Murder in the Rue Ursulines by Greg Herren Page B

hangouts, there he was, working behind the counter—and thankfully, wearing a nametag.
     This guy across the street didn’t seem to notice me, and I was just starting to think I was mistaken when he reached the bottom of the steps and turned to walk towards the river. In that moment, he was directly under a street lamp, and I did a double take.
    It was Freddy Bliss.
    I opened my mouth to shout hello before crossing the street, but before I could form the word in my throat, he started walking up the street at a very fast pace, breaking into a run when he got to the corner at Dauphine. I stared after him until I lost him in the darkness.
    I glanced back at the house. It was silent, no sign of life there other than the gas lights. That’s odd, I thought , what the hell was Freddy doing there? A cold chill went down my spine as I remembered my call to Loren. Surely Loren had passed the information along…had Freddy gone over to confront her?
    You might be fooling the world with your do-gooder act, but I know what you really are.
    I shuddered in the chill evening air.
    I laughed to myself a little bit, trying to shake the feeling. I crossed the street and stared at the front of the house for a moment. I debated whether I should knock or not.
     The house was completely silent.
    A dog barked, and I jumped.
    Get a grip, Chanse. Besides, it’s really none of your business, is it now, what Freddy was doing there?
    I shrugged, put it out of my head, and headed to Port of Call.

Chapter Four
     
    Port of Call is on the edge of the French Quarter on the corner of Dauphine and Esplanade streets.
    I was on Dauphine about halfway down the block between Barracks and Esplanade when I was assaulted by one of my favorite smells in New Orleans: burgers, being cooked over an open flame. I stopped for a moment, standing there on the sidewalk, my eyes partly closed, savoring the smell. My knees got weak, my stomach growled, and my mouth filled with saliva. There’s nothing I love more than hamburgers—and if they’re cooked over an open flame or charcoal, so much the better.
    Every publication and website having to do with New Orleans always ranks Port of Call as one of the best places in the city to get a burger. They also have great drinks.
     I was hoping there wouldn’t be a wait—the majority of tourists who’d come in for Mardi Gras were probably already on their way home, nursing their hangovers and swearing off liquor permanently. I crossed my fingers as I reached the corner, please, no line, please no line.  I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I got a whiff of the grill, and now I was starving. As I walked around the corner, I breathed a sigh of relief—not only was there not a line; but, miracle of miracles, Paige was sitting on the steps leading to the door, puffing on a cigarette.
    Paige is an unrepentant smoker; I’d finally managed to quit, although the desire for a butt never really went away.  Louisiana had finally passed a law about smoking in restaurants, something to do with how much of the place’s income derived from food vs. liquor…after which Paige swore she would never eat anywhere that wasn’t legally considered a bar rather than a restaurant.
    Her protest didn’t last long. It was harder to swear off Port of Call than it was to quit smoking.
    She stood up when she saw me come around the corner, and flicked her cigarette into the street with a practiced snap of her fingers. She was wearing a rather nice knee length black skirt, a red silk blouse, and black high-heeled shoes. If given her preference, she would dress more like a gypsy, but her new editor at the Times-Picayune, whom she referred to as “that bitch Coralie” had imposed a dress code on the reporters…which was also driving her crazy.
    “More professional, my fat white ass,” she’d snarled when she told me about it. “Does that stupid bitch really think it makes me a goddamned better writer if I dress the way she wants me to?