Chapter Five

The only address I knew was the one for Rising Moon, which I’d written on the back of the photo. I recited it to my mother before we said, “I love you” and “Good-bye.”

The sun spread down the streets ahead of me like a golden carpet. Soon heat would rise from the pavement. Though Frenchmen Street had no doubt been rocking until only a few hours before, plenty of people still strolled the sidewalks.

The big windows on the front of Rising Moon were dark and uninviting. What had been sparkling and lively last night had turned dull and quiet, the unlit neon sign nothing but empty glass. Las Vegas must look like a real dump in the daytime.

Figuring the place would be empty until mid-afternoon at least, I almost went back to the Quarter. I’d peer in the shop windows and see if I could find a few cooler things to wear until Federal Express arrived.

Then a flicker of movement from beyond the glass had me reaching for the door. The knob turned beneath my hand. The scent of stale beer and old smoke wafted over me. I wrinkled my nose and went inside.

“Not open till five.”

The same buff bartender lifted chairs onto the tables. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and sticky from too many spilled cocktails.

“I didn’t come for a drink.” I grabbed a nearby broom and began to sweep everything loose into a pile. “I came for a j ob.”

He didn’t pause, didn’t even glance my way as he continued to lift chairs at a brisk pace. “I thought you were searching for your sister.”

“I need a place to stay and something to eat while I’m doing it.”

He stopped lifting chairs; I stopped sweeping crap. “Ever worked in a bar?”

“Nope.”

“You’re hired.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Mardi Gras is breathing down our necks; we need help. You got a brain; you’ll catch on.”

I thought that might be a compliment, but I wasn’t sure. “I’m Anne,” I said. “Anne Lockheart.”

“I’m King.”

“Of what?”

“That’s my name.”

I wanted to ask if King was his first name or his last but figured that would be impolite.

He smiled at my obvious confusion. “My mama liked Elvis.”

“Oh, the King.”

“Right.” King tilted his head. “You want the j ob?”

“Don’t I have to talk to the owner first?” Not that I wanted to or anything.

“He don’t have much to do with the day-to-day nonsense. That’s what I’m here for.”

“When do I start?”

King indicated the broom. “You just did.”

In truth, I didn’t have to work until that night around eight P.M. when things got busy. King ran the bar. I would take drink orders for the tables. How hard could it be?

“Minimum wage, plus tips,” he said, as he led me upstairs. “And this.”

King pushed open a door to reveal a single room: bed, chair, nightstand, dresser; the empty closet gaped without a door. Though the color scheme screamed mid-seventies—gold and olive green—at least it was clean.

“Bathroom’s here.” He crossed the hardwood floor, not an area rug to be had, and flicked on a light.

Bright white tile, a claw-footed tub framed by what appeared to be a brand-new shower curtain.

“Second floor’s empty but for you right now. If we’re lucky, more help will stumble in. If not, I’ll get temp workers from out of town for Fat Tuesday.”

“What about you?” I asked. “I thought a room was part of the deal.”

“I work so much that when I get away, I need to get away.”

I could relate. My apartment in Philly was above my office. Talk about a one-track life.

I was tempted to ask where John Rodolfo lived, but I didn’t want King to think I was a groupie.

“You trust me enough to let me live here alone?”

“You plannin’ on stearin’ from us, cher?”

My eyebrows lifted at the casual endearment. “Uh, no.”

“Didn’t think so. ‘Sides, I take the money with me. You want to steal booze, it’s your headache.”

“What about food?”

“No kitchen. All the soft drinks and coffee you want are free for the askin’. No alcohol when you’re working.”

“Fine by me.” I wasn’t much of a drinker. Never had managed to acquire a taste for it.

“Otherwise,” he continued, “you’re in New Orleans. We got food on the street corners, at the grocery store. You can’t throw a stick and not hit someone cooking.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“You’ll want to get some sleep. You’ll be on till the place clears out. Could be early or late dependin’ on how much the folks like the music.”

