On the Streets of New Orleans (3 page)

Shit.

Tony shook his head at the undeniable truth.

He’d have to give that money back.

SCOTT WIPED
down the last table and pushed the cart back into the kitchen. His shift was almost done and Willis, Tiffany’s son, would be in soon to take Scott’s place for the dinner and late-night shift. Willis enjoyed his sleep, was a night owl, so he said, and preferred to work the late nights. Scott figured it was because the tips were better.

On weekdays Scott would drop by the bank, deposit his cash, and then head back to the shelter to help out there serving dinner. There was nothing else to do besides play cards or dominoes, and Scott didn’t like to play. At the shelter, games frequently turned into gambling, and Scott didn’t have money to give away or fight over.

Or money to be stolen.

Now, thanks to tips, nearly twenty-five dollars filled his pockets. Most of it was coins and ones, so he usually got Miss Tiffany to change it for him so he could carry it easier in his pockets, since he didn’t have a wallet.

Wallets got stolen at the center. Scott kept his cash in his underwear, where he could always feel it and know it was there. He rooted around in his apron, pulled out the bills, and started counting.

“Boy, come over here an’ let me swap those bills out for you.” Miss Tiffany stood at the cash register behind the counter, waiting for him.

“Here, I have twenty in ones, and”—he placed it on the counter, then looked down at the change—“three dollars and fifty cents in coins.”

“Keep those quarters. You might want a soda.” She opened the register and gave him a ten, two fives, and three ones. Scott took them, folded the bills neatly, and shoved them past his jeans and deep into his briefs, so they rested near his hip.

He didn’t like having too much money on him, especially at the shelter. It was just an invitation to the others to take it.

“How about some dinner, sugar?” She grinned at him and pointed to a table. “Sit down an’ let me make you something.”

He smiled back and nodded. Tiffany made the best fried chicken he’d ever tasted, and even after working there for the last six months, he never tired of eating her cooking. The stuff at the shelter only passed for food. What Tiffany made? That was just below what the angels must eat in heaven.

“Can I get you some chicken?”

“Two pieces, please.” Scott slid onto a chair at the counter.

“That’s all?” She laughed. “Boy, you’re too damned skinny for my likin’. How you ever gonna get you a boyfriend?” Without waiting for his answer, she winked, bumped the swinging door to the kitchen with her hip, and disappeared.

“I don’t need….” Heat rose in his face, burning a path up to his hair, as the denial died in his mouth.

Tiffany leaned toward the gap where she pushed the hot plates through to be served and laughed. “You need a waffle, boy. No two ways about it.” Then she disappeared again.

He got up, fixed a glass of iced water, and sat back down. It felt good to get off his feet, and he had a long walk back to the shelter. He glanced over his shoulder out the windows, then his gaze flicked to the clock over the counter. Almost 4:00 p.m.

It would be dark soon. He’d have to eat fast and get going. Once the business district shut down, usually at five thirty, the streets became the playground of men like the ones who’d robbed him.

The clatter of plates on the aluminum counter of the pass-through and the light
ding
of the bell startled him out of his thoughts. “Order up, boy! Waffles ’n’ wings! Get ’em while they’re hot!”

He jumped off the stool and went around the counter for his meal, scooped up the plate, and placed it in front of his chair. He ran around and sat, pausing just long enough to decide waffle or chicken first before pouring thick, rich, dark cane syrup all over the waffle and digging in. The chicken would stay hot longer.

Tiffany came out of the kitchen and leaned on the counter. Her warm gaze traveled over the planes of his face.

“Damn, I’m sure sorry they done that to you, boy.” She clucked and shook her head. “Skinny white boy like you needs someone looking after you.”

“I don’t need anyone,” he said around a mouthful of waffle. “I can take care of myself. Been on my own for years.”

“Me too. Me and Willis, ever since Katrina.” Her amber eyes seemed to lose some of their spark. Then she looked around the small, nearly empty restaurant and sighed. “I sure wish Rufus coulda seen this place. He always told me, ‘Tiffany baby, you make the best fried chicken in the world. You should sell it.’”

