Free The Map of Moments by Christopher Golden Page A

believe.
    “Yeah, two plus two equals four,” he said aloud. Which translated in his mind to another equation. If what he'd seen in the park connected to real events, and if the area hadbeen marsh back then, what he'd seen could have been real, and not just some drug-fueled vision.
    He'd spent half a year as a history professor at Tulane, but had only basic knowledge of local history. Still, Max knew who could give him answers. What he had to decide was whether or not he wanted them.
    A heavy knock came at the door. “Room service.”
    “Finally.” He'd been about ready to break into the mini-bar and pay eight dollars for a tiny package of Oreos.
    Only after he had gotten his food, tipped the guy, then looked for the remote control to turn on the television did he finally notice the blinking red light on his phone. Someone had called while he had been showering, and left a message. He hesitated, thinking that it might be his sister calling to check on him, either to see if he was all right or to give him crap for having come down here in the first place. Neither was a conversation he felt like having, but it couldn't hurt to listen to the message.
    As it turned out, the message wasn't from his sister.
    “Max, it's Corinne. You went off with Ray and never turned up back at your hotel. I came by and had a drink in the bar, called up to the room a couple of times. Anyway, I'm home now if you want to call. I figure you've got another day or so down here, and I thought we could get breakfast at Poppy's tomorrow. If you're up for it, I mean. If it wouldn't be weird or morbid or something. Anyway, call me if you want to. If not …I'm glad you came down. Thanks for not making me do that alone.”
    Breakfast at Poppy's.
Why was it all the good memories hurt so much?
    He ate with the TV on, but Max barely registered the zoetrope shadows dancing across the screen. He spent the time thinking about tomorrow's breakfast, wondering what he should say. By New Orleans standards, his gumbo tasted bland, but the burger was just what he wanted. When he'd finished, he set aside the tray and picked up the phone.
    Corinne answered on the second ring.
    “Poppy's survived Katrina?”
    “Max,” she said. “Yeah, it's still there. A little worse for the wear, but Poppy's stubborn, and she loves this city so much she wouldn't know how to live anywhere else.”
    “Nine o'clock all right?”
    “I'll see you then.”

    Poppy's sat on the corner of Dauphine Street and Iberville, still in the Quarter but off the typical tourist track. Its exterior had always reminded Max of a private club in some European city, tall windows gleaming in the morning sunlight, but with the blinds drawn. Casual passersby would presume the place closed. Its name was stenciled on the windows and painted on tiles above the door, but no operating hours were posted. There wasn't even a menu on display to those who might be walking past.
    The message couldn't have been clearer:
if we don't know you, we don't want you here.
    Yet in Max's experience, that wasn't the case at all. In truth, the diminutive woman from whom the restaurant gained its name simply felt that word of mouth had made her little place popular enough already, and that solicitingcasual diners would only make Poppy's less hospitable for those who truly appreciated what she had to offer.
    “She's not in it for the glory,” Gabrielle had once told Max. “She's in it for the food.”
    When Max walked in that morning, he could not help but smile. The restaurant brought back painful memories, but they were wonderful memories as well. He had never expected to set foot on Poppy's tile floors again, and despite all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, it felt like a gift. The walls were painted ivory, with olive-green trim, and the floors were inlaid Italian marble. The front of the restaurant was a narrow corridor with a bar on the left and a single row of small tables to the right. He walked