4 Shelter From The Storm (10 page)

“May ’95 was bad,” the man said, scratching behind his ears, “but not this bad.”

“No, I can’t say I remember ever seeing the Quarter flood like this,” Tubby said, edging closer.

“I heard they may cancel Mardi Gras,” the guard said.

Tubby had forgotten all about Mardi Gras.

“They’ll have to, if this keeps up,” he said, stating the obvious. “Hey, mind if I come up on the steps out of the rain?”

“Oh, sure,” the guard said. “At least until Mustapha gets back. Try not to drip on the rug.”

“Right,” Tubby said, hopping up. The hotel’s red carpet was already quite damp. “I feel drier already.” He shivered.

“Tubby, my man!” Dan’s voice bellowed behind him.

The lawyer turned and beheld his savior.

“Come inside and dry off.”

Tubby followed Dan as he would have Moses, wanting to weep and hug him.

The lobby was jammed. Every available seat, including the surfaces of the coffee tables and the brass stand-up ashtrays, had someone squatting on it. People sat cross-legged on the floor, and rested forlornly on their luggage, where they had been stranded at check-out time.

Dan quickly gauged Tubby’s condition.

“Follow me, man,” he said, grabbing Tubby’s arm firmly. He led the lawyer behind the concierge desk to the luggage storage room. In a cavern of dim shelves piled high with suitcases and tennis rackets, Dan pointed his limp friend to a tiny table shoved against the back wall. He pushed Tubby into a rickety wooden folding chair, swept away a tin ashtray full of cigarette butts, and pulled a fifth of Old Crow with two cloudy glasses from a lady’s overnight case.

“Take a snort, boss, and tell me all about it,” he said soothingly.

“For chrissakes, why’d you do that?” Monk exploded at LaRue, staring back through the torrent where the woman had disappeared into the murky water and where a large man was waving his fist helplessly at them. In the middle of the canoe Big Top, wide-eyed, was too awed by Rue’s careless violence to speak.

Rue wiped the pistol under his arm to get some of the water off and stuck it back in his pants.

“Shut the fuck up,” he told Monk, “and watch where you’re going.”

Their craft was drifting toward the picture window of a fancy hatter’s. Miserable, wet, and convinced that he might at any moment be shot by a madman, Monk got back to work with his paddle and straightened them up.

The canoe shot across Canal Street, scraping briefly over a raised piece of roadway or something equally rough, and zipped onto Bourbon, out of sight of the man with the raised fists.

LaRue, in truth, was not feeling very well himself. Losing the van was bad. He had also been afraid of water since he was a boy, and he was a poor swimmer. Shooting the woman had been dumb. He had been afraid she would capsize the boat. But he had to admit that blowing her head off was dumb. He hated himself when he made mistakes. Blame it on this unreal rain. The urge to retreat into painless sleep was very powerful.

He had no idea where they were going or where they could find a hole to hide in. At least it would be a while before the cops started to tail them. That was a plus. He was drowsy.

This place was full of crazies.

Two skinny blond kids, naked and apparently drunk, were having a water fight in front of a cigar store. A stocky man with black bushy eyebrows charged out of the shop swinging a broom handle at them.

“Quit making waves, damn it. You’re washing water into my store.”

They laughed and splashed into midstream, blocking the path of the canoe.

“Get out of the way,” Monk yelled, gesturing with one hand while gripping the paddle in the other. He was terrified that Rue might start shooting again, wasting everyone they encountered.

“Come on in,” one of the boys invited.

“Red Cross. Get out of the way,” Monk cried.

Oblivious to any danger, they dove away just in time, and the canoe floated on, passing a world of windows full of faces, under balconies full of tourists in colorful rain gear and umbrellas held aloft.

“We ought to dock this baby somewhere,” Monk said. “This current is probably pulling us into a huge drain.”

Two policemen on horseback were dead ahead, moving slowly up the street. Monk shook Big Top’s knee behind him and he in turn pointed the cops out to Rue.

LaRue seemed to be in a daze. Exasperated, Monk gestured his thumb left, and the canoe made an awkward sliding turn into St. Louis Street.

“We’ll just zig zag around until we find someplace dry,” he said.

“Right,” LaRue mumbled. “We’ll just zigzag.”

