The Casquette Girls (34 page)

“Hey, Troy.”

The gruff man was a friend of Ren’s and also a longtime employee of my father’s. At least, he had been before the Storm. My smile turned genuine as I realized there probably wasn’t a bar in the entire French Quarter I couldn’t get into, for better or for worse. He gave me a hug and then pulled up my arm to better examine my outfit.

“That’s quite a different look you got going on, girl.”

Dixie watched us with her mouth gaping.

“Don’t ask,” I begged, making him laugh. “It’s a costume I’m testing out for a school play.” I was appalled at how easy the lie flew out of my mouth. Maybe I was more like the Sacred Heart girls than I thought.

“Shoulda figured it was something like that. You always up to something crazy.” He gave me another hug and then passage. “Do me a favor and tell your Pa ’bout all these kids trying to get into this bar.”

“Uh, okay,” I answered, with zero plan to engage my father in any conversation that would place me somewhere one of his old bouncers was guarding.

I took one last look back and saw Dixie glaring at me with her arms crossed. The last thing I wanted to do was to walk into this weird place, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have something Dixie wanted and couldn’t get – this would probably be my only chance. I gave her a little wave before I pivoted on my heel and flipped my hair, like I’d seen Désirée do so many times before. Only my version involved braided pigtails.

* * *

There was a door with candles on both sides at the end of the corridor. The scent of cigarettes grew stronger as I approached it, and then muffled music and merriment on the other side drew my hand to the knob.
Here goes nothin
g
,
I thought as I pushed it open.

It was some kind of old parlor room. I felt like I had walked into someone’s house. Two men in suits sipped cocktails near a candle-lined fireplace. Others were huddled on couches engaged in deep conversation. A couple kissed in a dark corner. There was an odd sense of familiarity about the room. The billowing cigarette smoke made my eyes water; I hurried along.

As I walked past a series of windows, I pushed aside one of the heavy drapes – the tall windows still had their storm boards up but now, instead of keeping the weather out, they were keeping the flickers of candlelight and noise inside, obviously to hide from the curfew. Slipping from room to room in the darkness, I felt like I had unwittingly traveled to a night-gone-by.

The deeper I walked into the secret house, the more packed it became with folks from all walks of life. Young and old. Glitz and glam. Tattered and torn. I stopped when I entered a small ballroom, instantly taken aback by the scene, especially after the dullness of the last month. On a small, wooden, candle-lined stage, an androgynous female wearing a flapper shift, oodles of metallic-gold eye makeup, and a blunt bob belted ou
t“
La Vie En Ros
e
,
”
while a pianist with a waxed mustache, bow tie, and bowler hat accompanied. People were draped over cabaret-style tables, soaking in the performance.

Suddenly paranoid about fitting into the hip scene, I approached the makeshift bar to get a drink; the bartender recognized me right away. By day, Liza was an architectural grad student, but now she better resembled Cleopatra. She glanced at Annabelle’s group, shot me a look of sympathy, and slid me a glass tumbler full of clear liquid.

“You’re gonna need it,” she said with a wink of her ostentatious false eyelashes. “Oh, wait.” She signaled for the drink back, reached under the bar, and then plopped something into my glass, making it fizz over. I licked the spillage from my hand and saw a limp, yellowish slice of lime sinking into the bubbles.
Whoa, frui
t
.
I raised the glass to her.

“
Merci beaucou
p
.”

She brought one finger over her lips to indicate silence, and then gave me a strange look when I tried to pay for the drink.

Prepared for the wretched taste of alcohol, I took a small sip from the iceless glass and turned to find the group. The gin assaulted my taste buds; I tried not to make a face as I took a bigger sip.
Don’t drink it too fast, Adel
e
.
I had a feeling I was going to need all of my wits to navigate this situation. I started to move in their direction.

The old house was falling apart – the paint was cracking, the wallpaper was peeling, and the furniture was a hodgepodge of hurricane-survived pieces someone had likely collected in a hurry for the secret club. Despite the physical conditions, it was energetic and alive, as if the scene itself had a pulse. The kind of pulse only illegal activity could illicit.

The sultry singer held the final note, and the crowd roared. But only for a moment, then they began to shush each other, whispering, “The curfew! The curfew!” The shushing only contributed more to the excitement. I felt like I had warped into a prohibition era – people were so ecstatic just to be out.
This place is so coo
l
.
If it’d been open pre-Storm, I’d have known about it, surely. I’d have to ask my dad if he’d heard anything.

Da
d
.

I slowly turned a full circle. It was certainly unrecognizable, but I
had
been here before. The alleyway, the bouncer, the bartender.
I was in la garçonnière of my father’s ba
r
.

“Shit.”

* * *

“Excusez-moi,”
I repeated continuously as I pushed through people, wanting to get away from the bartender who knew me. I tried to not show any outward signs that I was frantically trying to compose myself on the inside as the evidence became more obvious – the door to the bathroom, the chandelier, a rug that used to be in our living room.

Ugh. How did I not recognize this place right away?

Originally, thes
e
small buildings at the back of properties (often mistaken for slave quarters) were private homes where French boys were sent from the main house to live when they turned fifteen. I’m not really sure why… to become men? This
garçonnièr
e
had been rented out to the same old man most of my life. When he died five years ago, my father discovered termites in parts of the building; he had the house treated, but we didn’t have enough money to renovate it, so it had sat vacant since.

