Cody had thrown that match. Mark Miller was unbeaten, but there were matches he should have lost. But not Cody. Cody had gone out on a losing note, which was just wrong. What thanks was that to his loyal fans? He should have gone out on top.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the screen. No, he couldn’t just let this stand.
It doesn’t end here
, he thought, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.
No way, this
isn’t the end of things, Cody can’t just leave his fans in the lurch like this,,,,
I took a streetcar named St. Charles down to Canal, crossed the street and walked down to Royal.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning on one of those splendidly sunny September days that makes you glad to be alive. Taking the streetcar had been a good idea. The long heat of summer had broken, and the air was crisp and in the mid-seventies. The sky was that blue unique to New Orleans, with wispy white clouds scattered across its expanse. There was just a hint of cool moisture in the air. There were a lot of people milling around the sidewalks on Canal— a good sign for the tourist season. Canal used to be the main shopping drag of the city, with huge department stores like Maison Blanche and D. H. Holmes. Those were long gone. They had either gone out of business or fled to the suburbs— now it was mostly hotels, fast food, and Foot Lockers.
There were hopes that putting the Canal streetcar line back in place would stimulate a recovery for the street. So far, all the construction work had simply made the Quarter difficult to get to from uptown. Add to that the chore of trying to find a place to park that would get me a ticket in two hours or cost ten dollars, and I was kind of glad I was having car trouble—the streetcar down and a cab home was very simple.
Not that riding the streetcar didn’t bring its own set of aggravations. If the cars ran on any fixed schedule, I’d never been able to figure it out. You could wait for one for half an hour and then three in a row, all packed to the gills, would show up. The streetcar ostensibly operated as public transportation, but was also a de rigeur tourist attraction. There was no way of telling when you’d be able to catch one with a place to sit. But when you did, it was nice to find a window seat on a sunny day and enjoy the city clacking by.
I knew my car was on its last legs. I’d had it for over ten years, and the transmission was starting to go. My boyfriend, Paul, was all for my getting a new one. He didn’t like my red Cavalier. I think it embarrassed him in some way. He always offered to drive his car if we were going anywhere. I tried to explain my attachment to the car to him once, but he didn’t get it. It was the first thing I’d ever really owned on my own, and was the first truly expensive thing I’d ever bought and paid for. I’m not one of those people who get into cars. For me, they’ve always just been a way to get from point A to point B. I’m also a creature of habit. My next car was most likely going to be a Cavalier. They’re good cars that last. I sometimes had the impression Paul wanted me to get something more expensive and stylish, but that was too bad.
I looked at my watch as I started to walk up Royal Street. I was running a little late for my appointment, which is usually not like me. Then again, I’d been acting like someone else for a few months. Maybe being in a relationship had changed me. I hadn’t been in one since college—and that was a long time ago. It ended badly, with hurt feelings all around, and I didn’t ever want to go through anything like that again. My memories probably weren’t completely accurate—there had to have been
some
good times. But those memories were gone. It probably hadn’t been as bad as I remembered it. I’d managed to quit smoking (well, I still snuck one every now and then), cut back on the pot, and had even started taking my workouts a lot more seriously.
These changes were all due to Paul Maxwell, my boyfriend. He didn’t like my smoking, and he
really
disapproved of the pot smoking. He was right, of course. You can’t argue with the Surgeon General. Cigarettes were damaging my health. And the pot, well—I’d heard it was illegal.
Paul and I had also become workout partners, which I hadn’t thought I’d like. But it was fun, actually. I’d always thought my workouts were tough, but they were a piece of cake compared to Paul’s. He also encouraged me to eat better. Since we ate most of our meals together, he usually cooked one of his healthy dishes. I didn’t mind, because my muscles were getting bigger, I was getting more defined than ever, and my abs were starting to really show. I liked the way I looked in the mirror now. My clothes fit in an entirely different but better way. I’ve always been a pretty big guy—I played scholarship football at LSU for Christ’s sake—and other guys seemed to like that. But now my body was becoming hard, solid muscle, and even more people seemed to take notice. I found women smiling at me on the street or in the grocery store. I got faster service in the bars. It was pretty cool.
