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Bridget Ivy
It would be several days before I started my first shift at Ragnarök, and I was restless. Heading down to the French Quarter, I parked my car and started walking. The night was not as humid, but New Orleans in April was still warm. I popped into a shop selling souvenirs and contemplated what it would have been like to have Shannon with me right now. She loved this city. I picked up a masquerade mask and was tempted to buy it just to be silly; the mask was black with red feathers and dark sequins that gave the outline of the edges some sparkle. Shannon and I took any excuse to laugh and be goofy and I’d lost that. My parents were like that, any excuse to take a break from real life and just be in the moment. Being alone never felt so devastating as it did right now in one of the busiest cities in the world. Tears pricked my eyes and dashed out of the store, dropping the mask on the counter. There was an alley right beside the shop and I stopped dead in my tracks when I noticed who was listed as the performer. Marcel Louis was playing at The Celina Jazz Club on Bourbon Street tonight. My breath caught in my chest and I almost hyperventilated, but I reined it in by closing my eyes and thinking about every breath I took. Shannon was Marcel’s back-up singer and he would not ignore me tonight.
***
The bouncer was looking at me like I had two heads.
“I’m an old friend of Marcel’s and just found out he was playing tonight. My sister Shannon used to sing with him. Can you get him a message?” I asked, looking at the oversized guy standing at the club door. He had a shaved head and tattoos covering every area I could see. His dark skin had a sheen of perspiration.
“I’m not a messenger, sweetheart. Pay the cover, and you can go grab a table.” He drawled, looking over my shoulder at a girl in stiletto heels and so much cleavage. I’m surprised she didn’t have a wardrobe malfunction. Too bad I’d picked tonight to wear ratty jeans, dirty Converse, and a t-shirt a size bigger than I needed.
“Fine,” I mumbled and handed the guy collecting the cover charge a $20. The bar was dimly lit and rather unimaginative as far as decor went: standard round tables, a small stage and a bar counter. The pictures on the walls were old black and white photographs of the French Quarter in what might have been the 1970s. If smoking was still allowed in establishments, I suspect this one would be so smoky it would rival any movie from the 1950s for atmosphere. I grabbed a table to the side of the stage and waited. When the waitress came by, I asked for a Coke. She frowned at me, but I didn’t care. The first band to play was decent, though I had to admit Jazz was never my thing.
When I looked around the club, I noticed there were a lot of empty tables and wondered if Marcel, being the main attraction, would prompt more people to arrive. The opening act lasted about 45 minutes and as I waited for the next set to start, I got up to use the bathroom. The restrooms were down a corridor off the bar. As I was about to enter the ladies’ room, I noticed another door to my left that was ajar. I looked over my shoulder, but there was no one watching, so I went through and started walking down the hallway. There were voices coming from the end. A guy, maybe in his early 30s, came racing out of the room and barely missed me.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, and kept walking. I was just happy he didn't ask me what I was doing back here.
One of those rubber stoppers kept the door open and when I peeked in, I saw the reflection of Marcel Louis, who was currently staring down at his cell phone. I knocked on the door, but didn’t wait as I entered the room.
Marcel looked at me from the mirror with no recognition of who I was.
“What do you want?” he asked in his southern accent. I think he was originally from Alabama.
“Hi, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Bridget Walsh. My sister Shannon was one of your back-up singers.” I stood expectantly, but he just continued to sit staring at me.
“Yeah, and?”
This guy was a real bundle of sunshine. I met him once when I came to New Orleans for a weekend so I could see Shannon and the band in action. We were at an after party for several hours, but this guy was nothing like the person I met that night. That night, he was jovial and in great spirits. The crowd that night packed the place and everyone was happy, including Marcel, who laughed and joked with everyone.
“I need to know who she used to buy her drugs from,” I said, not caring what his problem was or trying to pretend I wanted anything but this information.
He turned his body in the swivel chair. His skin was the color of mocha, which stressed his canary suit well.
“Why would you think I’d know that?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing back here? Did the bouncer let you in?”
I ignored his questions and glared at him, “I'm not leaving until you give me a name.”
Marcel stood, and I was almost at eye level with him. “I know you and your sister were close, but I do not know what Shannon did in her private life. Toward the end she was barely showing up to practice, much less our shows. You can ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same.” The look in his brown eyes was pity. I fucking hated pity.
“Do you know how I can reach Patrice and Becky?” I started fidgeting with the strap on my cross-body purse.
“Back-up singers come and go. They quit; taking a job on a cruise, I think. Tate may have their numbers. You can find him during the show by the bar, most likely.”
“Do you have any idea who to buy drugs from in the Quarter?” I asked.
“That’s pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?” He stared at me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.
“I’m not a cop. I don’t give a shit if you do drugs. I just need to know who Shannon might have been getting them from,” I said.
The guy from before came back into the room and said, “five minutes Marcel.” He looked surprised to see me here. For the first time, I wondered where the rest of the band was.
“I wish I could help you. Shannon was a talented kid. It was sad what happened. By the way, this is Tate,” Marcel nodded his head toward the guy and walked past me out the door.
“Who are you again?” Tate looked at me, confused.
“Shannon Walsh was my sister,” I said.
“Oh right, I remember you now,” he said and gave me a half smile. I don’t think he quite knew what to do with me.
