silhouette framed by the antique doorway. The fog rolled around her black high heels, and curled up her black stocking covered legs. She wore a short black dress, and a black leather jacket protected her delicate frame from the damp New Orleans night. Long, straight, black hair draped across her shoulders. Her skin was clear and somewhat pale. She held onto the strap of a black leather bag with both hands. Dark but wary eyes flashed quickly around the little bar. They fell on me for a brief moment. I must have looked like an idiot still squinting from the smoke, and leaning forward with my mouth open.
She sashayed over to the end of the bar nearest the front door, ordered a red wine, and lit up one of those long, thin cigarettes.
âWhat the hell,â I thought, âOne beer.â I leaned my guitar case against the bar a couple of seats away from the dark goddess, and had Charlie the bartender bring me an Abita. I took a swig from the beer, and turned toward the lady in black. She was already up, and moving toward the jukebox. I took a few more swigs to work on my nerve. Buddy Guyâs âDid Somebody Make a Fool Out of Youâ moaned up from the speakers. The lady knew her music.
She came back to her seat. I watched her intently the whole way. Her body moved with the grace and sensuality of a cat. She looked into my eyes. The corners of her deep red lips turned up in a half smile.
I had my nerve.
***
âHey, Jack! Whatâs up, man?â I knew that voice, dammit. My hopes were shattered. Jeff Theriot stepped in between me and my lady in black. His hand was outstretched. âMan, you still playinâ these dives?â
I took his hand and shook it. Jeff played Sax in an old Jazz band we put together just out of high school to try to earn a few extra bucks. We spent more than we made. Anyway, Jeff went on to tour with some big name Bebop acts. He always liked to brag about jamming with the likes of Duke Jordan and Max Roach. All I knew was that he lived out on the west coast, and seemed to have found that few extra bucks to throw around every time he came back to the Big Easy.
Me, on the other hand, I had a pretty good local rep. My great granddaddy played Ragtime piano in the old Storyville brothels, and my granddaddy somehow survived being a white woodwind player in the Back Oâ Town and South Rampart sections of the city. My old man played bass with some of the best Dixieland bands in the Quarter. I carried on the family tradition, even though I broke away from my Jazz roots to do Blues. Jeff liked to give me a lot of guff about my choices, but I didnât have any regrets.
âHey, Man. Where you been?â I inquired, still trying to figure out a way to meet that mysterious woman in black.
He proceeded to give me the whole damned story of the last two years of his life. I smiled and nodded a lot, all the time looking over his shoulder to check out that dazzling lady. I did whatever I could to speed up his anecdotes, but knew that once Jeff got started nothing could stop him short of total inebriation. I plied him with a few shots of Cuervo, but knew time was short.
The lady glanced at her watch. She shook her head slightly, and snuffed her third cigarette out in the ashtray. She looked over toward me and smiled as she slid her small, sultry frame from the barstool. She wheeled around as she slung the leather bag over her shoulder. The tight black dress outlined a perfect ass beneath that waist length leather jacket. I watched her sashay out the door onto St. Phillip, and head toward Decatur. She turned to give me one more of those half smiles, and walked right out of my life.
***
Jeff rattled on about the west coast. I listened, now intent on drowning my frustration in beer. Suddenly, two shots broke the silence of the night. Jeff paused. We were surprised. This sort of thing just didnât happen in the Quarter. New Orleans was certainly not known for its low crime rate, but gun fights were rare in this part of town. Even the local hoods donât like to scare away the tourists. You just donât bite the hand that feeds you, and a paranoid mark is harder to rob.
Shortly, sirens interrupted the calm outside. Then, they faded away.
The night slipped once more into eerie quiet. The cool damp November weather kept the tourists at home.
Jeff continued relating his idiotic adventures. After a few more minutes, I bought him one last Cuervo, downed my Abita, and gave my farewells to him and Charlie. I half-heartedly waved at the few remaining drunks and tourists, grabbed my axe, and headed outside into the winter fog. I turned toward Chartres where I left the old Buick. I hoped that it would start. I had learned my lesson. Never buy a used car from a musician, or a friend. You may have to play with that musician again, and friend rapidly changes to ex-friend.
I shuffled down the brick sidewalk and turned down Chartres. The old Buick was parked only a half block away. I lived in the Marigny within walking distance of the Quarter, but preferred to drive. Carrying an instrument case down the back streets screams out two things. One is that you have an instrument that may fetch a couple of hundred bucks at the local pawn shop, and two is that you probably work for tips, and have some ready cash. I donât like being a victim.
I unlocked the door to the Buick, threw the strat in the back seat, and slid under the wheel. I was pleasantly surprised when the cold engine turned over right away, and started purring like a cat with asthma. At least it ran!
I had just put it in âdriveâ when I heard a banging on the rear window right behind my head. I nearly croaked right there â Scared me shitless! Somehow, I repressed the urge to gun the engine, and get the hell out of there. Maybe, I thought, the old Buick would probably stall on me. Never the less, I choked up some courage, and turned to see a dark figure banging frantically on my rear window.
I squinted into the darkness. It was her!
âGod Dammit!â she screamed. âOpen the fuckinâ door!â
I hesitated one more instant before reaching back to unlock the door. She threw it open, threw the leather bag in, and dove in behind it. âGo! Go!â she yelled hysterically.
I gunned it. The old Buick responded with all the power the big V-8 had to offer. We neared Ursuline in a matter of seconds. Just as I was feeling proud that this piece of junk automobile actually worked for once, it began to cough and sputter. Thatâs when I noticed two dark figures quickly appear in the rear view mirror from back on St. Phillip. All at once, I heard rapid popping noises, and saw flashes of fire come from the two men.
âDammit! Get me outta here!â rang out from the back seat.
I heard a thunk mixed in with the popping noises. The old Buick had taken a round. As if on cue, the old girl roared to life again.
âIâm tryinâ!â I shouted back. I couldnât believe it. The woman of my dreams was in my back seat, and a couple of gorillas were trying to kill us!
The Buick howled past Governor Nicholls. The shooting had stopped. The two dark figures disappeared back down St. Phillip. I slammed on the brakes, and whipped the big old car left down Barracks. The lady climbed quickly into the front. She plopped down into the passenger seat, straightened out her short dress, and looked up at me with that same damned half smile.
âHi,â was all she said.
I had no idea how to respond. Iâve never been shot at before. I slowed the car down a bit, so as not to draw any unwanted attention from the police. I could already hear the sirens wailing in the distance. Finally, I asked where she was headed. I didnât know what else to say.
âI dunno,â she replied. âAny suggestions?â
I glanced over in time to see her slide a Derringer into the leather bag. âYou gonna shoot me?â I asked. Me and bullets never got along too well.
âI hope not. That gets a little sloppy.â She offered her hand, and that smile. âIâm Kellyâ
I took her hand. âJack,â I said, holding her hand firmly.
I held her small hand as we looked into one anotherâs eyes for just a second. Then, I let go, and turned back to the road just in time to keep from slamming into the back of a drunk in an Audi. I rode his bumper for a few more seconds before swinging the car right on Bourbon.
âHow âbout my place? Itâs just around the corner.â
She appeared to be thinking for a second. âTheyâll be checking the neighborhood, and theyâve already seen this car.â