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THAT NIGHT THE weather was rainy and cold in New Orleans, with few tourists on the sidewalks by the French Market and the Café du Monde, and no one paid particular attention to the tall, slender man in a hooded slicker crossing Jackson Square. He paused in front of St. Louis Cathedral and looked up at the towering spires and the rain spinning out of the sky, his mouth open like a supplicant’s. He continued his journey down Pirate’s Alley, past the small bookstore that was once the residence of William Faulkner, past the piked iron fence and live-oak trees behind the cathedral, and finally to a walled courtyard where the man had rented a room in a guesthouse.
He entered the courtyard but was studying the philodendron and elephant ears and caladiums and rosebushes and banana plants in the flower beds when a couple with children passed him with umbrellas over their heads. After they were gone, he unlocked the door to his room and went inside. Down the block, a band was blaring from a strip club, the front doors open, while topless women danced on a stage.
The man removed his raincoat and hung it on the showerhead in the bathroom, then sat on the bed and looked
at himself in the mirror. His head was shaped like a snake’s and his skin was the pale green of latex, his nose little more than a bump. He stared at the floor with his hands pinched between his knees.
He opened a small address book and dialed a number on the telephone by the night lamp. “Sea Breeze Escort Service,” a woman’s voice said.
“I need a girl,” the man said.
“Where are you located?”
The man gave her the address of the guesthouse.
“Is that in the Quarter?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
“The Sea Breeze doesn’t serve the Quarter anymore.”
“Give me the number of somebody who does.”
There was a pause. “Tell them Dora gave it to you. They owe me one.”
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. He put on the night chain and eased open the door and looked at the profile of a young black woman who was staring through the gate at a taxi parked by the curb, its headlights tunneling in the rain. He turned off the lights inside the room, unhooked the night chain, and pulled the black woman inside.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Gideon. I hope you’ll forgive me for bringing you out on such a bad night.”
Chapter Fifteen
SHE WAS SHORT, probably not more than twenty-five, her black hair flowing like paint, her skin smooth and dark and free of scars. She wore a white blouse and a pink wool jacket and a skirt that exposed her knees. Her hands were locked on top of her purse; her eyes were bright with fear as she stared into Gideon’s face.
He took a plate of beignets from the refrigerator and set them on the table. “I got these at the Café du Monde. I thought you might like some.”
“I ain’t hungry.”
“I have a bottle of wine, too.”
“The man in the cab needs seventy-five dol’ars. That’s for one hour. More than that, you pay it to me.”
“I see,” Gideon said. “I’ll be right back.”
He draped his raincoat over his head and went through the courtyard and jumped into the front seat of the cab, slamming the door before the driver could react. In seconds, the driver started the cab and drove down the street and turned a corner. Ten minutes later, Gideon returned to the room on foot, out of breath, his face peppered with rain. “Well, we have that out of the way,” he said.
“What out of the way?” she said. “You went somewhere wit’ Beaumont?”
“Sit down,” he said. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Sarah.”
“You’re pretty.”
“Where you gone wit’ Beaumont?”
“Don’t worry about it. You look frightened. Do I scare you?”
