Page 14 of Man of His Dreams

Ordinarily Flip would have spent the next hour fretting over spectral rain gear and the possibility that either he was completely losing it or he’d done some heavy petting with a ghost. Instead he fretted over Tony. Maybe fretted wasn’t exactly the right word. Worried, in the sense that a dog might worry a chew toy. Flip kept thinking about how smart Tony clearly was, and how interesting, and the way his face had lit up when Flip had asked good questions.

The truth was that Flip hadn’t been on a date—or anything like one—in eons. Not since he first started seeing Ethan over two years ago. And even then they’d been introduced by a mutual acquaintance, hooked up a couple of times, and then just sort of… fell into togetherness. Ethan was a college professor, and the two of them would just hang out in cafés, each on his laptop.

Did Flip look stupid in the vintage sweater? The young woman at the shop had told him it looked great on him, but of course she was trying to sell the thing. He really wished he had his second-favorite pair of jeans, but they were in his suitcase, and his suitcase was… not here.

He didn’t have butterflies in his stomach; he had fucking Mothra.

Flip arrived at the Bergeron-Catanzaro house a few minutes before two. Tony stood on the front porch, conversing with a short, fiftyish woman with spiky copper hair. He beamed when he saw Flip. “You made it!”

“I wasn’t about to miss out on a tour from such a knowledgeable guide.” Flip climbed the few steps to join them.

Tony introduced the woman, who was the director of the foundation that ran the house. She shook Flip’s hand, told them both to have a good time, and ducked inside.

“That sweater’s amazing,” said Tony.

Mothra settled down a little. “Thanks. I bought it here. I mean, over there.” He pointed in what he thought was the general direction of the shop.

“Good find, and it suits you. If you’re into that sort of thing, I can recommend a shop over on Magazine Street. Hell, we can go there today if you want. Make it part of the tour.” Tony’s cheeks colored slightly and he ducked his head. “Historian,” he said in explanation. “I’m a huge nerd for old things.”

“I’d enjoy seeing that shop. My luggage is in limbo and I could use a couple more things to wear.”

Tony lifted his head. “Excellent.”

They began in the blocks surrounding the Bergeron-Catanzaro house. Tony showed Flip the Ursuline convent, the French Market, and Jackson Square. They walked to the river, where Tony talked about the shipping industry and how it had shaped New Orleans—and how hurricanes had shaped it too. He was a fascinating speaker. Full of knowledge, thrilled to answer questions, and pleased to learn that Flip was more interested in the everyday events that had happened than in murders, vodou, or vampires. Flip didn’t divulge his very recent ghostly visitations—if that’s what they were—which had been more than enough supernatural shit as far as Flip was concerned.

They strolled through Tremé, a neighborhood where free people of color lived in the early nineteenth century. Tony took them to Congo Square, now a part of Armstrong Park, which led to a discussion of music. “It’s like our food,” Tony explained. “People brought their traditions from Africa and Europe and the Caribbean and mixed ’em together to create something new and wonderful.”

“Creole,” said Flip, remembering what Tony had told him the other day.

“You’re an A-plus student for sure.”

They strolled for a while after that. Sometimes Tony pointed out something of interest but they also talked about other things. Flip learned that Tony had grown up in the city, moved to New York to attend college, and had worked for a time at a museum there, helping run educational programs for kids on field trips. But New Orleans had pulled him back, and after he’d attended grad school there, he found his dream job at the house his ancestors had once lived in.

As for Flip, he talked about his books a little bit, but only because Tony seemed genuinely curious about them. “I love the way an author can make a reader travel in space and time,” said Tony. “It’s magic.”

That was nice to hear.

And then Tony paused on a street corner. “This neighborhood might not look very exciting now, but a little over a hundred years ago, it was hopping. The city council decided to locate all the brothels here. Made it easier for the rich folks to control things, keep their fingers in the pots. It became a big tourist attraction. Some of the houses were cribs, just dumps where a man could rent some poor woman for fifty cents. But some were grand mansions where customers could sip cocktails and listen to good music.”

Flip froze. “Music?”

“Sure. You could argue that Storyville was the birthplace of jazz.”

Of course it was. Flip must have heard about all this a while ago and then forgotten about it. He hadn’t learned about Storyville from a ghost in his dream—because, despite Miss Amelie’s views, ghosts didn’t exist.

He struggled to maintain his composure. “I think I, uh, heard something about the military closing it all down?”

“That’s right. There were a lot of soldiers and sailors shipping out of here during World War I, and the brass wasn’t happy that their boys were spending free time with our girls. And with some of our boys, for that matter, but that wasn’t nearly so open. Anyway, the Secretary of War made them shut it all down. It didn’t end prostitution, of course, but I guess it satisfied somebody. It also put a lot of those musicians out of work.”

Musicians like Scratch.

Chapter

Seven

“Pregaming dinner was a good idea,” said Tony after wiping his mouth with a napkin. “And I’m always up for oysters.” He apparently realized his unintended double entendre and, charmingly, blushed.

Laughing felt good. “You don’t have to be so kind about it. I was really?—”

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