character, the history, or the finely woven fabric of life in New Orleans.
This city might be dead,
Max thought. And the idea hithim like a blow to the gut. The people who loved it too much to stay away, or so much they never left in the first place, might be inhabiting some kind of necropolis, and not wake up to that truth for years.
God, he prayed that wasn't so, that it wouldn't ever be true. If not for Gabrielle, he never would have left this city. New Orleans could be resurrected, he felt sure of that. America
needed
New Orleans.
Max held the book Charlie had given him against his chest like a schoolboy, thinking about ghosts. His memory of Gabrielle haunted him, but other things haunted him, too, and that was why he couldn't just go back to his hotel and wait out the day until his flight home. He'd never been the kind of man who'd run from his ghosts. The only thing he'd ever run from was Gabrielle, and he'd cursed himself for a coward ever since.
No more running.
But before he went looking for the Second Moment, he had to at least look into the other ghost that was haunting him. It weighed on him, filled him with a nervous energy, like he knew there was something he was supposed to do but couldn't quite figure out what.
Gabrielle had loved him. But the woman he thought he'd known wouldn't have cheated on him with one of his own students. The woman he thought he'd known was loved everywhere she went. Yet Gabrielle
had
cheated. Her family hated her so much they wouldn't even pay for her burial, and she had no real friends.
Had
his
Gabrielle ever really existed? Could the bright, shining intellect he'd seen in those young eyes, the humorand life he'd seen within her, have been nothing but his imagination?
If he went home without trying to understand how he could have been so wrong about her, that would haunt him more than any spirit could.
When Max had pressed Corinne about Coco, she had glanced away, as if she didn't want to meet his gaze.
I only met him once,
she'd said.
In Digg's. He was bad news. Forget I ever said his name.
Max had heard of Digg's—a bar in the Quarter—and it was as good a place as any to start looking. As if to urge him along this new plan of action, a cab drifted by and slowed down. It was the same cab that had taken him to Tulane.
“Find what you went there for?” the driver asked.
“Partly,” Max said.
“Cool. I drove around a little, but not a lot of people needin’ taxis today. Maybe I came back to work too soon, y'know, but what else am I supposed to do?”
Max didn't have an answer. “Thanks for coming back.”
“Hey, you got places to be and money in your wallet. I'm not out here for the scenery.”
The cabbie turned up his music and wheel-tapped all the way to the Quarter.
chapter
5
D igg's was on a narrow backstreet, away from the 1 bright lights of the French Quarter, a block away from a fish market and a Cajun seafood take-out place. This wasn't a spot for tourists. The combination of Katrina and the flood hadn't done much damage here, but the neighborhood felt like it had started holding its breath when the storm swept in, and had yet to exhale.
Max walked past Digg's twice before noticing the doorway. A faded wooden sign was screwed into the brickwork, announcing the name. The door was ajar, and immediately inside a stairway led down, its walls papered with decades of overlapping music and gig posters. Hundreds of namespublicized dates long since passed, and perhaps some of those names were long gone, too. The stairway was poorly lit, but standing by the open door Max caught a mouthwatering waft of gumbo and fried chicken, and the familiar scents of bars everywhere: spilled drinks, old wood, good times.
Digg's certainly wasn't doing much to draw attention to itself, but in his seven months here, guided by Gabrielle, Max had come to love local bars and shun the more commercialized tourist areas of the city.
But she had never brought him here.
He wondered
This city might be dead,
Max thought. And the idea hithim like a blow to the gut. The people who loved it too much to stay away, or so much they never left in the first place, might be inhabiting some kind of necropolis, and not wake up to that truth for years.
God, he prayed that wasn't so, that it wouldn't ever be true. If not for Gabrielle, he never would have left this city. New Orleans could be resurrected, he felt sure of that. America
needed
New Orleans.
Max held the book Charlie had given him against his chest like a schoolboy, thinking about ghosts. His memory of Gabrielle haunted him, but other things haunted him, too, and that was why he couldn't just go back to his hotel and wait out the day until his flight home. He'd never been the kind of man who'd run from his ghosts. The only thing he'd ever run from was Gabrielle, and he'd cursed himself for a coward ever since.
No more running.
But before he went looking for the Second Moment, he had to at least look into the other ghost that was haunting him. It weighed on him, filled him with a nervous energy, like he knew there was something he was supposed to do but couldn't quite figure out what.
Gabrielle had loved him. But the woman he thought he'd known wouldn't have cheated on him with one of his own students. The woman he thought he'd known was loved everywhere she went. Yet Gabrielle
had
cheated. Her family hated her so much they wouldn't even pay for her burial, and she had no real friends.
Had
his
Gabrielle ever really existed? Could the bright, shining intellect he'd seen in those young eyes, the humorand life he'd seen within her, have been nothing but his imagination?
If he went home without trying to understand how he could have been so wrong about her, that would haunt him more than any spirit could.
When Max had pressed Corinne about Coco, she had glanced away, as if she didn't want to meet his gaze.
I only met him once,
she'd said.
In Digg's. He was bad news. Forget I ever said his name.
Max had heard of Digg's—a bar in the Quarter—and it was as good a place as any to start looking. As if to urge him along this new plan of action, a cab drifted by and slowed down. It was the same cab that had taken him to Tulane.
“Find what you went there for?” the driver asked.
“Partly,” Max said.
“Cool. I drove around a little, but not a lot of people needin’ taxis today. Maybe I came back to work too soon, y'know, but what else am I supposed to do?”
Max didn't have an answer. “Thanks for coming back.”
“Hey, you got places to be and money in your wallet. I'm not out here for the scenery.”
The cabbie turned up his music and wheel-tapped all the way to the Quarter.
chapter
5
D igg's was on a narrow backstreet, away from the 1 bright lights of the French Quarter, a block away from a fish market and a Cajun seafood take-out place. This wasn't a spot for tourists. The combination of Katrina and the flood hadn't done much damage here, but the neighborhood felt like it had started holding its breath when the storm swept in, and had yet to exhale.
Max walked past Digg's twice before noticing the doorway. A faded wooden sign was screwed into the brickwork, announcing the name. The door was ajar, and immediately inside a stairway led down, its walls papered with decades of overlapping music and gig posters. Hundreds of namespublicized dates long since passed, and perhaps some of those names were long gone, too. The stairway was poorly lit, but standing by the open door Max caught a mouthwatering waft of gumbo and fried chicken, and the familiar scents of bars everywhere: spilled drinks, old wood, good times.
Digg's certainly wasn't doing much to draw attention to itself, but in his seven months here, guided by Gabrielle, Max had come to love local bars and shun the more commercialized tourist areas of the city.
But she had never brought him here.
He wondered
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