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Bourbon Street by Leonce Gaiter
"Ah. You must be Mr. Watley." Deke couldn‘t place the accent. It was either British or ridiculous. He wasn‘t worldly enough to tell the difference. "Call me Deke," he replied. The man turned to look at the others, his audience. "'Call me Ishmael,'" he announced as he shook Deke‘s hand and chortled merrily. The others looked to one another for reassurance before they, too, forced laughs as hearty and urbane as the man‘s. The reclining woman looked disgusted. "What?" Deke asked, half to her and half to himself. The man laughed even louder. He finally let go of Deke ‘s hand to slap a thigh with mirth. Having had enough, the woman rose from her leather perch. She approached Deke and shook his hand. "Pritchett read a book once," she said, indicating the laughing man, who now shook his head and held up his hands in an "I ‘m sorry, just couldn ‘t resist" gesture. The others seemed relieved that they didn‘t have to laugh anymore and abruptly stopped. "I ‘m Stacy," the woman continued. "Laughing boy here is Pritchett, my husband." She pointed to the woman now putting her shoe back on. "This is Honey." Honey gave a little wave. Next came the little man chewing his hands. Barker," she said of him. Finally taking his hand from his mouth, he nodded. The man at the bar had a hard-core face. Not hard-core anything in particular, just hard-core. Anything he shouldn‘t have done he ‘d done too much of and liked too well. "Tate," she said. He turned back to finish making his drink. "Howdy," Deke said to the group. "Sit, sit. Tell us about yourself," Pritchett prompted. Deke took a seat and grabbed hold of the armrests when he saw the silksuited, guntoting bellhop enter with a tray of drinks. The hop walked straight to Deke. "Bourbon and seven?" he asked. "That ‘s the usual," Deke replied. "Here you are." As polite as could be, Jimmy placed a white napkin on the table and set the drink down next to Deke. "How ‘d you know?" Deke asked. "We know a lot about you, Deke," Pritchett replied. Deke picked up the drink. "You should tell me about me sometime," he said as he took a sip. "I thought I wanted scotch." These people were starting to piss him off, and only the lady, Stacy, had the sense to know it. Pritchett was like a cat with a lizard. He ‘d go as far as you ‘d let him. The other three looked variously bored or drunk. The colored bellhop seemed more at ease here than they did. "Talk to us, honey," the older woman said, and Deke suddenly knew why they called her Honey. "Nothin ‘ to tell," he replied. "I ‘m just . . . a gambler." "Ah," Pritchett said, shaking the lizard by the tail, "a simple man. That usually means he ‘s either annoyingly soulful or incredibly stupid." Deke stared at him. "Like with most men," he replied, "that depends on the quality of the liquor." "Where is Alex?" said Stacy, squelching the fight her husband was picking. And as if on cue, the huge doors swung open and in walked Alexander Moreau. Deke wasn ‘t even surprised. Which tells you how far he ‘d come in just one evening. Young, maybe twenty, maybe thirty. The power said thirty, but the boyish face said much younger. He was colored, like the people out on the street, but he was mixed. He had that copperorange skin and wavy black hair like so many colored down here. Deke almost dropped his drink when he realized this was the man from the bandstand on Bourbon Street, the one who played the piano that wasn ‘t there. "Fashionably late as usual, Stacy," he said as he marched into the room. Everyone ‘s nerves stood up straight. Deke could feel the hair on their necks rise. They'd been bored and distracted before, but Alex now commanded their undivided attention. He had Deke ‘s too. There was something wild about him. In the eyes, the mouth. He was beautiful. Looking at him, you knew that there was only one like him in this world, and you didn ‘t know how such an oddity behaved (what, pray tell, were its habits, its mores, its pet peeves) and that scared you, but you couldn ‘t take your eyes off of him. Alex rubbed his hands together as he looked around the room. "Let the games begin," he said. "Jimmy." The bellhop almost stood at attention. He ‘d long ago abandoned his silver serving tray and leaned against the wall to enjoy the show. "You ‘re wanted." Quickly grabbing his tray, he demurely left the room and closed the huge doors ceremoniously behind him. "Alex Moreau," he said, extending a hand to Deke. "Deke Watley." Deke was surprised he was already standing. He couldn ‘t remember when he ‘d gotten to his feet. "You ‘re a wicked poker player, Deke. When I read about the Dallas win, I knew I wanted you here." Alex moved to the sideboard. Tate, the hardcore, stepped aside as he approached. "You ‘re not what I expected," Alex continued, mixing. "You don ‘t look rich enough for these stakes." It wasn ‘t insulting. Not from him. The way he said it, you knew that only a fool would not have mentioned it, and only a bigger one would have taken offense. Deke looked him in the eye. "I can handle it," he said.
Bourbon Street:Part 1 | Bourbon Street:Part 2 | Order Bourbon Street |
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