But every once in a while I really craved a bacon cheeseburger.
Maybe after this appointment I can go have one at the Clover Grill
, I thought as I dodged a couple of tourists looking at a map and jabbering in German at each other. The thought made my mouth water.
I haven’t cheated on my diet in a while
, I reasoned,
so I’m entitled to a treat.
Paul’s theory of diet included rewarding yourself with something fattening and bad for you every once in a while, but he never seemed to indulge, so when I cheated, I did it when he wasn’t around.
Call it diet adultery.
My appointment was at Domino’s, an unopened club on the 700 block of Bourbon. It had opened briefly during Southern Decadence, but closed to complete renovations and improvements immediately after. It was a good location, close to the corner at St. Ann, which put it in easy walking distance of the gay bars. It was a dance club trying to go for both the gay and straight markets. Lots of straight people, mostly women, frequented Oz and the Parade for their great dance music—but the straight boys stayed away. Domino’s planned to court straight people who liked to dance along with some of the gay boys, too.
I was meeting Dominique DuPre, the owner/manager. She hadn’t said why she needed a private eye when she’d called, but I was going to find out soon enough. I’d done an Internet search on her after she made the appointment. She was in her early 30s, had been divorced fairly recently, and had some moderate success as a dance music diva. She’d never made the big leagues— like Donna Summer or Madonna—but she had a big gay following. Her biggest dance hit was a song called “I Don’t Want You Anymore” which went to number 5 on the Billboard dance charts. She’d been interviewed in a gay national glossy, but the article read like the typical straight celebrity in the gay press interview. She loved her gay fans, she loved performing in gay bars, and did lots of AIDS benefits—the typical kind of crap.
I was wearing a pair of black jeans and a yellow short-sleeved cotton pullover that fit a lot tighter than it used to. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a gallery window,and grinned. My shirts were all getting tight in the chest and shoulders. I stopped to look at myself for a while, until I saw that one of the street mimes was watching me. Embarrassed, I dumped my change into his hat and hurried up Royal.
The guy dressed as a hand grenade was standing in front of Tropical Isle on the corner of St. Louis and Bourbon, trying to urge the passing tourists to come in. I always wondered about that guy. What do you do for fun at night when you spent your days dressed as a hand grenade? I paused there on the corner for a minute. The Lucky Dog vendor on another corner was making a chili dog for a man in a business suit. A beer truck rumbled by followed by a couple of cabs and a very slow-moving convertible blaring rap music, and filled with white teenagers—an even mix of boys and girls. When it went past, I saw it had Mississippi plates. College kids. They were probably from USM over in Hattiesburg, out playing hooky for the day in the Quarter
. It must be great going to college in close proximity to New Orleans,
I thought with a grin. I’d escaped down here from Baton Rouge plenty of times.
A woman started to sing into a microphone somewhere down the block. She was singing an old Aretha Franklin hymn, “Sweet Bitter Love,” which has always been one of my favorites. The singer was no Aretha, but her voice ached with pain as she sang every word in a deep register that was almost a growl. I started to walk in the direction the suffering voice was coming from, which was the way I needed to go. As I got closer to Domino’s, the voice grew louder.
I walked in the front door. Just inside the foyer there was a door to my left and a hallway directly in front of me. There were five stairs that led to a window marked CASHIER. That would be the entrance, then. The door to my left was open, revealing a room decorated almost entirely in dusty slightly faded red velvet. I could hear people moving things around. Ignoring the proper entrance, I went in.
