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

him disappear into a narrow gateway half a
block away.
    I crossed the narrow street and strolled lazily past the
various shops, appearing to idly peruse the windows,
but actually utilizing the reflection until I was directly
across the street from the gateway down which Punky,
if it was indeed Mancini, had disappeared.
    Several happy tourists brushed past. I nodded to
them, and then headed directly across the narrow street
toward the gateway-a dark, vaulted corridor with a
wrought-iron gate securing its entrance.
    At the end of the corridor, I spotted lush plants lit by
the sun. I was peering into one of the hundreds of New
Orleans’ hidden courtyards, all of them connected to
adjacent streets with similar corridors.
    Making my way back to Rigues’, I ordered another
draft beer and then found some shade in Jackson
Square where I could keep my eyes on the bar. A
wrought-iron fence ringed the square, and every night
at sundown, the gates were locked.
    West of Jackson Square sat the blocky Cabildo Museum, separated from the St. Louis Cathedral Basilica
on its north by Pirate’s Alley. The museum, the very structure in which the Louisiana Purchase was signed
in 1803, always fascinated me.

    While I sat in the shade on a park bench sipping my
beer and watching Rigues’, dark clouds burgeoning
with rain rolled in cooling the air a few degrees.
    From the southwest came the rumble of thunder, an
almost daily occurrence in New Orleans during the hot
season, a season which usually lasts eight or nine
months.
    Moments later, a few drops of rain fell, and a cool
wind swept across the park, swirling loose paper about
the base of the statue of Andy Jackson.
    Cued by the first raindrops, the vendors around the
square hastily collected their goods and covered them
with plastic tarps.
    Having experienced New Orleans’ weather, I knew it
was time to seek shelter, so I hurried across the promenade to the porch of the Cabildo, which stretched the
half-block length of the former armory.
    I darted under the porch just as the dark clouds
opened, spilling a blinding rain across the French Quarter. Moments later, a dozen vendors raced onto the
porch, gathering at the far end of the Cabildo in a riotous cacophony of laughter and curses, all encouraged
by copious amounts of beer and hits from cigarettes being passed about.
    A bare-chested man with rings in his eyebrows
carrying a card table draped with green plastic stumbled in from the rain and plopped the table next to the
wall a few feet from me.

    I nodded to him. “Bad for business, huh?”
    He chuckled. “You know it.”
    More concerned about Punky or Bones, I moved a
few feet to my left so I could squint through the sheeting rain at Rigues’ in case one of the two showed.
    In the middle of Jackson Square, a sprinting figure
emerged from the white veil and splashed through the
water rising over the promenade. I spotted a red ponytail flopping against his back as he leaped on the porch
and slid to a halt beside me. He wore leather sandals
and what must have been the latest fashion in torn
jeans. He was the one speaking earlier with Punky.
    He cast a worried glance back in the direction from
which he had come, then laughed and shook his arms in
a futile effort to shed water. “I knew I should have
stayed put,” he said, his glittering pupils the size of pie
plates.
    I laughed with him. “Yeah.”
    Two or three voices from the other end of the porch
shouted at him. He waved back and grinned at me.
“Tourist?”
    “Not really,” I replied. “Wanderer is probably a better word”
    He laughed again. “I know the feeling.” He glanced
at the half-full cup of beer in my hand.
    I offered it to him. “Want a drink? I’m boozed out.”
He hesitated. I laughed. “Don’t worry. I don’t have anything you could catch”
    He chuckled and took the beer, which he promptly
turned up and drained. “Thanks, buddy,” he said, drag ging the back of