DIAMONDS IN THE NIGHT
Slow rain, dimpling pools of water along ancient streets, fell in the
French Quarter. As it did, it created
colorful shadows in flashing neon that danced on surrounding brick
masonry. Johnny T. Sampson didn't
notice. He had a distasteful task to
complete and jerked his collar around his neck as he glanced back at the lights
of Bourbon Street.
Friday night droves of
tourists, crowding the narrow thoroughfare, ignored bone-chilling humidity in
the Quarter. Among them were several
tipsy college girls who brushed against Johnny T, flirting with him as he
passed. Seeing only trouble in his ashen
eyes, they shrugged and kept walking.
Johnny T. touched his jacket
and inhaled deeply for the tenth time in as many minutes, letting damp air
flood his lungs. With temples throbbing
like a jazz funeral, he turned away from flashing neon and melded into
Lafitte's shadows. Soon, he was out of
sight. One block from the strip-show
barkers and foot-long hot dogs, the Quarter sucked him up like Iberville's
ashes.
Rain dribbled down Johnny
T's neck as he made his way between old buildings that, amid bleak darkness,
mimicked eroded mountain peaks. He had
lived in the city since birth but despised the cloying dampness and constant
rain. Now, his feet were wet from
trudging through puddles, and a drunken bum accosted him as he approached Royal
Street. Stumbling up to Johnny T, the
man stunk of wine and vomit.
"Can you give me a
dollar for a cup of coffee?"
Johnny T didn't answer. Instead, he made a face and continued
forward. Persisting, the bum said,
"Go back to Africa."
Johnny T ignored the drunk,
walking faster and quickly eluding him.
Still, the man's words burned into his brain like a short round of
willie-peter. Times had changed. Winos once stayed south of Canal Street -
mostly in the blue-collar district around St. Charles Avenue. Lately, they had begun gravitating toward the
lights and tourist money of the French Quarter.
Johnny T. Sampson didn't like it.
Johnny T wiped away water
dripping down his forehead, glanced at his watch, and hurried down the street,
wanting to reach Twotime's apartment on Esplanade before the dealer left on his
rounds. Streets were dark and deserted,
and his heels, combined with a mournful tugboat whistle to replace the old
wino's taunts, echoed vacuously against uneven cobbles. The silence pleased him.
Johnny T soon reached the
old French government building, long ago converted to apartments, where Twotime
lived. Dim light filtered through giant
oaks surrounding the complex as he studied the names inscribed on entry
buttons. Twotime responded on the first
ring through a tinny door speaker.
"Who is it?"
"Twotime, it's
me."
When a sharp buzz
interrupted the silence, Johnny T pushed open the heavy oak door and walked
into a garden courtyard where lush vegetation abounded. As he did, sugary smells and tactile
sensations instantly confronted his senses.
Beads of moisture dripped from rubbery palms, their prehensile trunks
bent and twisted. Like tired old men
waiting for the streetcar on St.
Charles Avenue, Johnny T thought.
Potted plants lined the maze
of walkways, and baskets of hanging bougainvilleas draped from every
conceivable hook and grapple. Johnny T
made his way along the crumbling mortar pathway, breathing deeply of the
courtyard that reeked of sweetness and antiquity. Fountains dripped warm water from rusty pipes,
and he tossed two quarters into one for good luck before starting up the
wrought iron stairway.
"Door ain't
locked," someone said from behind a third-floor doorway.
Johnny T twisted the old
brass handle and entered Twotime's murky apartment illuminated only by
flickering candlelight. Twotime waited
at a cheap, chrome-legged kitchen table and grinned when he saw Johnny T.
Sampson.
"Johnny T. My man," he said, standing and dapping a
close-fisted greeting.
"Heard you had some
killer smoke," Johnny T. said, taking a chair across cracked Formica from
the dealer without waiting for an invitation.
"Heard right, Johnny
T."
Twotime pushed the chair out
of his way and searched through the single cabinet nailed carelessly to the
wall. No more than ten feet wide, the
narrow apartment consisted of one folding bed, a chipped porcelain sink, and a
small closet with a commode and leaky shower head. Faded curtains, replete with mildewed roses,
draped the closet door, and yellowed plaster walls sweated from incessant
humidity.
Finding the package, Twotime
placed it on the table in front of Johnny T.
"Best shit I ever had," he said, still grinning. "Sample the merchandise?"
Johnny T nodded, watching
Twotime extract a package of rolling papers from a cigar box beneath the table.
Twotime continued to grin, humming an unrecognizable tune as he rolled a
pencil-thin joint. Twotime's damp
undershirt plastered his torso. His
sweaty shoulders glistened, contracting into knotty balls as he worked. Frowning concentration masked his face, and
his ivory teeth flashed in candlelight as the red bandanna around his neck
absorbed sweat beading down his face.
Dormant humidity, trapped in the tiny room, made Johnny T feel like he
was trying to catch a breath underwater.
Wiping sweat from his own
forehead, he closed his eyes, opening them at Twotime's question. "Still going to Xavier part-time, Johnny
T?"
"I had to drop
out."
Twotime glanced up from the
tabletop, dark concern etching his brow.
"What happened, my man?"
"Kayla's
pregnant."