Not only was the room looking familiar, I began recognizing faces among the mélange of college students and gutter punks: our neighbors; a group of brass musicians who played with Alphonse Jones; ol’ Madame Villere, wearing pearls and white gloves, sipping a warm martini. Despite the volume in the room, Ren still managed to make himself noticeable. He and Theis were sitting around a center table with a few other goths. Whatever story he was narrating had the full attention of his group.

Totally paranoid, I waited until I was safely hidden by a gang of people near the left corner of the stage before I continued scanning the crowd, sucking limey gin-and-tonic through the tiny black straw.

My head did a double take when I saw Isaac’s tiny ponytail sitting at the bar. Sadly, I could recognize the contour of his broad shoulders in his white T-shirt. When the wall repairs had to be put on hold because of supply scarcity, he started fixing anything around the house that needed fixing in exchange for his art lessons. Not that my father cared; he’d gladly give Isaac free art lessons for life just to have another male around the house. But Isaac wouldn’t have it any other way – which, of course, made my father like him even more. Apparently so much so that he was letting him stay in the bar underage.

Wait, how does Isaac even know about this place?

My irritation compounded, knowing my father had told Isaac his big secret and not me
.
W
e
di
d
no
t
have secrets. And to top it all off, Isaac hadn’t told me either!
Ugh! Talk about secrets causing scandal and distrust. So much for him trying to get closer to me.
I imagined myself storming over to him and throwing the remainder of my drink in his face.

“
Mademoiselle
?” A tap on my shoulder interrupted my silent rage.

I turned and jumped an inch off the floor – a man with a clown-painted face was extending a tray of small drinks
. So. Rando
m
.

“No, thank you.” I shook my head, and the Marcel Marceau lookalike retreated with a bow.

Désirée was easy to spot across the room because of her height. Her trajectory led me to Gabe.
Shocker
. Annabelle did not look thrilled following Désirée, but I watched the queen bee’s face go from annoyed to intrigued when Désirée stopped at the table of Adonises.

The elder Medici was at a corner table directly across the room from me, sitting with a few other equally runway-worthy people. A gorgeous woman with dark curls said something to the man next to her.
Were they the missing relative
s
?
They both sipped their drinks and stared severely at Ren, who was still entertaining his group with ardor. I assumed the back of the dark-haired guy across from them was Niccolò.

I took the last sip of my drink, and suddenly became hyperaware of my working-girl outfit. I tugged on the thin satin and slouched a bit, hoping to cover my exposed stomach. Annabelle laughed loudly at something Gabe said. Anger boiled inside me.

What the hell is going on? Gabe and Niccolò are my friends. They are French Quarter rats, like me… those snobs can’t have them. The entire freaking world is upside dow
n
!

An angelic blonde draped herself on Niccolò’s lap. I bit down on the lime slice, sending a squirt of sour down my throat. Face squirming, I set my empty glass down on a table out of fear I might crush it.

Ugh… Why do I care who sits on his la
p
?

The woman whispered something into his ear. From my angle it was impossible to tell his reaction, but he certainly wasn’t pushing her off. Without anything to occupy my hands, all I could do was stare in frustration.

Wait, I know that woma
n
.
From Ren’s tour. Jealousy drew me closer, like a lame stalker.

The woman brushed her glowing locks from her face and laughed.

The singer bellowed out another jazzy number.

Another tap on my shoulder distracted me. The clown was back. This time I gladly accepted one of the drinks, just to have a prop. I slipped a few dollars into his flower-filled jacket pocket and turned back to the woman, whose arm had slid around Niccolò’s shoulder. She drew the hood of her cloak forward to further conceal her whispers, and then her silhouette in the candlelight stirred my memory again.

Is she the woman who was following me?

I suddenly realized that everyone near was looking my way and smiling, as if waiting for me to do something. I turned my head: the clown had been miming a thank you for the tip, and I had been oblivious. I made a little curtsey, but it wasn’t enough. He egged me on to play with him – the black paint on his stark white face amplified his silent emoting. I tried to shoo him away, but he wasn’t having it. I quickly sucked down the drink, nearly choking on what I’d thought would be gin but definitely
wasn’t
. I put it back on his tray, coughing, but he just spun it, offering me another.

I shook my head, fire coursing down my throat.
What the hell was that stuff? Rubbing alcohol?

He set the tray down along with my glass and extended a gloved hand. Little by little, the room seemed to shut down and then even the pianist stopped playing. The entire room hushed in delight, giving the mime permission to pull me into his silent world.

As the clown began a slow-motion spin, there was a loud clunk of a bottle landing heavily on the bar. I was afraid to look, but something told me the sound was the shock of my father.

Mid-twirl, I saw Isaac jump from his barstool in surprise, and a glimpse of my father behind the bar, clutching a bottle of booze, looking distressed. It wasn’t clear who was more busted: me for being dressed like a prostitute in an illegally operating bar after curfew, or him for operating said bar and lying to me about it.

The crowd began to clap slowly.

Clap.

Clap.

Beats synching, I felt like the slaps were pulling my heart from my chest.

The claps sped up, as did the twirls. He brought my arm over his head, forcing me to turn him. The crowd cheered wildly, and the piano started up again. He spun us faster and faster.

“
Bravissima, bell
a
!
”
Gabe yelled, standing with his glass raised. Niccolò turned to see the source of the commotion.

I planted my feet, jerking my partner to a stop.