The idea of lying down on that bed, drawing the shades, checking out for a while, was enormously appealing, as was the allure of a shower and a change of clothes.

“Are there different bands every night?” I asked.

King nodded. “Locals mostly. Play for tips.”

“That’s it?”

“New Orleans has always been more about the music than the money.”

“Which musicians bring in the most customers?”

“The crowd depends on Johnny.”

Johnny ? Rodolfo looked the least like a Johnny of any Johnny I’d ever known.

“If he decides to play,” King said, “people come in off the street after just a few notes, word gets around, other bars clear out—”

“He’s that good?”

King lifted one bushy black brow. “You couldn’t feel it?”

If I hadn’t heard Rodolfo play the night before I wouldn’t have known what King meant. But I had heard him and I had felt it. A tug from deep inside, a part of me that recognized the beat and wanted more, a pull that was almost sexual. No wonder women followed him into the “private” room for a quickie.

“Sometimes it seems like he’s possessed by the music,” King murmured, “or maybe it’s just the music possessing everyone else.”

What a strange thing to say.

“You seem to know him well,” I ventured.

His gaze flicked to mine, and I was struck again by the oddly light shade of his eyes. “Johnny and I are two of a kind.”

I awoke to a darkness so complete I wasn’t quite sure where I was. Then someone laughed, a drum went ba-bump , and a horn gave a tentative toot. Rising Moon was open for business. With all that noise, I doubted I’d be doing much sleeping during normal sleeping hours. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and by next week my days and nights would be all turned around anyway.

Which was probably why the last person who’d lived in this room had purchased curtains so heavy they blocked out every scrap of light. There’d been a lot of day sleeping going on.

I showered, pleased to discover the water pressure didn’t suck, then pulled out a change of clothes, which were pretty much the same clothes I’d had on before, only cleaner. After twisting my hair into a French braid, I was ready. Never had worn makeup; I didn’t own any. Putting paint on my face was like putting paint on a two-story Colonial—still the same old, same old underneath—a little color couldn’t change the structure.

The stairs outside my room spilled out near the rear door, which stood open tonight. The scent of something spicy and dark, almost burned but not quite, made my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten since the Cafe du Monde.

I didn’t have time now, but for a minute I just took in the scent, so tantalizing it was almost a taste. I had to force myself not to follow my nose like a cartoon dog floating on the trail of a delicacy.

The band of the evening played a slow, earthy tune and I swayed with the rhythm. My eyes closed; a breeze blew in through the screen door, both cool and warm at the same time, smelling of sun and water and midnight.

I heard a shuffle out there in the dark, and my eyes snapped open. I peered through the screen, even though common sense shouted for me to retreat to the busy, loud area where all the people were. Too bad one of my best, and worst, traits had always been curiosity.

What was out there? A rat? A dog? Or something more dangerous?

The glow of a cigarette flared; steamy white smoke trailed toward the sky, and twin moons appeared in the center of Rodolfo’s sunglasses as he turned in my direction.

“What are you doing out here in the dark?” I blurted.

“It’s dark?”

Okay, that had been a really stupid question. What difference did the dark make to him, and I could see very well that he was smoking. But—

Where had he come from? At first glance, I’d seen nothing out there but the night.

He took another drag from his cigarette, one of those long, slim, antique-looking cigarillo types I imagined plantation owners had smoked as they watched their slaves toil away in the tobacco fields.

“Smoking is bad for you,” I said.

He actually laughed. One quick bark that didn’t sound amused. ” Chica, the whole world is bad for me.”

Rodolfo continued to stare in my direction, the flat reflection of the moon in his glasses unnerving. “What were you doing upstairs?” he murmured.

For an instant I wondered how he had known I was up there, but then, my mother always told me I came down steps like an elephant.

“I live there, work here.”

He tossed the cigarette with a lazy flick, the burning tip sailing downward like a scarlet falling star.

Though his footsteps thumped slowly against the pavement, he reached the door so fast I didn’t have time to escape. Not that I had anywhere to go.

“Why would you want to work here?”

“Money? The room? Your charming personality?”