The room was big. Everything was covered with red velvet; upholstery, walls, even the carpet. The red velvet wallpaper ran up the wall about six feet from the floor,; it was faded, torn, and stained. Yellow-painted sheet rock, water-stained and cracked in places, went the rest of the way to the ceiling. A dirty black iron chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, and cobwebs waved in the air between the sconces. To the right of the room was a long bar. Behind it, against the mirrors, glasses and bottles were stacked. There was a guy with really broad shoulders in a white T-shirt and a long black ponytail shining glasses and tadding them to the pyramid in front of him. On the other side of the room two guys holding walkie talkies smoked cigarettes. Both wore toolbelts which hung below their waists.
Beyond that room was what had to be the dance floor. It was pitch dark back there. At the far side of the dance floor was a stage. A woman stood on the stage and sang into a microphone—hers was the voice I’d heard from the street. She was tall, dark and rail thin. She wore a knee length tight black skirt and a black silk sleeveless blouse, with enough buttons open to expose some cleavage. A spotlight shone directly into her face, giving it an unearthly glow. Her eyes weren’t open, and her hands were at her sides as she began to raise her register to make the bridge, each note came louder and higher than the one before. I wondered if she’d make it all the way when feedback squawked, hurting my ears.
“GODDAMNIT!” she screamed into the microphone. “Can’t you assholes get this right?” She glared up at the wall above the entryway before jumping off the stage. She tossed the microphone back onto the stage – a loud “thump” echoed through the space. She headed directly to the room I was standing in, and her low black heels clicked on the floor. Her face was furious--eyes wide, lips compressed into a tight line. She walked to the bar and drummed her long red fingernails on the shiny wood surface. “Give me a Wild Turkey, Sly.”
The ponytailed guy poured her half a glass of bourbon, and noticed me as he put it down in front of her. “Something I can help you with, bud?” He had an anchor tattooed on his right forearm, a mermaid on the left. Thick eyebrows over a broken nose gave him a thuggish look, but his voice was friendly.
“Maybe.” I stuck my hand out. “My name is Chanse MacLeod, and I have an appointment with Dominique DuPre.”
“Sly.” He shook my hand, then gestured to the woman. “You’re looking at her.”
The woman took a long swallow, and closed her eyes to savor it before she turned to look at me. She was easily six feet tall, and her slenderness made her seem taller. Her arched eyebrows were actually penciled on. Her eyes were big, round, and a deep chocolate brown. Her cheekbones were high and hinted at e a Native American in the bloodline somewhere. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She had a white rose behind her left ear. “I’m Dominique DuPre.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” I walked over and shook her hand.
“You want a drink?” she asked.
“Coke’s fine.” Sly filled up a glass with ice and squirted Coke out of a hose until the glass was full. He popped a Maraschino cherry and a straw into my drink, then slid it across to me.
Dominique gave me a half-smile, saluted me with her glass, and downed the rest of the Wild Turkey. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, letting out a satisfied sigh. She smiled at me. “Self-medication, Mr. MacLeod. Otherwise I’d be completely insane.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Come on.” She stood up. “Let’s go up to my apartment.”
I followed her as she walked back across the dance floor. Almost every step of the way she shouted an order to whomever she passed. They would nod or give her a thumb’s up and go back to what they were doing. We walked around the stage and she opened a door into a hallway behind it. We stepped into a cement stairwell lit by fluorescent lights, which made the gray walls and stairs even more depressing. As she started climbing the stairs, she said, “I suppose I should have this meeting in my office, but I am fucking starving, and I have to eat something. Care to join me? I made fresh chicken salad last night.”
I hesitated. That bacon cheeseburger at the Clover Grill still sounded awfully good, but even with mayonnaise chicken salad would have a lower fat gram content—ultimately a better decision. I laughed at myself. Since when did I start caring about fat grams?
Since Paul started pointing it out to you, that’s when.
“Yeah, that sounds great, thanks.” Why not? People tend to open up more over food. And the bacon cheeseburger would take an additional ten minutes on the Stairmaster at least to burn off. Yeah, better to have the chicken salad. I hated the goddamned Stairmaster.