Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter by Kent Conwell

front right
bumper caught his back fender, sending the back end of
the Dodge Ram spinning around as we shot past.
    I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the Dodge
make a complete spin and sink up to the front doors in
the water-filled ditch.
    Leroi whistled. “Hey, cuz. Where’d you learn that?”
    “All in a day’s work,” I said with a broad grin, but secretly, I was amazed the trick had worked.
    Back in Opelousas, Leroi and I went through the
same argument we’d had back in Melungo. I could understand a father’s anger, his rage, and subsequently his
thirst for revenge over the death of a child, but such
emotions are difficult, if not impossible to control. “I
won’t take the chance, Leroi.”
    He glared at me, a frail likeness of the strong, deter mined man with whom I had commiserated at Stewarts’s funeral last December. “Then I’ll go by myself.”

    “That could do just as much damage, Leroi. Look,
give me a week. I’ll call and let you know how I’m doing. I want to find the ones who killed Stewart just as
much as you do. A week. That’s all I ask.”
    He studied me a moment, then nodded. “A week”

     

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve visited
New Orleans over the years. It’s a city of charming history and of gloomy mystery with a large helping of
frolicking sin thrown into the mix. But it can also be a
forbidding city, and I don’t mean the ghosts everyone
parades about.
    East of Baton Rouge, 1-10 forks, the left branch,
1-12, heading on down the coast, and the right fork
leading directly to New Orleans, still an hour or so
away. But even at such a distance, the unique melange
of old and new world beckons with the irresistible siren
songs of temptation.
    I found a third-floor apartment at the La Maison des
Fantomes, the home of ghosts, on Toulouse Street, half
a block west of Bourbon Street and about two blocks from Rigues’ on the corner of St. Peter and Chartres
Streets.

    A slight black old man with curly gray hair, who
could have been anywhere from fifty to a hundred years
old, shook his head. “We all full up, mister. Gots no
more rooms excepts de one dat is haunted”
    Familiar with many of the ghost stories throughout
the French Quarter, I joked, “That’ll do. As long as he
doesn’t want to sleep in my bed, I can handle it.”
    He hesitated, his brow knit. “Don’t you wants to hear
about de haint? Most do”
    I decided to humor the old man. “Sure. Tell me about
the `haint.’ “
    Gesturing to the floors above us, he replied, “Dis
used to be where de slaves, dey was brung to be punished. After de Civil War, all de slaves, dey was freed.
But at night, people hear cries come from up above.”
He pointed a bony finger at the ceiling. “Dey look, but
dey never find no one. De building was sold, and when
de new owner, he tear down wall in dat room, he finds a
hidden room with skeleton bones hanging from chains
on de wall.”
    “And,” I noted with a wry grin, “that must be the
only room you have left”
    He nodded.
    “That’s okay. I’ll still take it.”
    He eyed me a moment, then slid a registration card
across the counter. “Dere you be. Room three-threeseven”
    There were no elevators. I had the choice of going onto the patio and taking the outside stairs or ascending
a narrow, steep flight of stairs behind the registration
desk. I took the outside stairs, enjoying the sight of a
swimming pool surrounded by lush vegetation, and
breathing in the delicate aroma of blooming jasmine
and dwarf gardenias.

    La Maison des Fantomes was not a five-star hotel.
From the looks of my small, plain apartment, one or two
stars would have been a noteworthy accomplishment.
    Yet, it was clean although the red carpet was worn.
The bed was comfortable, and the sheets were clean.
Two white wicker chairs were under a round wicker
table, and a small TV sat on a severely plain desk that
looked like a castoff from a Shaker