He ignored my attempt at humor. It hadn’t been much of an attempt.

“You should go home.”

“I am home. For now.”

“I meant go back wherever it is you’re from.”

“You don’t want me here?”

I’d meant to be sarcastic, but the question came out sounding anything but. What I’d sounded like was a lost, frightened little girl, and lost, frightened little girls often disappeared.

Rodolfo took a deep breath, almost as if he were smelling me. Maybe it was just an intensification- of-the-senses thing—he couldn’t see me, so he smelled me? It should have been weird, but what it was, was exciting.

“What I want—” he said tightly, and took a step closer.

I stepped back, and he cocked his head, pausing. When he spoke again, his voice was normal—or as normal as that sexy voice ever got. “I want you gone.”

Funny, I didn’t think that was really what he wanted, and despite his strange behavior, I didn’t want that either. Everything about him fascinated me.

“King said he was in charge,” I began.

“Oh, really?” Rodolfo crossed the short distance to the screen door and, after minimal fumbling, opened it and strode past me into the tavern. As soon as the crowd saw him they began to cheer. He raised a casual hand but didn’t stop, going straight to the bar and waiting for King.

Rodolfo said a few words; King said several back. I inched closer.

“We need her,” King snapped.

“No we don’t.”

“Trust me, Johnny, the girl will be useful.”

“You’re crazy,” Rodolfo muttered, then turned and headed for the performance corner amid backslapping and welcoming shouts.

I didn’t understand what was going on. Rodolfo seemed both attracted and repelled by me. Why, when he couldn’t even see me? Maybe it had something to do with my smell.

King beckoned, and I met him at the end of the bar.

“Whad you say to him?” he asked.

“What did he say?”

King glanced in Rodolfo’s direction. “He said your voice calls to him.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“For Johnny it is.” King glanced at Rodolfo with a worried expression as he began to play the piano.

“Why?”

King walked away without answering.

I stared at John Rodolfo and remembered last night. Him in the dark on one side of the door, me in the hallway listening to him talk to himself.

Maybe he heard a lot of voices. Maybe they told him to do things I didn’t want to know about. Like kill people.

Suddenly leaving didn’t sound half bad.

King shoved a notepad and pencil into my hand. I stared at them for a moment, then lifted my gaze. “I thought I was fired.”

“Haven’t even started yet.”

“But—” I flicked a glance toward Rodolfo, who was now doing something to the piano that made me think of tangled sheets and sultry Louisiana nights.

“Johnny might own the place, but he don’t own me. Besides.” King shrugged. “We got no one else.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “What do I do?”

“Write down orders. I fix the drinks. You take them back.”

“That’s it?”

“I tell you how much they owe. You get it. And remember whose drink is whose. They like that.”

The evening progressed. I’d figured I wouldn’t have too tough of a time remembering which person got which drink, but when you’re trying to write down one thing while someone else is telling you another, people are laughing, chattering, music is playing, and you’ve got three other tables waving at you… it’s easy to forget.

I started to write short descriptions next to their drink. Vodka tonic—red shirt. Miller Lite—blue eyeshadow. That worked pretty well.

What didn’t work was showing Katie’s picture. Some people barely looked, some refused to. They were on vacation; it was almost Mardi Gras, and they didn’t want to hear about missing sisters.

Laissez les bons temps router!

At any rate, no one in Rising Moon that night would cop to seeing her. The more I thought about it, the dumber the showing of the picture seemed to be. What were the chances I’d stumble across someone who’d met Katie?

Pretty damn slim. Of course, that didn’t mean I was going to stop doing it.

Rodolfo played a long time. First the piano, then the sax; he sat in with one band and stayed for
another.

The crowd swelled. Everyone was thirsty. My ancient athletic shoes, chosen for comfort rather than support, were not suitable for the j ob. My feet ached all the way up to my eyeballs.

I was so busy I didn’t see him leave. But suddenly the crowd thinned, and when I glanced at the performing corner, a woman played the piano and there was no saxophone to be had.