Dragons Wild

Twenty-two

Griffen had wholeheartedly adopted the nocturnal schedule of a Quarter rat, but Valerie lacked her brother’s tastes and habits. More and more she found herself embracing the Quarter by day.

At first, it had been morning jogs on the Moonwalk to keep her active and in shape. She was used to an active lifestyle, and it felt good to get her heart rate up and pounding with some simple aerobic exercise. Of course, night or day, there were always temptations to be found.

Naturally, after such healthy and worthwhile endeavors, she deserved a healthy bit of indulgence. As often as not, she ended up breakfasting at the Cafe Du Monde. The inexpensive and delicious beignets, buried under their mountains of powdered sugar, sent a rush through her at least as enjoyable as the endorphins her run produced.

She sat as she always did, right beside the rails marking the boundaries of the open-air cafe. Though it meant occasionally being hassled by tourists and panhandlers, it provided her a splendid view of Jackson Square. Already, as a lazy Sunday morning flowed over the Quarter, the Square was full of life. As she sipped her hot chocolate, another indulgence more satisfying then the strong coffee preferred by most of the cafe’s regulars, she leaned back in her chair and watched as the street entertainers plied their arts for the scattered groups of ever-present tourists.

Artists hung their canvases on the iron railing of the Square, or set up mobile easels to do quick sketch portraits and caricatures. Valerie knew that on the opposite side of the Square, psychics would have set up small tables to read palms and cards and bones. Performance artists, from men painted as silver robots to jugglers to living statues who never moved, stood in front of hats or boxes or buckets that held the smatterings of bills and coins from appreciative passersby. The snappy patter of a street musician blended into the soft strains of an accordion accompanied by a young girl’s voice singing in French, and somewhere in the mix a lonely guitar repeated the same blues riff over and over.

Though she hadn’t quite fallen in love with New Orleans as her brother had, she had succumbed to many of the local habits. People watching, for example. She found it fascinating the types of people attracted to the area, day or night, and spent just as much attention on the endlessly changing stream of tourists as she did the more stable performers. Whether it be families weighed down by too many children far too young to enjoy the Quarter at night, or well-dressed professionals on a break from their various conferences, or even the expensively but slovenly decked out retirees just off the cruise ships, each brought their own style, and their own amusement. And that was without the eclectic mix of locals who sauntered across the Square or down Decatur Street. They nodded to and tipped the performers just as often as the tourists, and knew just how lucky they were to get such a display of humanity anytime they should choose to indulge.

After she had finished with her breakfast, she decided to take a leisurely stroll down Decatur Street. Unlike the tight, channel-like feel of Bourbon, Decatur was split into two lanes to accommodate greater vehicle traffic. Both sides were lined with shops and restaurants, with bars being less common and the Bourbon Street–style strip club nonexistent. Valerie found hours could pass just window shopping the countless shops, which ranged from the tacky T-shirt shops to upscale clothing and jewelry merchants. She usually found many things she wanted, though limited herself to a rare purchase. Shopping was a spectator sport for her.

On the way back, she decide to browse through the many galleries on Royal Street. Again, shops ranged wildly, and not just between paintings and sculptures. There was a cluttered hole-in-the-wall poster gallery a few doors down from a high-class place that seemed to have nothing but Dr. Seuss art. Valerie didn’t even pause while walking past the famous “blue dog” gallery. There were some things about New Orleans that she just never would understand.

Of course, above every shop and tucked away in every crevice were houses and apartments for the many living in the Quarter. Valerie stopped, amused, watching a man struggle to pull a couch through a doorway that seemed much too small. What’s worse, the couch was white, and the man working alone kept scraping it against the slightly grimy door frame or the ground. Valerie shook her head and smiled, then silently crept up and took the other end of the couch. When he hauled, she lifted, and the couch passed through like magic.

“Hey, thanks! Whoa.”

The man had looked up, and caught sight of his assistant. His jaw hung open just slightly, and Valerie fought the urge to reach up and push it closed. Instead she replied, with just a bit of teasing in her voice.

“Now isn’t the time to ‘whoa,’ you’ve still got to get it to your apartment door.”

“And upstairs. Three floors,” he said with a sigh.

Like most apartments, there was actually a bit of a walk from the street door to the separate entrances. And the buildings were renowned for spiral staircases of dubious stability. Valerie smiled and cocked her head.

“Well, going to ask for help?”

“Hell, no. I’m going to ask you up to my place for a drink,” he said.

“At two in the afternoon?”

“Hey, it’s the Quarter. But, oh, woe is me, there seems to be a nasty old couch in your way.”

“Ha! Now you are back to the woe again. Well, I suppose I’m far too stubborn to let a couch stand between me and a free drink.”

“Great.”

The man jumped onto the couch, lying back and grinning up at her.

“Third floor, second door on the left please,” he said, and pretended to close his eyes and go to sleep.

Despite the narrow alleyway, Valerie managed to turn the couch enough to dump him on the ground.

“The operative word was ‘help,’” she said.

“It was worth a try.” The man laughed. “By the way, the name’s Kid Blue. I play guitar on Bourbon Street.”

“You’re a street entertainer?” Valerie said, shaking the offered hand.

“Pul-eeese,” Kid Blue said, drawing himself up haughtily. “I play in one of the clubs. I’m with a band. And you?”

“Oh. My name’s Valerie. Valerie McCandles,” she responded.

“I meant what do you do?” the man said. “What pays your bills?”

“Nothing,” Valerie said softly.

Until just now when she vocalized it, she hadn’t realized how discontented she was with that situation.