Out of the Easy(34)

I didn’t believe in it, but I did have a gris-gris bag in my purse that Willie’s witch doctor insisted I carry.

“Nah, it’s just crazy stuff,” he said, trying to wipe what looked like motor oil from his fingers with the napkin.

“Oh, and I don’t understand crazy?”

He smiled. “All right, then.” He spun toward me on his stool and planted his boots on opposite sides of my legs. He leaned in close. I smelled his shaving tonic and tried to steady my face, which seemed to be pulling toward the scent.

“She has this spell she swears works to get rid of people. She finds a dead rat, stuffs its mouth with a piece of lemon dipped in red wax. She pours a teaspoon of whiskey on the rat, wraps it in newspaper, and then puts it under the neighbor’s porch.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I haven’t heard that one.” Jesse was funny and surprisingly easy to talk to.

“She’s really superstitious, but that’s New Orleans.”

“Yeah, that’s New Orleans.” I shook my head.

He tipped his soda glass slightly, watching the last of the liquid crawl up the side. “But would you ever leave?”

I looked up. Jesse was staring at me. “I mean, do you ever think of leaving New Orleans?” he asked.

Did he know? I wanted to tell him yes, but it didn’t feel right. He already knew about Mother. Perhaps that was why he brought it up. I stared down at the counter. “So are you the first one in your family to go to college?” I asked.

“Yeah. My dad’s still in the pen. He talks about getting out, but I know that’s just talk.”

“What’s he in for?”

“Gambling . . . and other stuff. He’s never been out for more than a couple months before he gets arrested again,” said Jesse.

“Your dad isn’t tied with Carlos Marcello, is he?” I thought about Detective Langley saying one of Marcello’s men had been involved in the shooting out in Metairie. I wished it had been Cincinnati.

“Aw, heck no. Marcello’s the big time. If you’re tangled with him, you don’t end up in jail, you end up dead. My dad’s just your average Crescent City crook. This town will eat you up if you’re not careful. But I won’t be here forever. After all, do I really seem like a flower salesman?”

“Well, hello there, Jesse!” Two attractive blondes linked arm in arm approached us at the counter.

“Hey, Fran,” said Jesse over his shoulder, though still keeping his eyes on me. “Do you like flowers, Motor City?”

“My mom loved the roses she bought from you last week,” said the girl, nudging closer to Jesse.

“I’m glad.” Jesse turned to them and spoke in a mock whisper. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’m kinda busy, trying to woo this gal here.”

I laughed, trying not to snort hot chocolate through my nose.

“Doesn’t look like she’s interested,” said Fran. Jesse’s face clouded.

I slid off the stool. “How rude of me. Please, have a seat. We don’t need two stools.” I pulled myself onto Jesse’s lap. The blondes stared. I slung my arm over his shoulder and gestured toward the vacant stool.

“Is that car running yet, Jesse, or are you still riding the Triumph?” asked Fran.

“Still riding the motorcycle, but the Merc’s comin’ along.”

“It’s gonna be fantastic,” I said, swishing Jesse’s straw against the soda residue in his glass. “High-pressure heads, dual carburetors.”

All heads snapped to me.

“Jo’s originally from Detroit,” said Jesse. “The Motor City.”

“How cute,” said Fran, boring holes through me with her stare. “Jo from Detroit and Jesse from Dauphine.”

“Actually, I’m from Alabama,” said Jesse.

“But that doesn’t sound as good,” said Fran.

“I think that sounds real good.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “After all, girls, you know what they say about boys from Alabama.” I nodded slowly.

Fran’s mouth dropped. She had two fillings on the right side. Her friend started to giggle uncontrollably. Fran pulled her toward the door.

I watched the girls saunter away in their expensive coats and pink lipstick. As soon as they were out the door, Jesse started laughing.

“Impressive. High-pressure heads, huh?” he said.

“I read about it in a hot-rod book we had in the shop.”

“It’s a game for them,” he told me. “Slummin’ with Jesse.”

“What do you mean? She seemed interested in you.” I looked at Jesse. He wasn’t stylish or sharp like Patrick. He was rugged, quietly mysterious. Jesse had blue eyes, spicy brown hair, and a deep scar near his right ear. Despite an injury to his foot when he was young, he had played baseball in school.

“Come on. They’re not interested. They’re just flirting with a guy from the Quarter so when they get older, they can say that they once played the other side of the tracks.”

“Yeah, telling stories while they drink highballs at their bridge parties.”

“Exactly,” said Jesse. “They’ll talk about the time they went slummin’ in the Quarter—”

“With the handsome flower vendor.”