4 Shelter From The Storm (14 page)

The White Cloud Cadillac still blocked the street, water to its door handles.

“Where’s the cab driver?” Collette asked.

“He’s gone,” Mr. Brownlee said. “He must have swum away.”

Across the canal a door opened and another kid with a Cohen uniform backed out, a snare drum strapped to his waist. With a wave at Junior he joined in and picked up the beat. Carnival was beginning.

While Collette and Bradley polished off scrambled eggs and toast, Mr. Brownlee located a flat-bottomed fiberglass bass boat, colored dull gray. He offered to row Collette home. Bradley lived in Lakeview, but Collette invited him to make her home the next stop on his journey.

Little kids had begun playing on the roof of the White Cloud when the three of them got aboard the boat and pushed off from the porch. Mr. Brownlee had a canoe paddle and Collette and Bradley both had poles fashioned out of wooden curtain rods.

Several other instruments— a saxophone, a clarinet, and a trombone— had joined the front porch concert by then. There was a battle of the bands going on, with Kennedy, A.B. Bell, and McDonough 38 represented. A young girl was twirling a baton on one stoop, and next door to her two others were high-stepping and acting hot.

Brownlee grinned and waved. “Happy Mardi Gras,” he called to the kids.

Bradley, who had not contributed much to the conversation at the Brownlees’, turned out to be an enthusiastic poleman. While Mr. Brownlee paddled smoothly in the back of the boat, Bradley took mighty stabs at the muck with his stick. He stripped off his shirt and Collette, in the middle, thought he looked pretty good. She had already classified him as a “man with a bad attitude,” but she was thinking about giving him a second chance.

“Garbage can ahead,” Bradley cried happily. Stroke, stroke. “Here come some two-by-fours.”

They made a graceful turn onto Freret Street and sailed into a flotilla of bare-chested black men with Afro fright wigs, floating on inflated inner tubes. One dangled a silver-painted coconut tantalizingly before Collette’s eyes.

“Oh, Zulu coconut! Please mister,” she screamed. At the last possible moment, before the tube drifted out of the reach of the occupants of the bass boat, the white-lipped savage pressed the prize into the young girl’s wriggling fingers.

“Hey, coconut,” Bradley called after the waterborne contingent of the famous social aid and pleasure club, but he was miles too late.

“Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah.” Collette taunted.

“Damn,” Bradley said, jealous. “Hey, here comes another boat.” He pointed.

“It’s an Indian,” Mr. Brownlee said, voice full of appreciation.

Indeed, a chief approached in a pirogue carefully paddled by a young boy in cutoff jeans. The chief faced rearward in his boat, relying on his aide to see and avoid any obstacles, and his opulent headdress was fully displayed. It was a soft, creamy, symmetrical array of purple, red, blue, yellow and black plumage, and it confronted them as if several peacocks, posed together, were spreading their feathers all at once.

“It’s beautiful,” Collette said in awe.

“Hey, Chief,” Bradley shouted as the two boats passed, but the Indian would not look their way.

“Looking good, Samuel,” Mr. Brownlee said, and the Indian turned and gave him a small dignified nod.

“I’ve never seen a Mardi Gras Indian before,” Collette said, watching the pirogue slip away with its dazzling passenger. “I’ve lived here all my life, but I’ve never actually seen one.”

“There’s a few around here,” Mr. Brownlee said. “I guess he’s going to join up with the rest of ’em downtown.”

“What can they do in all this water?” Bradley asked.

“They’ll do something,” Mr. Brownlee said. “It wouldn’t be Mardi Gras without the Indians dancing, and a little water ain’t gonna stop their Mardi Gras.”

“I don’t think they’ll be having any parades today,” Collette said.

“That’s probably true,” Mr. Brownlee said, “but the old traditions get carried on.”

“As long as they’re important to people, I suppose they will be,” Collette said.

They entered her neighborhood, where the houses were bigger but the water was just as deep.

“Look straight ahead and pretend you don’t see the homes and it’s just like being in the swamp,” she said to Bradley.

“Yeah, it really could be, with all these trees standing in the water.”

Except for a few abandoned vehicles, their roofs poking above the surface like colorful islands, all of the cars were crammed together on people’s lawns and driveways where some were escaping the water. Most of them, however, would have soaked brakes and rank carpets.

“That’s my house,” Collette pointed.

