few months…up until the time of his murder.” From behind him, he heard Billy saying, “Hey, hold up. Mother’s hollering at us from the street corner.” Jackson turned around to see Billy, and as soon as he did, Buddy took off running, heading for the St. Louis Cathedral, his new shoes reflecting the sun with each quick step.
Ten
Jackson saw Buddy run in between two trumpeters, who stood in front of the Cathedral and the Cabildo, a beautiful old building with Spanish arches and stucco walls, made famous as the site of the Louisiana Purchase’s transfer in 1803. Jackson yelled for him to stop. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Why are you running?”
Buddy made a right turn past the museum and headed away from the river and toward Chez Hill.
The boys sped up, but Buddy stayed fifty steps in front of them. Jackson huffed, “He’s guilty of something or else he wouldn’t have taken off. I didn’t even have a chance to accuse him.”
Billy clopped along as best he could. “Why don’t you stop running and see if he’ll do the same?”
Jackson was afraid to try it. He kept going as Buddy hoofed it through intersection after intersection. After a few moments of pursuit, Jackson realized that hustlers were generally in good shape. He had seen several hanging around the Southside of Birmingham. They spent a lot of time in cars, just not driving them. Their mode of transportation was their johns or their feet. Buddy was no different. He had a long stride, which Jackson would have admired if not currently sucking in as much of the humid, subtropical air as his body would allow.
As Buddy pumped his arms, the sweatshirt fell off his shoulders, revealing a sporty clean wifebeater and the tattoo of a wolf on his right arm. The white soles of his sneakers bounced off the cobblestone street. He wore a pair of blue jean cutoffs, frayed at the thigh, and a bandana in his back pocket. At a quarter past ten o’clock, the music was already streaming from some of the bars and restaurants along the route. The souvenir vendors prepared their storefronts and carts, several times obstructing Jackson’s sight of the fleeing hustler whose wolf tattoo seemed to gallop on his arm.
Jackson felt his legs burning. He cried out to Buddy, but the crowds were gathering in the streets and on the sidewalks. Buddy sped up, putting a greater distance between himself and the boys. Billy eventually had to stop running. Jackson heard the sound of his partner’s feet trail off, and he turned around to see Billy standing in the middle of Bourbon Street. Jackson kept going. He passed an establishment called the Tool Belt, which had a rainbow flag hanging from its exterior. It was obviously a gay establishment, and he made a mental note of it.
He got as close as three car lengths to Buddy when he crossed an intersection and ran straight into a mime, a street performer painted entirely in gold and taller than eight feet. He could not have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He looked like a flagpole with arms. Jackson knocked off the mime’s gold top hat during the fall. The performer fell to his side. Upon landing, he overturned the gold-painted shoe box.
The mime didn’t say a word during or after the fall, but Jackson could tell how the performer might speak by the grunts and sighs he released into the humid air. He hopped back to his feet because people were watching the aftermath of the collision.
Buddy made a sharp turn down a side street, and Jackson hobbled around the same corner. His legs felt numb. He couldn’t breathe. He was exhausted. Buddy ran down the road, turned into another street, and vanished as if he had never been there, like another ghost from New Orleans’s past.
Jackson bent over, resting his hands on his knees. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and when he did, he walked into a bar and bought a bottle of water. It was one of those daiquiri shops that allowed college students with fake IDs
Ten
Jackson saw Buddy run in between two trumpeters, who stood in front of the Cathedral and the Cabildo, a beautiful old building with Spanish arches and stucco walls, made famous as the site of the Louisiana Purchase’s transfer in 1803. Jackson yelled for him to stop. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Why are you running?”
Buddy made a right turn past the museum and headed away from the river and toward Chez Hill.
The boys sped up, but Buddy stayed fifty steps in front of them. Jackson huffed, “He’s guilty of something or else he wouldn’t have taken off. I didn’t even have a chance to accuse him.”
Billy clopped along as best he could. “Why don’t you stop running and see if he’ll do the same?”
Jackson was afraid to try it. He kept going as Buddy hoofed it through intersection after intersection. After a few moments of pursuit, Jackson realized that hustlers were generally in good shape. He had seen several hanging around the Southside of Birmingham. They spent a lot of time in cars, just not driving them. Their mode of transportation was their johns or their feet. Buddy was no different. He had a long stride, which Jackson would have admired if not currently sucking in as much of the humid, subtropical air as his body would allow.
As Buddy pumped his arms, the sweatshirt fell off his shoulders, revealing a sporty clean wifebeater and the tattoo of a wolf on his right arm. The white soles of his sneakers bounced off the cobblestone street. He wore a pair of blue jean cutoffs, frayed at the thigh, and a bandana in his back pocket. At a quarter past ten o’clock, the music was already streaming from some of the bars and restaurants along the route. The souvenir vendors prepared their storefronts and carts, several times obstructing Jackson’s sight of the fleeing hustler whose wolf tattoo seemed to gallop on his arm.
Jackson felt his legs burning. He cried out to Buddy, but the crowds were gathering in the streets and on the sidewalks. Buddy sped up, putting a greater distance between himself and the boys. Billy eventually had to stop running. Jackson heard the sound of his partner’s feet trail off, and he turned around to see Billy standing in the middle of Bourbon Street. Jackson kept going. He passed an establishment called the Tool Belt, which had a rainbow flag hanging from its exterior. It was obviously a gay establishment, and he made a mental note of it.
He got as close as three car lengths to Buddy when he crossed an intersection and ran straight into a mime, a street performer painted entirely in gold and taller than eight feet. He could not have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He looked like a flagpole with arms. Jackson knocked off the mime’s gold top hat during the fall. The performer fell to his side. Upon landing, he overturned the gold-painted shoe box.
The mime didn’t say a word during or after the fall, but Jackson could tell how the performer might speak by the grunts and sighs he released into the humid air. He hopped back to his feet because people were watching the aftermath of the collision.
Buddy made a sharp turn down a side street, and Jackson hobbled around the same corner. His legs felt numb. He couldn’t breathe. He was exhausted. Buddy ran down the road, turned into another street, and vanished as if he had never been there, like another ghost from New Orleans’s past.
Jackson bent over, resting his hands on his knees. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and when he did, he walked into a bar and bought a bottle of water. It was one of those daiquiri shops that allowed college students with fake IDs
Similar Books
