parked his car on Esplanade Avenue and killed the lights. Cloaked in darkness, he removed his shoes and pulled on the cowboy boots he’d bought at the Tex-Mex outlet. He’d grabbed a pair of size tens without trying them on. They pinched his toes, but it didn’t matter. He’d ditch them later.
He had taken more care with the buckskin cowboy hat, choosing one a size too large. With the brim pulled down, his hair and forehead were hidden. He had also bought a gaudy string-tie, silver cords with dice attached to both ends. If anyone noticed him, they’d remember the details, not his face.
With the cowboy hat in place, he left the car and turned the corner onto Royal Street. The boots made walking difficult and he took care to avoid jagged cement slabs in the sidewalk, heaved up by the roots of ancient trees. The air was hot and muggy, no hint of a breeze, and sweat quickly dampened in his armpits and groin. Tonight he felt none of the usual excitement, just grim determination.
There would be no Absolution tonight.
Hobbled by the cumbersome boots, he crossed several side streets: Barracks, Governor Nichols, and Ursuline. Nearing St. Philip, he heard loud music coming from the gay bar on the corner. Paradise Disco. The door and the windows were wide open and a voice called to him from the shadowy interior, clearly audible over the disco beat. “Hey, Tex, wanna hump?”
The words brought memories of Brother Henry, the musky odor of sweat and slimy semen. Boarding school, seventh grade. He’d been so far from home, so lonely. Late one night his English teacher had come to him, slipping into the darkness of his room. He almost expected it: penance for his earlier sins. After that Brother Henry came to him twice a week. They never acknowledged this in class, but he thought about it constantly, the weight of the man, the sweet-smelling odor of his sweat, the dark liquid eyes that never met his own. He felt no hate, only shame. The affection Brother Henry had shown him was comforting, more than he’d ever received at home.
“ Come on in, Tex. We’ll have a good time.”
The sinner ducked around the corner and hurried up St. Philip. One block away Bourbon Street was already audible, a throbbing jumble of blues and jazz and disco and rock issuing from the bars and strip joints.
He turned left on Bourbon and there it was, a blinking pink neon sign, alternately pulsing PUSSYCAT and the outline of a woman with huge breasts and a gigantic rump. The bar where he’d met the prostitute. It was nine-thirty, early for Bourbon Street revelers, but with any kind of luck he might catch her with her first trick.
Boisterous crowds overflowed the sidewalks and milled into the street: Texas oilmen with pinky rings, black-clad bikers, punk rockers with spiky purple hair, and baby-faced college students, all of them armed with plastic cups of beer or cocktails festooned with fruit. He’d forgotten the horrible smell: pungent body odor, acrid disinfectant, and the sickly sweet stench of the sewers—beer and booze fermented by the relentless heat.
The crowd swirled him past the PUSSYCAT. From the dark interior came catcalls and piercing whistles, men whooping it up as bosomy women stripped to the bump-and-grind of a lowdown blues. One block later he managed a U-turn and drifted past the club again, in a holding pattern like a jet awaiting clearance to land at an airport, careful to avoid drawing attention. Police were everywhere: uniforms on every corner, others on horseback, still others in street-clothes, mixing with the crowd.
At quarter past ten he saw her, nuzzling some poor sucker’s neck as they came out of the bar. He recognized her at once: stringy bleached-blonde hair with dark roots, heavy makeup on her face, a harlot in a scarlet dress with a short skirt. She might have been five-six; the john was shorter, a chubby man with thinning hair and a paunch hanging over his jeans.
Lurking a half-block behind, he followed them
He had taken more care with the buckskin cowboy hat, choosing one a size too large. With the brim pulled down, his hair and forehead were hidden. He had also bought a gaudy string-tie, silver cords with dice attached to both ends. If anyone noticed him, they’d remember the details, not his face.
With the cowboy hat in place, he left the car and turned the corner onto Royal Street. The boots made walking difficult and he took care to avoid jagged cement slabs in the sidewalk, heaved up by the roots of ancient trees. The air was hot and muggy, no hint of a breeze, and sweat quickly dampened in his armpits and groin. Tonight he felt none of the usual excitement, just grim determination.
There would be no Absolution tonight.
Hobbled by the cumbersome boots, he crossed several side streets: Barracks, Governor Nichols, and Ursuline. Nearing St. Philip, he heard loud music coming from the gay bar on the corner. Paradise Disco. The door and the windows were wide open and a voice called to him from the shadowy interior, clearly audible over the disco beat. “Hey, Tex, wanna hump?”
The words brought memories of Brother Henry, the musky odor of sweat and slimy semen. Boarding school, seventh grade. He’d been so far from home, so lonely. Late one night his English teacher had come to him, slipping into the darkness of his room. He almost expected it: penance for his earlier sins. After that Brother Henry came to him twice a week. They never acknowledged this in class, but he thought about it constantly, the weight of the man, the sweet-smelling odor of his sweat, the dark liquid eyes that never met his own. He felt no hate, only shame. The affection Brother Henry had shown him was comforting, more than he’d ever received at home.
“ Come on in, Tex. We’ll have a good time.”
The sinner ducked around the corner and hurried up St. Philip. One block away Bourbon Street was already audible, a throbbing jumble of blues and jazz and disco and rock issuing from the bars and strip joints.
He turned left on Bourbon and there it was, a blinking pink neon sign, alternately pulsing PUSSYCAT and the outline of a woman with huge breasts and a gigantic rump. The bar where he’d met the prostitute. It was nine-thirty, early for Bourbon Street revelers, but with any kind of luck he might catch her with her first trick.
Boisterous crowds overflowed the sidewalks and milled into the street: Texas oilmen with pinky rings, black-clad bikers, punk rockers with spiky purple hair, and baby-faced college students, all of them armed with plastic cups of beer or cocktails festooned with fruit. He’d forgotten the horrible smell: pungent body odor, acrid disinfectant, and the sickly sweet stench of the sewers—beer and booze fermented by the relentless heat.
The crowd swirled him past the PUSSYCAT. From the dark interior came catcalls and piercing whistles, men whooping it up as bosomy women stripped to the bump-and-grind of a lowdown blues. One block later he managed a U-turn and drifted past the club again, in a holding pattern like a jet awaiting clearance to land at an airport, careful to avoid drawing attention. Police were everywhere: uniforms on every corner, others on horseback, still others in street-clothes, mixing with the crowd.
At quarter past ten he saw her, nuzzling some poor sucker’s neck as they came out of the bar. He recognized her at once: stringy bleached-blonde hair with dark roots, heavy makeup on her face, a harlot in a scarlet dress with a short skirt. She might have been five-six; the john was shorter, a chubby man with thinning hair and a paunch hanging over his jeans.
Lurking a half-block behind, he followed them
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