Imogene in New Orleans by Hunter Murphy

Glenway’s studio and the fact that Rogers arrived so early to the scene.”
    “That Neil’s a crackerjack, ain’t he? He didn’t try to whoop the big fellar again, did he?”
    “Oh no. I kept a close eye on him.”
    “Hmm. Well, honey, I can’t wait for them powdered sugar thangs. You say this place we’re goin’ to is the most famous for makin’ doughnuts? Yessir.” She patted her brassiere, which she had stuffed with money. “You ready for ’em, Billy?”
    “Yeah, I am, but don’t you think it’s odd of Neil to leave like that? Didn’t he come here to spend time with us?” Billy looked out the window as they passed the balconies on Toulouse Street with the sun leading the way to the river. They were among the morning crowd and the French Quarter teemed with life. The sidewalks filled with walkers and shoppers. A family of three generations waited for a taxi, the grandmother allowing her baby grandson to adjust her hair bow. The morning sun in New Orleans felt like it was trying to make a point, convincing the old world to believe something new.
    Jackson put his arm around Billy and said, “He needs to talk to Allen.”
    The cabbie dropped them off at the famous café next to the Mississippi River. Jackson said, “The Café du Monde’s been in business since 1862. They haven’t sold anything to drink but coffee and water for a hundred and twenty-five years.” The outside pavilion was packed with customers, so they walked inside and sat at the closest table. A middle-aged waitress approached them and stood over the table. Jackson asked her for three orders of beignets, café au laits, and waters.
    “Decaf for me, please,” Billy told the server. Then he looked at Jackson. “You know what real coffee does to me.”
    “Yeah, you always think you’re experiencing stroke symptoms.” Jackson smiled at Billy from across the small table.
    “It’s just my TMJ.” Billy glanced around the room and focused on the corner. Jackson followed his partner’s stare, resting his eyes on a mysterious man hunkered over his table. The guy wore a hooded sweatshirt that covered his head. He sat so that no one could see his face.
    Jackson said, “Ah, yes, temporomandibular joint disorder, diagnosed by an ENT after three trips to the ER, four visits to your primary physician, and the various specialists from whom you sought answers.” Jackson clapped his hands together as the waitress returned.
    Imogene said, “Honey, I’ve never seen such as this.” It looked like a plate of dried snow, piled as high as the napkin dispenser in the center of the table. She picked up the first beignet on top of the pile and tried to eat it, getting sugar all over her face. She took a slurp of her coffee and then made a mean face. “That ain’t coffee, is it?” She glared at the boys as if they had tricked her. “That ain’t nothing but tar…with milk.”
    Jackson said, “It has chicory in it. You need to sweeten it more.” He turned the sugar canister into her coffee and she tried it again.
    “Yeah, that’s better. Still tastes funny though.”
    Billy stared at the shady guy in the corner. Jackson asked, “What’s wrong? Why are you focused on that stranger?”
    Billy motioned toward the wall. “Something seems familiar about him. He just turned his head to the side, and I thought I recognized him from somewhere.”
    Jackson noticed the man wearing new shoes—shiny running shoes with reflectors under the laces. He leaned over to see the side of the man’s scruffy face, but a customer at the table beside him stared, so he stopped. He had a hot plate of doughnuts in front of him which needed attention.
    Without looking down at the table, Billy grabbed for a cup of coffee, accidentally picking up Jackson’s, and took a big swig.
    “What are you doing?” Jackson asked after noticing the mistake. “You just drank from mine.”
    “Umm!” Billy slapped the table, shaking the plates and silverware. Imogene looked at