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Beau and Martin gawked with interest, their faces frozen in licentious smiles. Every once in a while, one would lean over to the other and whisper something that set them both laughing hysterically. Gisselle was always jabbing one or the other with her elbow and then laughing herself.
The courtyards looked darker, the shadows were deeper, the music was louder. Men and in some places, women, hawked from doorways of sparsely lit bars and restaurants entreating the pedestrians to come in and enjoy the best jazz, the best dancing, the best food in New Orleans. We stopped at a stand to buy poor boy sandwiches and Beau managed to get us all bottles of beer even though no one was of age. We sat at a table on the sidewalk and ate and drank, and when two policemen came walking down the other side of the street, my heart thumped in anticipation of all of us being arrested. But they didn't seem to notice or care.
Afterward, we rushed in and out of stores, amusing ourselves with the souvenirs, the toys, and novelties. Then Gisselle directed us into a small store that advertised the most shocking sexual items I had ever seen displayed. You were supposed to be eighteen or over to go into the store, but the salesman didn't chase us out. The boys lingered over magazines and books, smirking and giggling to themselves. Gisselle made me look at a replica of a man's sex organ made of hard rubber. When she asked the salesman if she could see it, I ran out of the store.
They all followed a few moments later, laughing at me. "I guess Daddy didn't take you in there when he showed you the French Quarter," Gisselle quipped.
"How disgusting," I said. "Why would people buy those things?"
My question made Gisselle and Martin laugh harder, but Beau just smiled.
At the next corner, Martin asked us to wait while he approached a man dressed in a black leather vest with no shirt beneath. He ha
d tattoos on his arms and shoulders. The man listened to Martin and then the both of them walked deeper into the alleyway.
"What's Martin doing?" I asked.
"Getting us something for later," Gisselle said, then looked at Beau, who smiled.
"Getting what?"
"You'll see," she said. Martin emerged, nodding with satisfaction.
"Where do you want to go now?" he asked.
"Let's show her Storyville," Gisselle decided.
"Maybe we should just go down to the nice stores and arcades at the ocean," Beau suggested.
"Oh, it won't hurt her. Besides, she needs an education if she wants to live in New Orleans," Gisselle insisted.
"What is Storyville?" I asked. In my mind I imagined a place where people sold books and items based on famous tales. "What do they sell there?"
My question threw the three of them into another fit of hysterics.
"I don't see why you should laugh at everything I say and ask," I said angrily. "If any of you came into the bayou and went out in the swamp with me, you'd ask a lot of dumb questions, too. And I assure you, you'd be a lot more frightened than I would be," I added. That wiped the smiles and laughter off their faces.
"She's right," Beau said.
"So what. You're in the city now, not the swamp," Gisselle said. "And I, for one, don't have any intention of ever going to the bayou.
"Come on," she added, grabbing my arm roughly, "we'll take you up some streets and you tell us what you think is sold there."
Her challenge restored the smile to Martin's face, but Beau still looked troubled. Unable to cast off my own curiosity now, I let Gisselle take me along until we reached a corner and looked across the street at what seemed to me to be a row of fancy houses.
"Where are the stores?" I asked.
"Just watch over there," Gisselle pointed. She indicated an imposing four-story structure with bay windows on the side and a cupola on the roof. It was painted in a dull white. A luxurious limousine pulled up at the curb and the chauffeur stepped out quickly to open the door for what looked to be a very
distinguished older man. He strutted up the short set of steps to the front of the house and rang the bell. A moment later, the large door was pulled open.
We were close enough to hear the music that poured out and see the woman who greeted the gentleman. She was tall and dark olive in complexion. She wore a dress of red brocade with what had to be imitation diamonds on her neck and wrist. They had to be imitation, they were so big; but what was most curious was she wore tall feathers pluming from her head.
Looking past her, I could see a wide entrance hall, crystal chandeliers, gold mirrors, and velvet settees. A black piano player was running his hands over the keys and bouncing on the stool. Just before the door was closed, I caught sight of a girl wearing nothing more than a pair of panties and a bra and carrying a tray filled with what looked like glasses of champagne.
"What is that place?" I asked with a gasp.
"Lulu White's," Beau replied.
