Chapter Five
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Maggie
I read somewhere there’s no chemical solution to an emotional or spiritual problem. But I have to tell you, double shots of bourbon were made for nights like this.
Tossing back the first one, I hiss at the burn, then toss back the second one. Charlie, my barback, stops wiping out a beer mug to gape at me.
“Something you want to talk about?” he asks since I’m not one to imbibe on the job.
“Ghosts from my past coming back to haunt me is all.” I wave a hand through the air. When I see it’s shaking, I curl it into a fist, hoping the bourbon will take care of that problem if I give it a few minutes.
Luc Dubois and Cash Armstrong are home. And they’re here to stay.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.
I wasn’t kidding when I told them I was mad at them—well, mad atCash, really. Luc gets a pass because of that awful, horrible, wretched night. But Cash is definitely still on the hook. I mean, just waltzing down my street as if no time has passed? Then acting like he doesn’t have anything to explain?
Who does that?
And if he supposes that wholewhen I saw my chance, I took itis going to fly, he’s got another think coming. Yeah, he and his dad didn’t exactly get on like a house on fire, but I know evasion when I hear it.
There’s more to the story. And after everything, he owes it to me to tell it.
“Put the dogs on, doll,” Earl demands. “I got good money on a race that airs in ten minutes.”
Dropping the dirty shot glasses into the sink, I walk over and snag the remote from beside the register. I have one television in my place, and that’s only to appease Earl.
When I opened Bon Temps Roulerfour years ago, I meant for it to be a spot where locals and like-minded tourists could hang out. None of the flashy big-screen televisions, cover bands singing the latest Top 40, or slushy drinks you’ll find on Bourbon Street. Just good booze, good music, and good times for folks who aren’t looking for anything more than a nice neighborhood bar.
For the most part, I’ve succeeded. But I broke down and bought the television when “Royal Earl” Greene decided to make my place his daily watering hole.
You see, Earl is a local legend. He’s been the concierge at the Omni Royal Orleans since before Christ was born—or at least since the hotel was constructed back in the sixties atop the site of a former slave market. As such, he knows everything about everyone. Not only the natives, but also the celebrities and dignitaries who come to the French Quarter to stay in one of the most prestigious—and most haunted, if you believe the stories Earl tells—establishments in the city.
Earl is a living caricature. Walking entertainment. Where Royal Earl goes, the denizens of the Vieux Carréfollow. When he asked me to put in a TV so he could watch the dog races, I didn’t dare say no. If nothing else, I pride myself on being a savvy businesswoman.
Turning on the TV, I mute the volume so it doesn’t interfere with Trombone Shorty coming from the jukebox in the back. Then I pop the top off a bottle of Abita and slide it across the bar. Earl catches it before it can topple over the edge.
This is our ritual. The tourists love it.
Although, right now there aren’t many tourists to speak of. Just two twentysomethings—a leggy blonde and her redheaded companion—at a table near the front. My remaining ten or so customers are all folks who live in The Quarter. They’re catching a quick drink after work, and soon they’ll either head home or out to dinner. The place won’t start jumping for a couple of hours. Nine p.m. is when the band arrives and the real fun starts.
The motto of New Orleans—and the namesake of my bar—islaissez les bon temps rouler. Literally translated, it meanslet the good times roll.Boy howdy, do we ever.
“Tell me about these ghosts you’re dealing with,” Earl says, keeping one eye on the television.
“They’re not the kind you’re used to,” I assure him. “These are the flesh-and-blood sort. The sort that’ll turn your head and make your heart go pitter-patter.”
That interests him enough to have him sparing me a glance. He rubs the tip of his white handlebar mustache between his fingers. “You don’t say? Well, it’s about time you settled down. You’re in jeopardy of becoming a spinster. If you ain’t one already.”
“Gee, thanks, Earl.” I make a face at him. “But like I told Jean-Pierre earlier, I’m not in the market for a slice of beefcake.” Although, when I said it to Jean-Pierre, I meant it. Now? Not so much.
One touch of Cash’s callused hand, one word from his lips, and I’m tempted to forget the way he hurt me, the way heleftme. I’m tempted to fall back in love.
Not that I ever really fellout.
“See, that’s your problem.” Earl takes a long pull on his beer, leaving me to wait with breathless anticipation for him to finish. Eventually, he does. “You hang around that fiddle player too much. Potential suitors don’t know he’s light in his loafers. They think he’s your man, and it puts them off.”