"Your girl is
pregnant?"
"I've got a job on the
docks now. It pays well, but it leaves no time for study."
After Twotime rolled the
joint, he magically produced a lighted match from beneath the table's decimated
surface and held the flame to the joint until it flamed. Inhaling deeply, he held the smoke in his
lungs to heighten its effect. His big
grin returned as he expelled a blue plume of smoke.
Twotime rolled his brown
eyes, dilated now and surrounded by seas of bloodshot white, before handing the
joint to Johnny T. Sweet and pungent
smoke combined with the dank odor of damp clothes and old construction as
Johnny T put the joint beneath his nose.
Closing his eyes, he let the acrid vapor waft into his lungs, only opening
them after Twotime's question.
"Hot in here, Johnny
T. Take your jacket?"
When Twotime stood from his
chair to take the coat, Johnny T. recoiled, clutching the jacket and leaning
away from Twotime's extended hand.
"Something the
matter?"
Johnny T. shook his
head. "Don't want to catch cold
when I go back outside."
Twotime nodded, and Johnny T
wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. He quickly took another hit from the
joint before handing it across the table. Then he leaned back on two spindly
chrome chair legs and said, "Trouble, Johnny T?"
Despite Twotime's serious
question, Johnny T failed to stifle a momentary giggle caused by the creeper
weed. Finally, he said, "Temporary
setback. Nothing I can't handle."
"Need some money?"
Johnny T cocked his head
almost imperceptibly and said, "Who doesn't?"
"How much you
need?"
Fumbling for his wallet on
the nightstand behind him, Twotime turned his back to the table. When he did, Johnny T drew a breath of stale,
marijuana-flavored air and explored the pocket of his coat with his fingertips. He flinched as Twotime turned around.
In Johnny T's eyes, Twotime
saw the same look the college girls on Bourbon Street had seen. For a long moment, silence became a muted
roar above the crackling of burning candlewick and continued until Johnny T
lowered his gaze, reached across the table, and clasped Twotime's wrist.
"No, man," he said
in a measured whisper. "Keep your
money. I'll think of something
else."
"Are you sure, Johnny
T?"
Johnny T reached for his
wallet, hand trembling. "I'm
sure. How much I owe you for the
grass?"
Twotime shook his head. "Weed's on me this time."
Johnny T protested, but
Twotime insisted, bundling the package and handing it to him.
"Thanks, Twotime,"
Johnny T said, feeling giddy.
"Gotta go."
"Change your mind and
need my help, Johnny T, don't be afraid to call."
Johnny nodded. His legs were wobbly, and his hands suddenly
shaking in an uncontrollable shudder. As
he held the door, Twotime watched the younger man stumble outside and descend the
rain-slick stairs.
"Don't bust your ass,
Johnny T," Twotime said, shutting the heavy door behind him.
Johnny T gripped the cold
iron rail, staggering down the stairs as a muffled whoosh of warm air escaped
from Twotime's apartment. Reaching the
courtyard, he looked both ways with exaggerated caution as gentle rain continued
to fall. Now, cloying garden odors and a
persistent buzz in his head elevated his senses as it dulled his faculties, the
paradox of the weed. Proceeding slowly,
he opened the heavy courtyard door and followed gray shadows back down
Esplanade.
Darkness made him
invisible. When he reached the levee
along the Mississippi River, moaning boat whistles broke the silence, and
flickering running lights flooded his brain.
When he reached the French Market, he found fruit and vegetable peddlers
arranging their wares. He continued walking,
making his way across the levee, following the River Walk toward the noise and
lights of Jackson Square. He stopped
when he reached the river's edge.
Shutting his eyes, Johnny T
drew warm air into his lungs to calm his nerves. Alone and shrouded by river sounds and
persistent gloom, he finally opened them and stared at boats along the river. Stark tranquility transfixed him as he
removed the snub-nose from his jacket, tossed it into the river, and listened
for its dull splash.
Salty air, drifting up from
the Gulf, mingled with piquant chicory-laced coffee and slowly rotting
vegetation as he walked along the levee.
Cold rain had ceased falling, leaving only large puddles on the streets. When he reached the heart of the Quarter, he
found a late-night, early-morning crowd milling around outdoor patio tables at
the Cafe du Monde. Because of incessant
rain, the crowd was thinner than usual, and Johnny T quickly found an empty
table. He ordered coffee from a
white-smocked waiter, then rested his head on the table, allowing spilled sugar
to dust his forehead like carelessly applied makeup.
As Johnny T. Sampson
listened, music from a mellow clarinet floated through the Quarter, and shouts
and laughter rose from beyond Pirate's Alley.
He could hear the traffic clamor on Canal Street as it punctuated
muffled darkness, creating illusions of reality and allusions of
transmutation. It didn't much matter.
A mule-drawn carriage clattered to a stop at
the corner, delivering a romantic couple to the edge of the scene. Holding
hands and undeterred by the light rain that had begun to fall again, they took
a table beside him. Lost in a drug-induced reverie, Johnny T remained oblivious
to their presence. Under the flashing neon lights, the rainwater sparkled like
diamonds, glistening in the night as it flowed along the streets and into the
storm drain.
####
Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.
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