“You do.” Scott nodded as he picked up a wing and bit into the piece of crispy chicken. He licked his fingers and then wiped them on the paper napkins he’d pulled from the dispenser.

“Thanks, child.” She leaned her elbow on the counter and stared out the window. “It’s gettin’ late. You best be goin’.”

He swallowed the last bite of turnip greens and washed it down with the rest of the water, then slid off the stool. “Thanks, Miss Tiffany. You need anything else?”

“No, just get going. You make it home before dark, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took his plates to the sink in the kitchen, rinsed them off, and stacked them in the dishwasher.

As he passed Miss Tiffany, she grabbed his arm. “You leavin’ here without givin’ me my sugar?”

Heat burned in his cheeks again. “No, ma’am.” He leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on her cheek. She swatted him on the arm with a dishrag and chuckled.

He scooted out the front door of the restaurant with a smile on his face but a weight in his heart. Proud of his day’s work, but sad to leave the one place where he felt welcome.

SCOTT CROSSED
the wide stretch of Canal, dodging a streetcar bearing down on him, its bell clanging a warning, and headed down Magazine. Despite the sun still being up, shadows cloaked the streets of the business district, its tall buildings blocking the last of the daylight.

Office workers scurried to their cars, to streetcars or buses, anywhere but hanging around the district. Scott knew that by six, the place would be nearly deserted.

He hurried down the street, unable to shake the feeling someone followed him. Every time he paused at a street to cross, he threw a quick look over his shoulder.

Plenty of people were on the street, but none of them looked like they were up to no good. He’d learned how to spot them years ago, when he first came to the city. It had been a matter of survival, and Scott knew avoiding trouble was the best way to stay out of trouble.

He turned the corner at St. Joseph. The shelter was just a few blocks away. By the darkening of the shadows, he knew the sun had set. He didn’t have a watch—they got stolen—but the shelter had alarm clocks you could borrow to wake you up, if you had someplace to be. He counted himself fortunate he did; most there didn’t.

Scott stopped at the entrance to the shelter to say hello to a few of the men. One of the workers, his friend, an older man named Charlie, greeted him.

“Hey, man! Where y’at?” Charlie nodded at him, his thick New Orleans drawl making Scott smile. After he’d first come to New Orleans, it’d taken about a year for him to get used to hearing that soft, singsong version of the Bronx accent.

“I’m good. You?” Scott shook his head as Charlie offered a crumpled pack of no-name cigarettes.

“Makin’ out just fine, man. I passed by the Mid-City Shelter today. The priests need some help. Wanna move down there for a while?” Charlie lit his own cigarette and took a deep drag.

“Naw, but thanks.” Scott leaned on the handrail of the stairs. “I have a job.” He couldn’t keep the touch of pride out of his voice, and he read the look of respect in Charlie’s eyes.

“That’s right. Down in the Quarter.” A stream of gray smoke plumed from Charlie’s nostrils as he exhaled.

Scott didn’t try to correct him; he just ducked his head. From experience, he knew to keep his business to himself. If he went to Mid-City, it might be farther to walk, but it’d be a bit safer. And the Catholic priests who ran that shelter were strict and no-nonsense.

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know. This shelter’s getting full, and the boss wants me to see if I can shift some of the guys over to the Mid-City building.”

“Yeah, I noticed some new guys hanging around.” Scott hadn’t liked the looks of them either. To him, they seemed a bit too interested in the comings and goings of the other men.

“Yeah, well, keep your eyes open, man. Just sayin’.” Charlie flicked the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and shrugged.

“You gonna stay here or move over there?” Scott turned to go inside, and Charlie followed behind him, stopping at the door to the office.

“Guess I’ll move between the two. Wherever the boss says I’m needed.” He ducked inside the office and shut the door.

Scott walked over to the check-in, signed the register, and waited as Charlie, now behind the steel wire cage, handed him a padlock for the locker to store his things while he took a shower.

Scott wandered down the hall past the basketball gym. Even before Katrina, a Christian charity funded the place to house homeless men. It had showers with lockers, and several huge dorm rooms on three floors of an old warehouse.