* * *

Cheerful and quite tipsy, Edward and Wendell were sitting on the steps of their grotto, saying hello to the people who waded past in the flood. They were using an old-fashioned manual egg beater to try to make a frozen daiquiri out of a lot of rum and the rapidly melting sack of ice they had bought at the A&P.

The water lapped peacefully just beneath their toes, carrying with it plastic bottles and cups. The rain came and went in sudden flurries, and every few minutes a wind kicked up and sent ripples and whirlpools down the street. A pretty girl wearing a tie-died top and green pantaloons rolled up high on her thighs walked past carrying a bedraggled beagle under her arm. She waved as she sloshed along, against a background of ancient pink brick.

“This is the wettest place in the world,” Wendell observed.

“It certainly is,” Edward agreed, tasting the concoction in the white saucepan between his knees. “Or maybe we’ve reached the end of the world.”

“And only one pair of every species will be saved.”

“Quite possibly that’s us. What species do you think we are?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Wendell said, putting his finger beside his nose, “but look, here comes our ark.”

Indeed a canoe, rocking dangerously from side to side, was paddling their way.

“It appears to be full already,” Wendell said sadly. “We’ll just have to stay behind and drown in our little cave.”

“Try this,” Edward said, offering his companion a frosty glass full of purple liquid.

“Lovely,” Wendell said, holding it up to the rainy sky. “Ahh, drown me,” he cooed as he sipped it.

“Here, here, you’re going to crash!” Edward waved at the canoe which was bearing directly upon them.

Unheeding, the men on board brought it up hard against the steps with a loud grating of tin on granite. The man in front tried to get a grip on the second stone, failed, and locked his fingers around Wendell’s ankle.

“Good sir, unhand me,” Wendell protested, trying to stand up and reclaim his leg.

Already, however, the redheaded man in the middle had got one foot out of the canoe and onto the steps. Steadying himself with one hand on the boat rail, he got the rest of his body out, crowding Edward and his pot of daiquiris back into the apartment.

“Hey now. What’s going on?” Edward demanded feebly while the robbers disembarked awkwardly but rapidly from their metal craft.

“Move along, sonny,” LaRue ordered, focus restored. He made his voice like sharp steel again. Shedding water, he pushed Wendell hard through the door. “Who else is in the house?” he wanted to know. Outside, Big Top tied the boat to one of the front door latches.

“What do you mean?” Edward asked excitedly.

“Nobody,” Wendell said.

Big Top hoisted a wet canvass sack out of the boat and dumped it through the apartment doorway. He leaned back to get the other one.

“Both of you sit over there on that couch,” LaRue ordered. “Monk, watch ’em.”

Dripping as he went, LaRue made a quick search of the bedroom and small kitchen. Satisfied that the place was empty, he came back to confront the two surprised vacationers.

“We’re moving in with you for a while,” he told them. “Just do what we tell you to do and you won’t get hurt. Okay?”

“Okay,” Edward and Wendell said in unison.

“Fine,” LaRue said. “Then let’s all get settled in.”

He sat down on a small Chippendale chair in the corner and lifted the telephone to see if it worked. There was no dial tone.

“Why don’t you see what they got to eat in the kitchen,” he suggested to Big Top.

“This is nice,” Monk said. “You guys live here?”

“We’re just in for Mardi Gras,” Wendell said.

“The lights don’t work?”

“No, they went out a little while ago.”

“It’s getting dark,” Monk noted.

“There are some candles on the table over there.” Edward pointed.

“That’s great.”

“Are you planning to be here long?” Wendell inquired politely.

Monk glanced at LaRue. “Depends on how long the flood lasts,” he said.

“Where are you from?”

“Colorado,” Monk lied. “You?”

“Atlanta,” Wendell said.

“I like Atlanta.”

“It’s okay. Why’d you pick this place to barge in on?”

“Your door was wide open.” Monk smiled.

“What are you guys? Bank robbers?” Edward inquired.

“What gives you that idea?” LaRue asked in that quiet voice of his. He leaned back and rested his boots on a wicker footstool. It served to put a temporary end to the conversation.

“We got some wine and vodka,” Big Top reported, bringing out some bottles. “There’s some leftover spaghetti and some crackers.”

