The Red Storm by Grant Bywaters Page B

headed down Bourbon, passing by the usual crowd of folks. An old Creole woman was dragging a leash behind her, although no visible animal was attached to it. Rich men who had left the wives at home were out in traditional Southern attire of bow ties, striped suits, straw hats, and walking canes to find some evening pleasure. The local former Prohibition agent, intoxicated again, was harassing fresh tourists for money.
    I stumbled upon Zella Storm’s photo fronting the windows of the Bourbon Street Blues Club on the corner of Bourbon and Conti Street. On the top galleries of the establishment inebriated birds were screaming down to any mildly attractive woman passing the street below to strip down to nothing but their toe polish.
    The doorman spotted me. He pulled out the business card I had given to Zella.
    â€œYou William Fletcher?”
    â€œThat would be me,” I said.
    He jerked his head inside. “Just in time. She’s about to take the stage.”
    I went in through the open French doors to a smoke-polluted room packed to the gills. The tables around the stage were filled with men. They were smoking cigars or drinking right out of the bottles the booze came in. Pouring shots was a waste of time for this crowd.
    The waiters were as hard-boiled, plowing through the interlocking crowd like linebackers going through an offensive line.
    I took my place at the congested bar, and kept myself amused by observing the barkeep deliberately overlooking me. He took orders from everyone that came up or was around, except me. I had grown so used to this kind of conduct that it had nearly developed into a sort of comedic routine.
    The band of all coloreds sat on the stage cueing up their instruments. Most of the players I knew as regulars at the colored establishments I went to.
    The lights weakened and the anxious crowd hollered with approval. Storm went on stage wearing another elegant black dress, and I prepared myself for a lackluster routine. To my surprise, it was even worse.
    Her whiskey-burned voice was suitable but at times caustic on the ears; however, it was never her pipes that were the problem. It was her performance that came up lacking. Yet the crowd went for it. The booze probably helped, but Zella’s silhouette and stunning dress were good enough distractions as any to forget her poor showmanship. It seemed Zella had found a suitable crowd.
    A few minutes after her set, Zella cornered me at the bar.
    â€œWhat’d you think?” she asked.
    I lied. “It was solid.”
    â€œYes, I thought so, too.”
    She ordered a martini and, upon getting her drink, looked at me. “You ain’t drinking tonight?”
    â€œI was going to get something, but Ethel behind the bar was too busy pretending I ain’t here.” I motioned to the blond cake-eater barkeep.
    Her gray eyes lit up and she spun around to the bar. “Pete, come here for a minute.”
    Pete went to Zella like a love-struck puppy.
    â€œYes, ma’am?” he asked
    Zella lobbed her drink in Pete’s face. Momentarily stunned, he yelled, “Why’d you do that for!”
    â€œBecause you’re an ass.”
    The remark sparked Pete to lunge over the bar at her. He hadn’t made it clear over when I hard-pressed him back. I did not intend to push him as hard as I ended up doing. I sometimes forgot my own strength. As opposed to landing back on his feet, which I wanted to happen, he fell against the retaining wall, colliding onto the stacked alcohol jugs and martini glasses.
    With fists clenched, I was ready for the oncoming throng of attacks that often ended up ensuing in situations like this. Instead, the crowd looked up at what was going on, shrugged, and went about drinking or doing whatever the hell they were doing.
    â€œSay, let’s go out to the courtyard. I could use some air,” Zella said.
    The back courtyard was quieter than the bar. Only a few birds stood around punching the