After showering and changing into a pair of sweats, Scott trudged up the stairs to the second floor, carrying the clothes he’d worn that day. He’d tucked his money back into his underwear for safekeeping. He walked past dozens of cots, nodding to the few men either lying or sitting on them, until he arrived at his usual bunk near a window looking out on the street. Welded to the foot of the cot’s metal frame, a padlocked footlocker held the rest of his clothing and a few belongings.

He pulled back the covers, then sighed. He’d forgotten to pick up his clock.

Leaving his bundle of clothes on the cot, he trotted back downstairs, got the clock, and hurried back up.

In the few minutes he’d been gone, someone had spread his clothes over his bunk. All the guys in the dorm lounged around like nothing had happened.

Scott smiled, knowing they’d found nothing and not even blaming them for looking. Most of the men here had some kind of habit. They even had counselors who led group meetings for them.

He said a silent prayer as he folded his clothes, thankful he’d never fallen into that particular hell. God knew, there’d been times when he’d been tempted to escape his reality, but he’d always managed to find the strength to resist.

Sometimes, he wasn’t sure he could keep holding out.

Bunching the pillow under his head, he closed his eyes and thought of the large black man with warm chocolate eyes who’d rescued him.

Scott fell asleep thinking of strong, dark-skinned arms holding him safe.

HOME SWEET
home.

Tony looked up at the spray-painted X on the four-by-eight piece of plywood covering the front door. A matching piece covered the large front window. He’d been careful not to use one of the houses where they’d found anyone dead, because no way in hell could he stay there. Not in no haunted house.
Uh-uh.

He stepped over the pile of rubble on the sidewalk and slinked down the long, narrow alley between the shotgun houses. At the rear he checked the tiny backyard, then went up the three steps and unlocked the door. He’d found the key in one of the kitchen drawers, and the only lock it opened was on the back door.

The house remained boarded up, like most of the houses in this poor neighborhood bordering the downtown area. Abandoned, just like him.

In the kitchen most of the appliances had rusted, the floors were bare wood, but it didn’t smell too bad. He took off his jacket and hung it on a coat hook near the back door, then placed the take-out bag of hamburgers on the small table he used for eating. At the sink he turned on the water and washed his hands. The city kept the water going to the deserted neighborhoods so there would be water to fight fires. So his toilet flushed and he could take a cold bath, but with no electricity and the boards covering the windows and doors, the place was pitch-dark at night.

Most nights before going to bed, he’d sit on the back steps, in whatever light the moon cast, and listen to the sounds of the dead neighborhood. Mostly the sounds of rats scurrying and cats chasing them.

He’d tried to befriend a gray cat, but it was too wild and wouldn’t come near him. Most of the time, it sat on the fence and watched him. Maybe looking for food, but if it was, the little sucker was out of luck, just like Tony.

He sat and ate the burgers, chewing slowly, savoring the taste of the still-warm food, even though his stomach demanded he gobble them down. With no way of knowing when he’d eat again, he forced himself to take his time and enjoy the meal. Closing his eyes, he imagined what it might be like to have someone to eat with, like that skinny white dude.

They’d laugh and talk—about their day, about their lives before and their lives now. Make plans for the future. Maybe about leaving and going someplace where they stood a chance.

He didn’t know where that was, but he’d go if someone led the way.

When he’d taken the last bite, he gathered up the trash and put it in a plastic shopping bag, tying it in a neat bundle. Tomorrow he’d drop it off in a dumpster.

He didn’t want to leave any evidence that someone lived here. The authorities might force him to leave or arrest him for squatting. Parish prison didn’t appeal to him.

Shaking off that thought, he went deeper into the house, where the light of the late afternoon turned to dark. In the bathroom the light from the only working window in the house, a small transom over the tub, was enough for him to see his reflection in the mirror. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, undressed, and went to his equally dark bedroom.

He’d managed to rescue a few pieces of furniture from a deserted camelback house nearby, including a bed frame and mattress, moving them during the cover of night so no one would see him.

After feeling his way along the wall, he counted the steps to the bed. He kicked off his shoes, stretched out on it, and pulled two blankets over his body to keep warm. Raised off the ground, these old houses allowed the cold air from underneath to turn the bare floors icy.