“Oh, there’s lots more than that,” Wendell said. “There are vegetables and some shrimp from the grocery store. And there’s some meat in the freezer. I don’t know how good it is. It was here when we got here. It will all go to waste if it isn’t cooked.”

“Are you a cook?” LaRue asked.

Edward shrugged. “We had planned to cook some of the recipes in those old cookbooks in the kitchen. We just got back from shopping.”

“Well, here’s a drink anyway.” Big Top passed around glasses. He included the two subdued tourists on the couch. “If we can’t go anywhere, we might as well get drunk.”

It was getting dark, and someone was beating on the window of the taxi. Hossein rubbed away enough condensation to see who it was. He refused to roll his window down.

“Oh, boy,” Collette said in disgust. She cracked hers an inch. A large black man, hunched over against the gale, stuck his eyes up to the gap in the glass.

“You need help?” he yelled.

“We’re stuck,” she said.

“I can see you ain’t going nowhere. You want to come inside?”

Collette looked at Bradley, who looked back, noncommittal. Hoss would not acknowledge the invitation.

“You mean inside your house?” Collette asked.

“Yeah. Inside my house. The water is rising. Y’all are going to get mighty wet out here.”

“Well, sure,” Collette said.

“Okay. I can carry you. I can only fetch one at a time though.”

“No, don’t go,” Bradley said urgently, gripping Collette’s elbow.

She shot him her stern look.

“Ready when you are,” she told the face in the window.

“Don’t try to open the door,” he said. “Just roll down the window and climb out.”

She did as she was told and found herself sitting on a stranger’s broad shoulders. Water over his belt, he slowly forded the street. With cautious footwork he first found the sidewalk and then the steps to his house. He stood on the bottom one, water to his knees, and set her down with a bump on the wooden porch. It was high and dry, out of the rain.

“Thank you so much,” she said, extremely relieved to be standing on something solid.

“Go on inside and dry off,” he called out on his way back to get the others.

She opened the torn screen door and stepped tentatively inside.

A big woman rose from the couch.

“Come on in, honey,” she told Collette. “Junior, give her that chair and go find us a towel. The pink one.”

Bradley arrived on the porch the same way Collette had, his dignity somewhat impaired.

“Thanks, man,” he said. “I guess I could have made it myself.”

“I was already wet,” the big man said, climbing the steps. He showed Bradley through the screen door.

“Get him a towel, Junior,” and the tall teenager with the shaved head sauntered again to the rear of the house.

“My name is Collette. This is Bradley, and we really appreciate your letting us in.”

“I’m Noah Brownlee,” the man said. “My wife is Paella. Your cab driver won’t come in.”

“Why not?” Collette asked.

Brownlee shrugged. “Said he don’t want to leave his cab.”

Collette was ringing out her hair. “That’s ridiculous. He might drown.”

“Lot of foreigners ain’t too bright,” Brownlee said. He sat down with a thud on the couch and began unlacing his heavy shoes. Puddles formed around his feet.

“Lord, will it ever stop raining?” Paella asked, bustling in from the dark recesses of the house with a tray. She had glasses of hot tea for each of them.

“That man going to stay out there?” she asked.

“So he says,” Noah told her. “Where did Junior go?”

“He’s watching TV in the bedroom.” Paella passed around the steaming glasses. “I think he’s a little shy about having all this company.”

With a grunt, Mr. Brownlee finally got his feet out of his wet shoes. He fell back against the plastic-covered couch cushion, satisfied with his accomplishment.

“I seen y’all hit that water. I knew you was going way too fast.”

Bradley and Collette nodded in agreement.

“He shouldn’t have come down this street anyway. Seems like it floods here every time it rains. Where do you live?”

The refugees told him.

“I don’t see how they’re going to get home tonight,” Paella said.

Noah shook his head. “They can’t. Might as well have supper with us.”

“We couldn’t,” Collette said.

“It won’t be no trouble,” Paella assured her. “I make a big pot of red beans and rice with smoked sausage every Monday. And they’re just about ready.”

“I’ve really got to get home,” Bradley said.

“Less you can fly, I don’t see how you’re gonna make it,” Noah said. “Paella, you seen my cigarettes? I hate to think I run out, ’cause if I did I’ll have to swim to the store.” He looked at Collette and laughed. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Do you smoke?”

“No,” she said.

“People in my generation had lots of bad habits,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you ain’t got ’em.”