Page 7 of Man of His Dreams

“Y’know, most of the time I don’t mind too much being a ghost. I can still listen to music and watch people doing their things. I get gossip from other ghosts, so I know what’s going on around town. I don’t feel sorry for myself. But another person’s touch—that’s one of the things that makes a body feel alive, ain’t it? Kissing, petting, fucking… I liked doing those things a lot ’cause when I did, I felt so strong, so vital. A taste of immortality.” He gave a soft laugh. “But just a taste. And now you’ve given me that again. Thank you.” He lifted one of Flip’s hands and kissed the back of it.

Then he stood, put on his hat, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Flip expected to wake up then, but he didn’t. Instead he lay back on the bed, chasing the lingering flavors on his tongue as he watched the shadows. Outside, hooves clip-clopped on the pavement, although it was too late for the tourist carriages to be out. Occasional voices wafted in, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. If he strained his ears, he could hear a piano playing a tune he didn’t recognize—something old-fashioned, like in a saloon in a Western movie.

He lay there and thought about plans left unfulfilled.

In the morning, his AirTag tracker said his suitcase was in Atlanta, although the airline rep insisted that it was on the way to New Orleans. He hoped the damned thing was having a fun adventure.

He had beignets for breakfast, just like a tourist, but not at Café du Monde because, as usual, the line was ridiculously long. He called a cab and rode to the nearest Target, on the other side of the river, to buy socks, underwear, and T-shirts, along with a few household goods. He was still going to need a couple pairs of jeans and a shirt or two, but those could wait for another excursion. Maybe some thrift store visits would be a good idea if he hoped to stretch his budget.

When he returned to St. Philip Street, Miss Amelie was sitting in her usual spot. She waved at him.

“Morning,” he called. He couldn’t wave because his hands were full of bags.

“Smart move, goin’ shoppin’. You ain’t gonna see your suitcase again soon.”

“Did you see that in the cards?”

“Nah, I just know airlines.” She cackled and then coughed. “But if you go see my friend Marie-Louise over on Mandeville Street, she could make you a gris-gris. A charm. Might help. Couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.” He would have rather had a voodoo doll of the airline CEO, but asking for that was probably culturally insensitive.

He wrote about a thousand words and, feeling accomplished, ate a sandwich and decided to take a walk. He couldn’t afford to join a gym and he hated jogging, so walking and going up and down his apartment stairs were going to be his best forms of exercise.

But he’d traveled only a couple of blocks before pausing in front of a mansion.

Bergeron-Catanzaro House

Tours Available on the Hour

A glance at his watch told him it was five minutes before two. Well, why not? He walked through the front door and into a long, wide hallway with ornate rugs and a trio of chandeliers.

A young woman inside the first room on the left was spreading a cloth onto a long folding table. “Oh, hello,” she said brightly. “Are you here for a tour?”

“Yes, please.”

“Hang on just a sec.” She poked at her phone. “Tony’ll be right here. Sorry—I usually do the tours, but I need to finish setting up here. Tomorrow we have the St. Joseph altar.”

He nodded as if he knew what that meant.

Flip returned to the hallway, which could have qualified as a substantial room on its own. At the far end, opposite where he had entered the house, a transom-topped door led outside. Large paintings of sailing ships and craggy mountains hung on the side walls and, below them, a few narrow tables held vases, brochures, and knickknacks. There were several doorways along either side of the hall, some with open doors, others closed.

When a figure stepped out from the farthest room on the right, Flip nearly cried out.

The man looked like Scratch.

Chapter

Four

“Hey, are you okay?” The man was heading down the long hallway toward Flip, who was, in fact, light-headed and weak-kneed.

By the time the man reached him, Flip had managed to regain a bit of composure. “I’m fine. Sorry. I think I just got walloped by jet lag.” That wasn’t a particularly good excuse, but it would have to do.

The man’s nervous expression eased into a smile. “And this city can be a little overwhelming sometimes. Anyway, welcome. I’m Anthony Bergeron. Tony, actually. Assistant director. And you’re here for the tour?”

“Yes, please.”

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