‘Whoa, slow down, hun,’ Arlene said. She placed a restraining hand on Sam’s arm and lowered the hand in which she held the famous bulbous glass. ‘That ain’t no fruit juice you’re drinking. Take it slow.’
‘It tastes like fruit juice,’ Sam protested. ‘I’m not tasting any alcohol.’
‘With the really lethal concoctions you never do, hun,’ Arlene grinned. ‘But trust me, the alcohol is there. You drink that too fast, and you’re going to be sitting on some corner on Bourbon Street early tomorrow morning trying to remember your name.’
‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’ I asked.
‘There are some things you don’t ask a gal in New Orleans,’ she replied, ‘and that’s one of them.’
The fresh air had felt good as we walked from the Intercontinental across Canal Street into the French Quarter. The walk and the air somehow blew away the exertions of the day. The Quarter was warming up for the evening, and there were a lot of people on the streets, but it was still only just after seven, early by New Orleans standards. Arlene had steered us straight to St Peter Street, and had managed to usher us into Pat O’Brien’s before it got too crowded. At her insistence we ordered the legendary ‘Hurricane’ – except for Powalski, who stuck resolutely to his Jack Daniels over ice – and adjourned to the rear garden to enjoy the drink and the balmy air. We were beginning to relax now. The alcohol was indeed there, and as always after a hard day, it loosened us up. It felt good.
‘The last time I was here in Pat O’Brien’s,’ Arlene said during a rare lull in the conversation, ‘was just after I finally threw my useless, no-good, asshole of a husband out of the house. It was that very weekend. I left Bubba with my momma and flew out to New Orleans, determined to spend what little money he’d left me before the goddamn debt collectors could get their hands on it. And I’m here to tell you, I did a pretty good job of it.’
‘What did your husband do that you had to throw him out?’ Powalski asked. He and Sam hadn’t heard the story. ‘Was he running around on you?’
‘Well, he was a hard dog to keep on the porch,’ Arlene replied. ‘He never could keep his pants zipped up for long. But it wasn’t the screwing around that did us in. Truth to tell, I could have matched him screw for screw if I’d had a mind to, and I was past caring by then. What did us in was the betting and the drinking – the betting, mainly. The booze cost him his job, but it was the gambling that did the real damage. Even now I don’t know much money went that way. He borrowed from the bank on our house until they wouldn’t lend him any more, and after that he borrowed from the Texas Mafia.’
‘The Texas Mafia?’ Sam grinned.
‘You bet your ass, hun. Oh, they might not be the Cosa Nostra. They might just be a couple of good old boys driving a pickup truck with Willie Nelson playing on the sound system and a dog in the back and a couple of shotguns on the gun rack. They ain’t gonna leave no horse’s head under your pillow. But you still don’t want to mess with them. I got the hell out of Dodge as soon as I got back from N’Orleans, before they had time to find me. I took Bubba and headed for Virginia and that’s where I’m fixin’ to stay.’
‘What happened to the asshole husband?’ Powalski asked.
‘Damned if I know, and damned if I give a tinker’s cuss what happened to him. If they took a shotgun and blew his balls off, I would give them a high five.’
‘You’re not planning to reconcile then, I guess?’ Powalski asked. We all laughed out loud, good and long.
‘But I sure did spend some money in this town while I had the chance,’ Arlene said, draining her Hurricane glass. ‘I stayed at the Monteleone. I ate at Antoine’s, Commander’s Palace, the Court of the Two Sisters – every good restaurant I could fit into a long weekend, ending up with Monday brunch at Brennan’s before I headed out to the airport.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Including Tujague’s,’ she said, ‘where I took the liberty of booking us a table in about twenty minutes. We need to haul ass.’
‘You booked us a table?’ I asked.
‘Well, sure. I booked as soon as I knew we were going to be here. It’s Saturday night in N’Orleans, hun. You can’t just walk into a restaurant without a reservation – leastways, not one y’all would want to eat in. Come one, drink up.’
‘I could go for another of those Hurricanes,’ Sam said, emptying her glass reluctantly.
‘You really don’t want to do that,’ Arlene said authoritatively.