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It doesn’t matter if this woman knows. “I drove to Texas to send some emails.” She cackles and I point at her. “There’s a couple of people I don’t want to find me.”

“We all have that shit, chere. Any good news?”

“My friends are sending their business partner off to France because he’s being a whiny bitch.”

She howls with laughter, as do I. I would have loved to see that Prohibition Winery partner’s meeting where they exiled Sam to France. He’s finally pissed his best friends off enough they’re sending him to the other side of the world.

I flip her a hundred bucks. “It’s only ten bucks.”

“Yeah. Keep it.” I don’t care, and she seems to care quite a lot. I love doing stupid shit like that. I grab my cold bottles of water and set off on my sweaty path to work.

I’m sure she’s avoiding someone, too. I’ve got a fucking army of people looking: a cyber genius, a bona fide government agency and possibly the remains of a LA mafia family looking for me. Mel Grady, the resident white hat hacker of the ‘five’, can find a pixel in a haystack but so far she hasn’t found me. She taught me too well how to hide. I take a big drink of icy water and stroll down my block.

I’m invisible here because everyone comes to New Orleans to forget, remember a more carefree time, or reinvent. The magic and mystery of this place is why I chose to hide here in other people’s stories. I keep grief at bay most days because there are no triggers. No familiar faces to remind me he’s gone or pretend they understand.

Sal’s gone because he was born into something he never wanted, and now I get to walk along Conti Street pissed off that I’ll be alone forever because of his fucking birthright. There will never be anyone large enough to step into his massive silhouette. Fuck you, Sal.

The smells that pour out of the restaurants in this city compel me to cook. I volunteered to make the gumbo on Tuesdays. Couldn’t help myself. Poppy could have earned a Michelin notice, but Fi does alright with a roux.

I run my fingers over the antique plaster and brick exterior of the Three-Legged Dog.

I swing open the door, fist bumping Boomer on my way in. Turns out he used to play defensive end for Green Bay, then the Saints, where he finished his career. I look at him, “Boomer, military?”

He smiles and says, “Hoorah.” I grin. I knew it, Marines. He’s Fiona’s friend because I’m not sure he’d like Poppy.

I survey the place. Boomer says, “Life good, Fi?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Your sign slipped. Need to make a new one.”

I pull out some cardboard and make a quick sign for the jukebox and hand it to Boomer with some tape. I’m too short to reach above the jukebox.

No Thorogood!

We hate it.

ABSOLUTELY

Do Not Play Song 6-G.

You will be removed and banned.

We don’t know how to delete songs from the ancient jukebox, so there are penalties for playing, “The Way You Look Tonight.” No one asked me why; they just wrote up a sign. Everyone’s baggage gets to stay exactly where we want it, hidden. Now if you push 6g and you end up in “Get your fucking booze elsewhere” hall of fame.

Bear’s lining up small Jameson shots in tasting cups. I stroll by and grab one. We grin and shoot. “Fi knows.”

“I know what?”

“That if it weren’t for Professor Xavier, we wouldn’t have AI.”

I look at the befuddled tourist who wandered into the wrong type of bar for him. “He’s right. And sweetie, you want to head to 624 Bourbon Street. You’ll have a better time.”

Bear winks at me. He forever believes life can be solved through anime or flawed superheroes. As if drunk, lost bartender is his secret identity. I so desperately want to be my secret identity because I’m not sure how to go back to being myself.

Chapter

Seventeen