Free Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter by Kent Conwell

burglar said nothing, and then he
growled. “I gots me a knife. Alls I wants is your
money.”
    Squinting into the darkness, I tried to discern any
identifying features, but the night was complete. “You’re
outgunned, buddy. I got me a.357 magnum, and to paraphrase the words of that fearless detective Dirty Harry
Callahan, `make my night, punk.”’ I cocked the hammer
on the .32. It sounded like a twelve-pound sledgehammer banging against an anvil.
    The dark figure remained frozen for a moment, then
he spun and leaped onto the balcony and climbed over
the rail.
    Before I could reach the balcony, the sound of splitting wood followed by a terrified shriek cut through the
darkness. A moment later, I heard a satisfying thump
and the shattering of underbrush.

    I peered into the darkness below, barely able to discern a dark figure stumbling from the patio.
    Back inside, I locked the French doors and jammed
the back of a chair under the knobs before I climbed
into bed where I lay awake, wondering if the rattling of
chains had been only in my dreams.
    “Don’t let your imagination run away with you,
Tony,” I whispered to the darkness over my head.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts”

     

I rose early next morning, and as the sun eased over
the Mississippi River, I was enjoying a breakfast of
sugar-powdered beignets and coffee at the Cafe du
Monde. The morning was cool, and a north breeze
drifting down the narrow streets had dried the air, a
welcome respite from the thick humidity that usually
greeted early risers.
    With only a few exceptions, the French Quarter
doesn’t rise with the sun, so traffic on the streets was
light. Delivery trucks backed up to the French Market
across the street, and a few staggering revelers who
greeted the sun stumbled along the sidewalks, most trying to remember the location of their hotels.
    When Rigues’ opened, I took a seat next to one of the
windows overlooking Jackson Square so I could sip my
coffee and idly watch as the charlatans and other artists set up their stands for the day in the cool shade of the
spreading oaks.

    Slowly, the restaurant began to fill, but no familiar
faces showed up.
    I spent the next few hours playing the tourist, wandering around the French Quarter, or the Vieux Carre,
as it was originally called.
    After a visit to Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop and
its ghosts, I headed back to Central Grocery on Decatur
Street for half of a world famous muffuletta. I had tried
a whole muffuletta once, but the pie pan-sized sandwich with a third of a pound of sliced salami, an equal
amount of ham or prosciutto, a third of a pound of
thinly sliced provolone, topped with green and black
olives on sourdough was too much for me. Half of a
muffuletta I could handle.
    I had no sooner hopped up on a stool and ordered my
sandwich than Julie popped in and climbed up on the
stool beside me. He was wearing the same clothes from
the day before but with the addition of a New Orleans
Saints gimme cap. “Hi ya, Tony. How’s the wandering
tourist today?”
    “Wandering,” I replied, noting that his pupils were
dilated, and he was licking his lips. “What have you
been up to?”
    He ordered a Big Easy beer and a whole muffuletta.
“Nothing. Hey, you got anything going on tonight?”
    My heart skipped a beat. “No. Just looking around?
Why?”
    He leaned closer. Now, I’m not a particularly fastidi ous person but I do shower every day, and the days-old
stench of his unwashed body almost took my breath
away. “I talked to Punky about you. We’re having a little get-together in the back room of Rigues’ tonight.
You want to go?”

    Did the fox want in the henhouse? You bet, but I
feigned indifference, playing hard to get. “Oh, I don’t
know. I’m not much of a party man.”
    The clerk slid our muffulettas across the counter to us.
    “Man, I’m starving,” Julie said, grabbing his sandwich. His fingers shook as he tore