posts, slicked by a combination of morning mist and disinfectant spewed by the city’s street-sweeping machines. Jerry glanced at the benign bulk of the Saint Louis Basilica, its spire rising toward the dawn, flanked by the stone-clad Presbytere and the Cabildo. The three buildings, standing side-by-side, always reminded Jerry of a trio of aged grand dames; timeworn and much abused, but still worthy of respect.
The Cafe du Monde, with its squat concrete pillars and trademark green-and-white striped canopy, sat in the shadow of the levee that protected the city from the Mississippi River. A handful of Vieux Carré habitués were holding early morning court in the open-air patio, drinking cafe au lait as they watched trucks rumble to and from the nearby French Market. Jerry picked a seat near the sidewalk and ordered a coffee, to have it materialize before him in less than a minute. He sipped the brownish concoction and stared across the street at the tidy little French garden at the historic heart of Jackson Square.
In a couple of hours the city’s licensed street artists would emerge from their various studios and set up shop, hanging examples of their craft along the spiked metal pickets like dressed-out ducks. Jerry had tried his hand at the sidewalk art gig shortly after moving to the city, but his style was not widely accessible and his hand too slow to make a buck off the tourist portrait trade, so he gave up.
His eye wandered from the fenced garden to the statue of Andrew Jackson astride his horse that was the centerpiece of the square. Old Hickory now forever saluted the city that, at the time of the Battle of New Orleans, had been more than glad to see the back of him.
A pigeon perched atop Jackson’s hat, cooing to its brethren that covered the sidewalk below like a dirty blanket. A particularly bedraggled specimen, its plumage the color of tobacco juice, strutted towards him. It didn’t have enough toes and was missing an eye, but seemed unafraid of humans. Jerry wasn’t surprised: New Orleans pigeons were notorious for their brazen disregard of man and machine.
“Shoo!” he said, flapping a hand at the bird.
The pigeon cocked its head, fixing him with its solitary eye. The bird stepped closer, its gaze riveted on Jerry. He could not help but feel that there was something familiar in the way it looked at him.
“Shoo!” Jerry repeated, this time with feeling.
The pigeon scratched frantically at the pavement, and then hopped aside. Jerry dropped the heavy white mug he was holding, spilling hot coffee in his lap. The waiter hurried forward.
“You okay, mister?” he asked, wiping Jerry’s crotch with a filthy dishrag.
Jerry’s thighs throbbed unpleasantly, but otherwise he was unhurt. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just more hung-over than I thought I was, I guess.”
He was tired and more than a little drunk, that was all. His eyes were playing tricks on him. There was no way in hell a pigeon scratched Charlie’s name on the sidewalk. Still, as he made his way home, Jerry kept his eye peeled for the mutilated bird with dirty brown feathers, but it was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Twelve
Tee was laughing at something one of her co-workers said as she exited the restaurant. Her smile disappeared when she saw Rossiter waiting for her. “What the fuck do you want?” she asked tartly.
He stepped forward, his face contrite. “I came to apologize. You were right: I was fooling around with things I had no business messing with.” He showed her the bouquet of long stemmed roses he’d been hiding behind his back. “Can we back up and start over?”
Tee looked at the flowers, then at Rossiter, then smiled and took the bouquet from him, cradling it like a thorny child.
Rossiter lay on his back, Tee curled inside the circle of his arm. She muttered something in her sleep and pressed closer to him. He dimly remembered promising Charlie he would meet her for dinner that evening, but that was nothing compared
The Cafe du Monde, with its squat concrete pillars and trademark green-and-white striped canopy, sat in the shadow of the levee that protected the city from the Mississippi River. A handful of Vieux Carré habitués were holding early morning court in the open-air patio, drinking cafe au lait as they watched trucks rumble to and from the nearby French Market. Jerry picked a seat near the sidewalk and ordered a coffee, to have it materialize before him in less than a minute. He sipped the brownish concoction and stared across the street at the tidy little French garden at the historic heart of Jackson Square.
In a couple of hours the city’s licensed street artists would emerge from their various studios and set up shop, hanging examples of their craft along the spiked metal pickets like dressed-out ducks. Jerry had tried his hand at the sidewalk art gig shortly after moving to the city, but his style was not widely accessible and his hand too slow to make a buck off the tourist portrait trade, so he gave up.
His eye wandered from the fenced garden to the statue of Andrew Jackson astride his horse that was the centerpiece of the square. Old Hickory now forever saluted the city that, at the time of the Battle of New Orleans, had been more than glad to see the back of him.
A pigeon perched atop Jackson’s hat, cooing to its brethren that covered the sidewalk below like a dirty blanket. A particularly bedraggled specimen, its plumage the color of tobacco juice, strutted towards him. It didn’t have enough toes and was missing an eye, but seemed unafraid of humans. Jerry wasn’t surprised: New Orleans pigeons were notorious for their brazen disregard of man and machine.
“Shoo!” he said, flapping a hand at the bird.
The pigeon cocked its head, fixing him with its solitary eye. The bird stepped closer, its gaze riveted on Jerry. He could not help but feel that there was something familiar in the way it looked at him.
“Shoo!” Jerry repeated, this time with feeling.
The pigeon scratched frantically at the pavement, and then hopped aside. Jerry dropped the heavy white mug he was holding, spilling hot coffee in his lap. The waiter hurried forward.
“You okay, mister?” he asked, wiping Jerry’s crotch with a filthy dishrag.
Jerry’s thighs throbbed unpleasantly, but otherwise he was unhurt. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just more hung-over than I thought I was, I guess.”
He was tired and more than a little drunk, that was all. His eyes were playing tricks on him. There was no way in hell a pigeon scratched Charlie’s name on the sidewalk. Still, as he made his way home, Jerry kept his eye peeled for the mutilated bird with dirty brown feathers, but it was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Twelve
Tee was laughing at something one of her co-workers said as she exited the restaurant. Her smile disappeared when she saw Rossiter waiting for her. “What the fuck do you want?” she asked tartly.
He stepped forward, his face contrite. “I came to apologize. You were right: I was fooling around with things I had no business messing with.” He showed her the bouquet of long stemmed roses he’d been hiding behind his back. “Can we back up and start over?”
Tee looked at the flowers, then at Rossiter, then smiled and took the bouquet from him, cradling it like a thorny child.
Rossiter lay on his back, Tee curled inside the circle of his arm. She muttered something in her sleep and pressed closer to him. He dimly remembered promising Charlie he would meet her for dinner that evening, but that was nothing compared
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