Where are you, General?
Black meandered up and down Bourbon Street for the better part of an hour before he sat down on a bench and tried to consider all the possibilities. Fortner wouldn’t want to live above a bar, at least he wouldn’t given the reason for purchasing his home in such a location. He’d want to be near a watering hole, but he wouldn’t frequent an establishment so often that everyone knew his name and his story.
Black wracked his brain, trying to think about which place made the most sense. Then he remembered something he’d seen at Fortner’s farm in Chile: a sign for barbecue. “Maurice’s Fine BBQ” was plastered across the front of a tin that was tacked to the outside of Fortner’s barn. And while there wasn’t a Maurice’s BBQ in New Orleans, there were well-known barbecue joints located along the famed street. But Black hadn’t noticed any of the addresses on his list located near such an eatery. He needed to double check.
He trekked up and down Bourbon again, striking off each address that didn’t fit the criteria. When he was finished, Black was left with nothing. Frustrated by the lack of any apparent match, he followed the smell emanating from a billowing hickory wood fire a couple of blocks away. Mickey Ray’s BBQ was the source.
Black surveyed the outside of the building, which had two stories located above with a decorative wrought-iron fence demarcating the edge of the balcony. He admired the exquisite handiwork, a signature of the French Quarter architecture.
“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” asked a man, nudging Black with an elbow.
Black turned to look at the stranger, who had his attention turned toward the upper floors of the restaurant.
“If I lived there, I swear I’d be a hundred pounds overweight within a year,” Black said.
The man rubbed his rotund belly and shook his head. “Or you could live across the street from this place like me and add twenty pounds a year for a decade.”
Black stopped gawking at the structure and turned his gaze toward the man. “You’ve lived on Bourbon Street for a decade?”
“It’s quite a feat,” he said. “If you don’t overdose or get shot, you’ve got to be doing something right. That’s why I figure overeatin’ is the least of my worries.”
Black chuckled. “I hope they don’t let you write the marketing material for the French Quarter tourism department.”
“This place would probably be a ghost town if visitors knew only half of what actually goes on here.”
“Yet here you are.”
The man nodded. “And here’s where I’ll die, maybe even tonight. You just never know.”
“Mitch Harrison,” Black said as he offered his hand. “One of those tourists who doesn’t want to know just everything yet.”
“Chuck Cormier,” the man said, taking Black’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, especially someone who appreciates New Orleans for what it truly is: A national treasure.”
“It’s hard not to have a good time in this city.”
“I came here one weekend fifteen years ago and never left.”
Black nodded. “Say, Chuck, how long did you say you’ve been living across the street from this restaurant?”
“For the last decade. I’ve seen some crazy changes around here, but that place just keeps chugging along, serving the finest barbecue in the state.”
“So, is this the kind of place where you get to know all your neighbors?”
Chuck shrugged. “Depends on what they’re here for. If they’re here for a good time, yes. If they’re here to hide, nope.”
“People come here to hide?”
“Either to hide or to party. New Orleans is a great place to disappear into. You make lots of friends every night, but they don’t have to know your name, though most of them wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyway.”
“That’s a fair point. So, what about your neighbors here? Do you know all of them?”
“Most of them,” Chuck said. “The guy who lives on the top floor over this restaurant ain’t the friendliest fella on the planet.”
“And he’s been there a while?”
“Not exactly. His stepfather owned it and I guess gave it to him after he died somewhat unexpectedly about a year ago. I thought the house would go on the market, but it never did. Then the next thing you know, this hard-ass type is marching around the balcony up there like he’s getting ready to pick someone off with a sniper rifle. He’s always got a drink in his hand but never a smile on his face.”
“Have you seen him around here the past few days?” Black asked.
Chuck eyed Black cautiously, looking him up and down. “Are you some kinda cop?”
“Just a friend looking for a friend,” Black said.
“You must not be that close if he’s trying to hide from you.”
“You’re the one who said people come here to hide. I’ve been trying to track him down for a while. The rest of his family has been worried sick about him. I’m just trying to get a handle on the situation.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him in the past week, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here. Just be careful. He always looks unstable. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up one morning and see him splattered all over Bourbon Street if you know what I mean.”
“You have vivid imagery there, Chuck,” Black said, patting the man on the back. “I’d love to buy you a drink sometime this week.”
“How ‘bout a two-meat, two-side platter to go along with that drink?”
“I like how you think. I’ll find you later.”
With
