another.
“I'm good,” Max said. “Just hoping to meet an old friend.”
“Well, good luck,” the bartender said, even before Max had slid from the stool.
Max nodded, then walked slowly back toward the stairs. He glanced around as he went, trying to see what had changed, why this place no longer felt at ease. Maybe it was simply the bartender's abruptly altered manner.
So who the fuck is Coco?
he thought. On the bottom step he paused and turned back, considering asking out loud if anyone knew him.
Several pairs of eyes flickered from him, and a swell of loud talk and laughter rose up. Digg's suddenly looked and felt like a very different place.
Max hurried up the stairs and back onto the street, turned left, and headed away from Bourbon Street. He remembered he'd left the book about the Biloxi on the bar, but he had no desire to go back. He was confused and frustrated, because every time he looked into part of Gabrielle's life, it revealed more mystery. The bartender down there had known Coco, he was certain of that, and he'd clammed up as soon as his name was mentioned.
He knew I was an outsider.
But there was more to it than that.
If only Corinne had known more, or trusted him enough to tell him whatever else she
did
know. But he was starting to wonder now if, cousin or not, Corinne had really known Gabrielle any better than he had. There were familysecrets and secret histories, but perhaps Corinne had been too far away from both sides to be immersed in either. Maybe the sadness in the woman's eyes was for herself more than for Gabrielle; for her city, and a family she had betrayed for a girl she'd never understood.
He had to find this Coco guy.
Max reached the end of the street and paused. He could hear the sound of a funeral procession, the slow dirge and hymns echoing between buildings, and he stepped up onto the raised sidewalk to show respect. As the procession approached, he wondered whether this was another victim of the floods only just recovered from the ruins.
Funeral marches in New Orleans were usually accompanied—once away from church—by vibrant, upbeat music celebrating the life of the deceased. He was surprised there would be any processions at all in these dark days. But in New Orleans, tradition was everything. The music was an expression of sadness and loss, but he knew that this somber sound would soon turn into a celebration of the life of a lost loved one, not a mourning of their death.
Gabrielle should have had this,
he thought. Max glanced at his watch, amazed that it was still only mid-afternoon. He sighed, looked up at the sky, listened to the funeral procession passing by, and then sensed someone standing behind him.
“Don't turn round,” the voice growled.
Something pressed against the base of Max's spine. It could have been the person scaring him with their fingertip, or it could have been a knife or gun.
“Lookin’ for Coco?” A waft of garlic breath washed over Max, indicating just how close the man was.
Someone in the procession looked at him with sad, heavy eyes, then glanced at the face behind his shoulder and looked quickly away.
“Yeah.” He scanned the street, desperate to set eyes on a cop.
“You buyin’?”
Max had no idea what he was talking about, but he nodded.
“Keep walking and you'll find him.”
“Which way?”
The man pushed at Max, sending him stumbling into the street. “Just keep walking.”
Max was tempted to turn around and ask more, but just because he no longer felt the touch on his back did not mean the threat was gone. So he walked, and as he crossed the road and mounted the opposite sidewalk, he heard laughter.
He turned around, but several pedestrians had gathered on the corner he had just left. They looked toward the disappearing tail of the funeral, and any one of the men could have been his assailant.
Max gasped, breathing deeply and slowly to try and settle his sprinting heart. Then he started walking again, passing shops
“I'm good,” Max said. “Just hoping to meet an old friend.”
“Well, good luck,” the bartender said, even before Max had slid from the stool.
Max nodded, then walked slowly back toward the stairs. He glanced around as he went, trying to see what had changed, why this place no longer felt at ease. Maybe it was simply the bartender's abruptly altered manner.
So who the fuck is Coco?
he thought. On the bottom step he paused and turned back, considering asking out loud if anyone knew him.
Several pairs of eyes flickered from him, and a swell of loud talk and laughter rose up. Digg's suddenly looked and felt like a very different place.
Max hurried up the stairs and back onto the street, turned left, and headed away from Bourbon Street. He remembered he'd left the book about the Biloxi on the bar, but he had no desire to go back. He was confused and frustrated, because every time he looked into part of Gabrielle's life, it revealed more mystery. The bartender down there had known Coco, he was certain of that, and he'd clammed up as soon as his name was mentioned.
He knew I was an outsider.
But there was more to it than that.
If only Corinne had known more, or trusted him enough to tell him whatever else she
did
know. But he was starting to wonder now if, cousin or not, Corinne had really known Gabrielle any better than he had. There were familysecrets and secret histories, but perhaps Corinne had been too far away from both sides to be immersed in either. Maybe the sadness in the woman's eyes was for herself more than for Gabrielle; for her city, and a family she had betrayed for a girl she'd never understood.
He had to find this Coco guy.
Max reached the end of the street and paused. He could hear the sound of a funeral procession, the slow dirge and hymns echoing between buildings, and he stepped up onto the raised sidewalk to show respect. As the procession approached, he wondered whether this was another victim of the floods only just recovered from the ruins.
Funeral marches in New Orleans were usually accompanied—once away from church—by vibrant, upbeat music celebrating the life of the deceased. He was surprised there would be any processions at all in these dark days. But in New Orleans, tradition was everything. The music was an expression of sadness and loss, but he knew that this somber sound would soon turn into a celebration of the life of a lost loved one, not a mourning of their death.
Gabrielle should have had this,
he thought. Max glanced at his watch, amazed that it was still only mid-afternoon. He sighed, looked up at the sky, listened to the funeral procession passing by, and then sensed someone standing behind him.
“Don't turn round,” the voice growled.
Something pressed against the base of Max's spine. It could have been the person scaring him with their fingertip, or it could have been a knife or gun.
“Lookin’ for Coco?” A waft of garlic breath washed over Max, indicating just how close the man was.
Someone in the procession looked at him with sad, heavy eyes, then glanced at the face behind his shoulder and looked quickly away.
“Yeah.” He scanned the street, desperate to set eyes on a cop.
“You buyin’?”
Max had no idea what he was talking about, but he nodded.
“Keep walking and you'll find him.”
“Which way?”
The man pushed at Max, sending him stumbling into the street. “Just keep walking.”
Max was tempted to turn around and ask more, but just because he no longer felt the touch on his back did not mean the threat was gone. So he walked, and as he crossed the road and mounted the opposite sidewalk, he heard laughter.
He turned around, but several pedestrians had gathered on the corner he had just left. They looked toward the disappearing tail of the funeral, and any one of the men could have been his assailant.
Max gasped, breathing deeply and slowly to try and settle his sprinting heart. Then he started walking again, passing shops
Similar Books
