Diamonds in the Night - a short story

  

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. 

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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.