PERGATORY

PURGATORY

New Orleans is a city often described as European in feel. She is a master of masquerade. “The Paris of the South,” or “The Crescent City” (named for the curve in the Mississippi where the French Quarter sits), “The Big Easy,” “The City That Care Forgot” are a few of her personas. You might hear “Hollywood South” because she is beautiful and photogenic, a perfect, ready-made, film set. In many ways, New Orleans is the entire continent of Europe all jammed between the river and the lake, making life a bit crowded.

The elegant Garden District rubs shoulders with working-class Irish Channel. On Saint Charles Avenue, ancient oaks and crepe myrtles watch the streetcars clatter by mansions with leaded glass doors. At night, those doors become faceted stars, radiating sparks from the candles and chandeliers behind them.

New Orleans also has a sordid side. Parts of the inner-city are so terrifying that the police fear them, and never enter alone. We break murder records every year.

My neighborhood is called “Bywater,” an area tucked into a bit of land braced against the river, only a couple of miles from the French Quarter. It is the sort of place where Bourbon Street “dancers,” and truck drivers, and ghosts live, sort of sad, sort of shabby. It won’t be long before gentrification seeps into this part of town. Land is valuable here. You can’t build in the river or the lake.

My neighborhood bar is called Purgatory. Yes, the Catholic influence is still strong. Early settlers, French and Spanish, left us with more than architecture and food.

Purgatory is not the sort of place where everybody knows you name. Billy Joel will never write a song about it. We have no piano here, just a juke box, a pool table, and a lot of gloomy corners. There are regulars here. We nod to each other, but seldom speak. Tourists rarely find us. Most patrons sit alone. They are street musicians waiting for a big break, sidewalk artists hoping to be discovered, people with dreams derailed, biding time, drinking, until the track clears. All are waiting for something.

What am I waiting for? Not sure. Maybe to move to another town, somewhere with seasons, where the roaches aren’t three inches long - and fly. A thousand dollars should do it.

I entered and sat at my usual table. Humans are creatures of habit. There are no “Reserved” signs on cardboard tents. We just know.

Crystal, the barmaid, brought my brandy. I don’t have to order. It’s always the same. Crystal has tatts from head to toe. There is no obvious plan or reason to the patterns. She has a roll of toilet paper inked into her wrist, Alice in Wonderland on her calf, the stigmata on her palms, and a vampire bite on her neck with a drop of blood at each puncture mark. The stains on her skin are dark and ugly, mostly a deep blue and black, the colors of old bruises.

I once asked her why she had chosen such random images. “They make me laugh,” she said.

I guess she had explained it a thousand times before. “They’re funny when you’re REALLY high.” She pivoted, turning her back to me, stifling a low giggle.

The table was slightly wobbly. I think there is a New Orleans law that says everything in this city must be a bit off-kilter. Doors and windows never seem to be perfectly square, making them almost impossible to securely lock. The streets are fraught with potholes. Sidewalks are lumpy, their cement squares pushed into distortions by the roots of giant trees. New Orleans is an old lady, once beautiful, trying to patch her wrinkles with superficial and insufficient fixes.

My insufficient fix was to grab a book of matches from the table to jam under one leg. Purgatory may be the last place in town that allows smoking. The room always smells sour.

Mingled with the crumpled napkins and dust on the floor was something wrapped in paper and held with a rubber band. I picked it up.

On the paper was a note – “Meet me, 10 PM, behind the Mint.” It had been neatly folded around a black, leather, address book.

I looked around the bar. No one paid attention to me. No one appeared to be searching for something lost.

I thumbed through the book. There were expected names and addresses, a few numbers, not phone numbers, perhaps some sort of code.

I motioned for Crystal. When she came, I asked, “Was anyone sitting here before I came in?”

She thought for a second or two. “Yeah. A dark woman, maybe creole, maybe foreign. Don’t know. But, she left, in a hurry. I hadn’t seen her before.”

The Mint is a huge rust-colored building at one end of the Quarter. Coins were once made there. Now it is a museum of sorts. It is about fifteen blocks away, quite a walk in the dusky and treacherous streets. Of course, I had to go.

There are times when your better judgement prevails. This was not one of those times. I had that “anything-can-happen” feeling. Sensing danger, excitement, and, yes, overpowering fear.

I asked Crystal to borrow a knife from behind the bar. New Orleans is the sort of city where such a request may be to slice a poor boy in half to share, or to commit a crime. No matter, you give it anyway. “I’ll be back,” I told her, not knowing if I really would.

My walk was for the most part uneventful. I saw one drug deal going down, and only two river rats hissing at each other. The knife remained in my pocket.

Behind the Mint is a bustling place in the daytime. The Farmers’ Market is alive with vendors of vegetables, jewelry, cookbooks, masks and feathered boas, all sorts of New Orleans souvenirs.

The tables and displays are gone at night, leaving flickering shadows and spirits.

At first, I didn’t see him. A tall man slipped from the darkness, “Do you have the book?” he said.

“Yes.” My voice trembled.

“You aren’t what I expected.” He had a deep voice, refined. I couldn’t get a good look at him. The collar of his suit jacket was turned up, against his face. He kept his head down. I guessed he would be more comfortable on the veranda of an uptown manse.

After I handed him the small book, he pushed a fat envelop into my hands. It seemed to be stuffed with scraps of paper. So, this is it, I thought. He is giving me love letters that would now prove embarrassing, or perhaps the secret log from some shady business dealings.

“GO!” he yelled at me.

Across Esplanade, I ran, into the night, anticipating the strike of a shot against my back, or leaden footsteps following. The streets were quiet. I was alone.

My breathless rush into the quiet bar would have startled most patrons. Not in Purgatory. My heart pounded as if it would explode from my chest.

Locking the bathroom door behind me, I dumped the contents of the envelope into the sink. Hundred-dollar bills spilled onto the damp porcelain. I counted $20,000, but not sure if my count was right.

I shoved the money back into the envelope, and stuffed it deep into my pants pocket, hoping no one would notice the bulge.

Sitting back at my table, Crystal brought my brandy in a rocks glass. “You look a little winded,” she said.

Too out of breath to answer, I took the knife from my pocket and wiped it on my sleeve. “Thanks,” I whispered. “It wasn’t needed.”

“Oh, that woman came back. Said she lost something here.”

“Woman?” I had no idea who she was talking about.

“Said she might have dropped something important. Maybe at your table.” Crystal glanced across the room. “I told her you said you were coming back. She’s waiting in the last booth.”

In the last booth, sat a sable-haired woman wearing a black dress with cobalt-colored jewels splashed around the neckline. They looked like tears, frozen where they fell. I slid into the booth across from her.

“I think you have something of mine,” she said. Her voice was husky, like someone who told tragic stories.

“Well, sort of. I mean. . .”

“You mean you kept my appointment.”

“Yeah, guess that was it.”

“And where is my package?” She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t fooling around.

My first inclination was to lie. I had visions of all I could do with so much money. I could travel, buy a house anywhere, drive an expensive car. I knew the money wasn’t mine.

I reached deep into my pocket and gave her the envelope. She grabbed it without counting. As she walked quickly away, her spiky heels rapped across the tile floor.

My heart dropped into my stomach knowing the money was gone. Damn! She could have at least given me a finder’s fee.

That night, I gulped four glasses of brandy. Woke up the next afternoon feeling poisoned. My guts felt as if they were doing some wild, ethnic dance to frenetic music.

I’m still waiting for something to happen. Until then, I guess I’m staying here, in New Orleans, in Purgatory.