Mr. Brownlee steered the boat to the iron picket fence, and Bradley opened the gate so they could float up the walk to the front steps. The boat made contact with a loud crunch. Bradley grabbed the huge clay pot where once an azalea had lived and hung on for dear life while Collette crawled out. When she had her legs underneath her, she took Bradley’s arm and helped him ashore.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Brownlee,” she said and gave him her hand to shake. In her other she gripped her silver coconut tightly.

“Glad to help y’all kids,” he replied. “You weren’t any trouble.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks,” Bradley said and extended his hand as well.

Studying the boy from beneath his thick eyebrows, Mr. Brownlee took the hand and shook it.

“And please tell Mrs. Brownlee thanks for all the wonderful food,” Collette said happily. “I really had a good time.”

“Can we pay you?” Bradley asked.

Brownlee pushed off the steps and drifted into the yard, not bothering to answer.

“Thank you,” Collette waved as he paddled out to the street. He returned the wave and started toward his home.

“I guess he didn’t want money,” Bradley said.

“You are really dumb,” Collette told him bluntly. “I wonder if I have my keys.” She stuck her fingers in the miniature pack Velcroed to her shorts.

“I sure didn’t expect to spend so much of Mardi Gras without drinking a beer,” Bradley complained.

Collette found her key.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “My mom will probably offer you one. All I want is a bath.”

“No more room service,” Tubby said sadly, resting the phone in its cradle.

“What did they suggest we do?” Marguerite asked, drying her hair.

“They just apologized. The kitchen’s closed until they get it cleaned up. They hope to be serving again by this afternoon, if it doesn’t start raining again.”

“I bet there’s someplace open nearby. I’m getting stir-crazy in this room anyhow.”

“Okay. Get dressed and we’ll go exploring. I’d like to check on my car, too, if the streets are open. We might even be able to drive out of here.”

It took Marguerite a long time, by Tubby’s standards, to get ready. She was finding it difficult to select the appropriate attire for scattered showers and standing water. She owned ragged corduroys and galoshes back home, but she had not thought to bring those with her to Mardi Gras. Finally she settled on her new Calvin Klein jeans, a tangerine polo shirt, and her new Reeboks. Tubby, meanwhile, watched Nash Roberts explain that Claiborne Avenue was still submerged, along with large portions of Nashville, Jefferson, and Napoleon Avenues. So much for driving home. The aerial footage of car roofs floating like lily pads on familiar streets and vehicles of all sorts mired in sticky mud on the neutral grounds, was entertaining. A lot of the Calliope and C.J. Peete projects were inundated, and the Red Cross was trying to move some sick people off the roofs by helicopter. Human remains had been sighted, but not confirmed, in floodwaters. Tubby shuddered, thinking about his unfortunate client. He also wondered whether there might be any reappearance of the remains of his former law partner, Reggie Turntide.

“I guess we can’t drive anywhere,” he told Marguerite.

“Then let’s walk,” she said, checking her rear in the mirror.

They took the stairs.

Tubby spotted Dan in the lobby. He was carrying someone’s luggage into the elevator, and didn’t see Tubby when he waved.

The crowd from the previous night had thinned out considerably, but there were still a few crumpled travelers sprawled on the chairs and sofas, sleeping or staring around with glazed expressions on their faces.

In the great outdoors, the world was wet, but the streets were clear.

Lots of people were busy sweeping water and all manner of glop out of their vestibules and swapping stories of survival.

The absence of parades and the sudden blasts of rain were no deterrents to quite a few determined revelers. It was, after all, Mardi Gras, and the tradition was to drink all day and costume, copulate, or capsize. Accordingly, there were spirited citizens outfitted as ducks, scuba divers, and sharks. There were skimpy bikinis, on man and woman. The less adventurous, oddly dressed as normal people, gasped and laughed at bare chests and black rubber wet suits. Not to mention nude women and green frog men.

From out of the swamp, a people’s Mardi Gras was arising to reclaim the city.

Up the street came a somewhat organized marching parade. Tubby recognized the men, dressed variously in women’s gowns, complete with rouge, tuxedos, derby hats, and black short pants, as the Jefferson City Buzzards.

“They’ve made every Mardi Gras for a hundred years,” Tubby yelled at Marguerite with unconcealed exuberance. “Way to go, guys!”

