Page 72 of She's Like the Wind
We were at a half-warped table inside Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, the bar dim and flickering with candlelight, always feeling like it was a second away from collapsing in on its own haunted history. The stone walls breathed moisture. The bartenders didn’t rush. And the piano in the corner was either being tuned or exercised, depending on the hour.
“I’m fine.”
He gave me a long look. Delphiwasn’t the kind of guy to pry, but he could read me like a blueprint. I’d known him for years—crew lead, sounding board, the closest thing I had to a brother who hadn’t come out of my mama’s womb.
“You wanna tell me why you’ve been dragging your sorry ass around like somebody buried your dog?”
“What’s with all the dog references? I don’t even have one.”
“Maybe you need one,” Delphi suggested. “You know what they say?”
I raised an eyebrow as I took a long pull of beer.
“A dog is a man’s best friend,” he finished sincerely.
I let out a short bark of laughter.
“Come on, you’ve been like a wounded warrior for weeks…maybe months.”
I rubbed my jaw. “I fell in love. Then I fucked it up.”
He blinked. “The lingerie girl?”
“She has a name. Naomi.”
“She’s hot.”
I glared at him.
“And you fucked it up?”
I sighed.
He let out a slow whistle and took a sip of his drink. “Damn. Thought you were smart.”
“Me, too.”
“This got to do with the girl who died?”
For all his vapid comments, Delphi was insightful,especially when it came to me since we’d known each other a long time.
I took another long pull of beer in response.
“You were a passenger in that car that day when it went down,” Delphi remarked. “Maybe it’s time to grab the wheelnow?”
Like I said,insightful.
Two tourists wandered over. They had matching sunburns. “Hi, we’re looking for a place called Three Muses?”
“Frenchmen Street,” Delphi told them. “Go down the street, you’ll hit Decatur, keep going and cross Esplanade, and you’ll be on Frenchmen. You’ll hear the music before you see it. Three Muses will be just up ahead on the right. They’ve got a killer set on Thursdays. Brazilian jazz, if you’re lucky.”
“Thanks,” the guy said and then looked at us. “Are you local?”
We nodded.
The woman with him cleared her throat. “Can you suggest a place to eat? I love Louisiana barbecue shrimp.”
I grinned. “Mr. B’s. Down Royal across from Hotel Monteleone. They give you a bib with your food. Ask for extra bread. You’re gonna want to mop up the sauce.”
