“It’s one of the city’s best-kept secrets.” Peter holds the front door wide and thanks us for stopping by.
Out on the sidewalk, under the undulating glow of the gas lamps, Cash uncaps his flask and takes a healthy pull. It’s the first one he’s had since entering the store.
I notice his hands are shaking. Luc notices, too, and his frown speaks volumes.
“Well, that’s that.” Cash recaps his flask. “We did it. The list is officially complete. Should we go celebrate with dinner?”
“Can’t.” I shake my head, looking at my watch. “My shift starts in fifteen minutes.”
“Sometimes I forget you’re a working stiff.” His mouth twists.
I chuckle. “Sometimes I wishIcould forget I’m a working stiff.”
“Well at least let us walk you to work,” he says.
As we make our way down Royal, we’re quiet, still reeling from the riches we saw. I drop a dollar into the upturned hat of a street musician playing bluegrass on an acoustic guitar and sidestep a drunk who staggers by us. The irony of New Orleans being home to the number-one-ranked hospital for liver transplants isn’t lost on me.
“Do you think one lifetime is enough?” Cash asks after we’ve gone a few blocks. He’s staring up at the marble and terra-cotta Beaux arts building that houses the Louisiana Supreme Court. It’s a massive structure that looks out of place among the quaint buildings and cottages of the Vieux Carré. Folks in The Quarter refer to it as the “white elephant.”
“This is a question for science-fiction writers,” Luc grumbles.
“I’m serious,” Cash insists. “Think of it. How many of your dreams will be left unfulfilled? How many of your goals will be left unreached? Is one lifetime ever enough for anyone? Or do we all wish for more? More chances? Moretime?”
Luc is right. Cash has developed a strange fascination with death. He tries to couch it in arguments forlife, but I’m not buying it.
Does he think this head injury is going to kill him? Or his drinking? Is there something he’s not telling us?
A strange sense of foreboding washes over me, making the hairs on my arms lift. I decide to bring up the subject of our intervention with Luc sooner rather than later. We need to get a plan in place. That way, we can implement it at the drop of a hat should we need to.
“I think the beauty of lifeisthat it’s finite,” I tell Cash. “If we had all the time in the world, we’d become apathetic about the whole thing.”
“So you’re saying the only thing that motivates us to do anything worthwhile is the knowledge that we have an expiration date?”
I shrug. “In a nutshell.”
“Huh.” He thinks on that for a bit. Then he grins and it reminds me of the old Cash, before the brain injury and the booze. “So I guess Drake was right. YOLO, baby.”
I laugh. “Leave it to a Canadian rapper to cut to the chase.”
“Is this line of questioning on account of Rick’s funeral today, or is it just the new you?” Luc asks Cash.
“Wait.” I stop and frown at Cash. “Rick’s funeral was today? Why didn’t youtellme? I would’ve gone and—”
“Why would you have gone when I didn’t go?” Cash interrupts.
“You didn’t go?” I turn to Luc for confirmation. He shakes his head.
“I don’t like going to the funerals of people Ilike,” Cash says. “Why would I go to one for someone I hate? And before you say something about it being because he was my dad”—he points at me when I open my mouth—“remember that’s not true. He was only my sperm donor.”
“Right.” I nod. “Okay, then. So…that’s that, I guess.” One more ending with a solid period behind it.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish.” Cash takes out his flask and lets a long stream of whiskey pour into his mouth. After he swallows, he adds, “I hope he’s burning in hell alongside George Sullivan.”
I wince at his words. I’ve been having nightmares about the night Luc shot the police superintendent. Too often I’ve been waking up with the sound of a gunshot ringing in my ears and the sight of Sullivan’s bloody chest imprinted on the backs of my eyelids.
Just like Dean’s death—or what Ithoughtwas Dean’s death—the experience replays itself in my unconscious mind despite my knowing that what happened to Sullivan was justified. I wish there was a way I could make it go away. But I know from experience that it’s something I’ll just have to learn to live with. Another unfortunate consequence of life.
When we turn onto Conti Street, I can see the bar up ahead. The doors and windows are open. Two tourists and a few locals, including Earl, have pulled chairs onto the sidewalk to enjoy the warm night. And music from the jukebox spills out into the street.