The Buzzards had a base drum and a couple of trumpets. They made a lot of noise and tried to trade long beads for kisses with any female who came too close.

Marguerite was a novice and thus got caught in a beery embrace. She was immediately appeased by a three foot strand of pearls.

“Happy Gras, honey,” the Buzzard said contentedly and marched on.

She had to fumble in her shirt to get her bra readjusted.

“Rather fresh,” she said.

A fat bald man with the mashed stub of a cigar stuck in his teeth was throwing piles of wet magazines and newspapers over the curb.

“Hey, Nick,” Tubby called.

“It’s Tubby,” The squat man straightened up. “Howya makin’ out?”

“Okay, I guess. Wet. This is my friend, Marguerite… uh,”

“Patino,” she supplied.

“Right,” Tubby continued. “Marguerite, this is Nick the Newsman. We’re walking on his street. You had a lot of damage, Nick?”

“Oh, yeah, lots of magazines and all my newspapers, just about. That’s a bunch of crap. My display racks are all full of this shit, or whatever you call it. My juice is out. My little dog I keep here pissed all over the cash register. But I guess I’ll make out.”

“Listen, Nick, do you have any idea where there’s something for breakfast around here?”

“I heard Popeye’s might be open up on Canal. Everything else is closed up, I think. I got some ham salad in the back if you want to try that. It’s kind of old.”

He unplugged the cigar long enough to spit into a puddle.

“Hey, check that out.” Nick nodded toward the street where two big-busted figures, nude but for black panties and garters, strolled hand in hand down the lane.

“You wanna make a bet they’s guys or dolls?” Nick asked and coughed out a laugh around the sweet potato in his mouth.

Marguerite’s mouth was open and her eyes were big.

“Look around, dearie, and you will see things you’ve never imagined before,” Tubby murmured in her ear and goosed her a little bit in the back of her tangerine shirt.

And walking right behind the brazen nudes was one of the men who had killed Tubby’s client.

“That’s the guy in the canoe.” Tubby grabbed Marguerite’s arm and pointed to the tall gangling man in Bermuda shorts sauntering along Royal Street, eyeballing the strange crowd and carrying an immense sack of fried chicken.

Raindrops fell for a few seconds, causing a ripple of pained groans along the street that stopped just as abruptly as the shower did.

“He’s the one who shot the lady?” Marguerite asked excitedly.

“No, but he was in the boat. He couldn’t have been more than six feet away from me. I’m sure it’s him.” Tubby was looking around for a cop.

“He’s getting away,” Marguerite hissed in his ear.

“Nick, you see that guy with the red hair and the chicken?”

“Yeah.”

“Him and these two other guys shot a lady I was with yesterday during the flood. And killed her.”

Nick’s eyes lit up. He liked crime. Thus, in New Orleans, he was often happy. He started chewing his cigar.

“Damn,” Tubby said. “Where’s the cops when you need them?”

“Pulling drowned people out of cars, is what I hear,” Nick said. “Or carrying the politicians over the puddles so they won’t get their little feetsies wet.”

Big Top was disappearing.

“Hell, I’ve got to follow him. Do me a favor, will you, Nick? At the Royal Montpelier there’s a bellhop, Dan. He’s my good friend. Lock up your store just a minute. Go get Dan and tell him what I’m doing and which way I went. Tell him to come looking for me.”

“Okay.” Nick was ready.

“I’m coming,” Marguerite said.

“Suit yourself,” Tubby said.

Regretting that they had not eaten, Tubby and Marguerite trailed Big Top down Royal Street, wading through the deep water at St. Ann, threading single file along the one dry sidewalk on Dumaine, trying to keep the head of Panama Red in sight.

The crowd thinned out some as they went along, making concealment next to impossible. Big Top, however, did not detect his furtive pursuers because he was now eating a thigh one-handed and was otherwise oblivious to his surroundings.

They were half a block behind him, sloshing through a shallow fast-running freshet covering the pavement, when their quarry disappeared around the corner. By the time Tubby and Marguerite poked their heads around, he was no longer in sight.

“Stay here,” Tubby ordered, and he tiptoed cautiously down the sidewalk looking for the open door.

“Oooh,” Marguerite screamed.

Tubby looked back to see her being prodded forcibly forward by a short, muscular black man, also wearing shorts, whom he recognized as being one of yesterday’s executioners.