He rubbed his throbbing thumb. “Remy?”
“That’s my name.”
Declan shook his head, laughed at himself. “Nothing. See you later.”
H e drove in early. He wasn’t particularly interested in drinking, but wanted to see the metamorphosis of New Orleans from day to night. The streets gleamed under the carnival of lights, teemed with the crowds who streamed along, looking for entertainment.
It was neither the tourists nor the merchants who ran the show, in Declan’s opinion. It was the city itself. And its wheels turned on music.
It pumped from doorways, cool jazz, hot rock, melting blues. Overhead, restaurant galleries were thick with diners who warded off the January chill with spicy sauce and alcohol. The strip club hawkers promised all manner of visual delights, and in the shops cash registers rang as tourists gorged on T-shirts and Mardi Gras masks. The bars served hurricanes to the Yankees, and beer and liquor to those who knew better.
But it was the music that kept the parade marching.
He soaked it in as he strolled down Bourbon, past doorways, bright lights, and sudden, unexpected courtyards. He skirted around a group of women who clutched together on the sidewalk chattering like magpies.
He caught the scent of them—flowers and candy—and felt the typical male reaction of pleasure and panic when they burst into giggles.
“Nice ass,” one of them commented, and Declan kept on walking.
Women in packs were dangerous and mysterious entities.
It occurred to him that if he were going to meet Effie, he should take her a token. Some sort of engagement gift. He didn’t know what she liked, or what she was like, come to think of it. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was buying gifts.
Wishing he’d thought of it earlier, he poked through a couple of shops without much hope. Nearly everything in this section was geared for the tourist trade, and he didn’t think a wind-up, plastic penis was quite the thing for a first introduction. A gift could wait, he reflected, or he could just fall back on the basket of girl lotions and potions.
Then he saw it. The silver frog squatted on all fours as if it was about to take a good, springy hop. It had a cheerfully wicked face and a big, smart-ass grin. And reminded Declan instantly of Remy.
If this Effie had fallen for his old college pal, she had to appreciate whimsy. He had it wrapped in fancy paper with a big red bow.
It was still shy of nine when he turned onto Dauphine.
He was ready to sit in a bar, away from the center ring of the circus. Maybe listen to some music and work on a beer. For the next several weeks, he was going to have to tow the line. Spend his days tearing into the kitchen, his evenings planning his next point of attack. He had to track down specific craftsmen. Get bids. Get started.
For tonight, he’d spend some time with friends, then go home and get a solid eight hours’ sleep.
He spotted the sign for Et Trois. It was hard to miss asit danced cheerfully in cool blue over the scarred wooden door of a building barely two good strides from the street.
The second floor boasted the typical gallery and lacy iron baluster. Someone had decked it out with fat clay pots of hot pink geraniums and strung little white fairy lights along the eaves. It made a pretty, feminine picture. The kind of spot where you might sit, drink a glass of wine and contemplate the people strolling by below.
He opened the door to a blast of jumpy zydeco, the scent of garlic and whiskey.
On the small stage was a five-piece band—washboard, fiddle, drums, guitar, accordion. The little dance floor was already packed with people executing the quick, fancy two-step the music cried for.
Through the dim light he could see that none of the round wooden tables scooted to the side were free. He turned toward the bar. The wood was nearly black with age, but it gleamed. A dozen backless stools were jammed together. Declan copped the single one left before someone
“That’s my name.”
Declan shook his head, laughed at himself. “Nothing. See you later.”
H e drove in early. He wasn’t particularly interested in drinking, but wanted to see the metamorphosis of New Orleans from day to night. The streets gleamed under the carnival of lights, teemed with the crowds who streamed along, looking for entertainment.
It was neither the tourists nor the merchants who ran the show, in Declan’s opinion. It was the city itself. And its wheels turned on music.
It pumped from doorways, cool jazz, hot rock, melting blues. Overhead, restaurant galleries were thick with diners who warded off the January chill with spicy sauce and alcohol. The strip club hawkers promised all manner of visual delights, and in the shops cash registers rang as tourists gorged on T-shirts and Mardi Gras masks. The bars served hurricanes to the Yankees, and beer and liquor to those who knew better.
But it was the music that kept the parade marching.
He soaked it in as he strolled down Bourbon, past doorways, bright lights, and sudden, unexpected courtyards. He skirted around a group of women who clutched together on the sidewalk chattering like magpies.
He caught the scent of them—flowers and candy—and felt the typical male reaction of pleasure and panic when they burst into giggles.
“Nice ass,” one of them commented, and Declan kept on walking.
Women in packs were dangerous and mysterious entities.
It occurred to him that if he were going to meet Effie, he should take her a token. Some sort of engagement gift. He didn’t know what she liked, or what she was like, come to think of it. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was buying gifts.
Wishing he’d thought of it earlier, he poked through a couple of shops without much hope. Nearly everything in this section was geared for the tourist trade, and he didn’t think a wind-up, plastic penis was quite the thing for a first introduction. A gift could wait, he reflected, or he could just fall back on the basket of girl lotions and potions.
Then he saw it. The silver frog squatted on all fours as if it was about to take a good, springy hop. It had a cheerfully wicked face and a big, smart-ass grin. And reminded Declan instantly of Remy.
If this Effie had fallen for his old college pal, she had to appreciate whimsy. He had it wrapped in fancy paper with a big red bow.
It was still shy of nine when he turned onto Dauphine.
He was ready to sit in a bar, away from the center ring of the circus. Maybe listen to some music and work on a beer. For the next several weeks, he was going to have to tow the line. Spend his days tearing into the kitchen, his evenings planning his next point of attack. He had to track down specific craftsmen. Get bids. Get started.
For tonight, he’d spend some time with friends, then go home and get a solid eight hours’ sleep.
He spotted the sign for Et Trois. It was hard to miss asit danced cheerfully in cool blue over the scarred wooden door of a building barely two good strides from the street.
The second floor boasted the typical gallery and lacy iron baluster. Someone had decked it out with fat clay pots of hot pink geraniums and strung little white fairy lights along the eaves. It made a pretty, feminine picture. The kind of spot where you might sit, drink a glass of wine and contemplate the people strolling by below.
He opened the door to a blast of jumpy zydeco, the scent of garlic and whiskey.
On the small stage was a five-piece band—washboard, fiddle, drums, guitar, accordion. The little dance floor was already packed with people executing the quick, fancy two-step the music cried for.
Through the dim light he could see that none of the round wooden tables scooted to the side were free. He turned toward the bar. The wood was nearly black with age, but it gleamed. A dozen backless stools were jammed together. Declan copped the single one left before someone
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