“I had no idea.” To Cherrylynn, New Orleans had always been totally about fun.

“Oh yes,” the professor continued. “I’ve written a paper about it.”

“And Carlos Pancera was involved in all of that?”

“He was young then, but he came from a big family. He did write some incendiary articles for the Latin newspapers. Yet I’d say he has never been much of a public figure. He asserted his influence mostly behind the scenes.”

“Why did he get an honorary degree?”

“Pancera has been a great friend to our institution, and what I have just told you is all ancient history.”

“Did these radical groups have names?”

“Yes, there was the Free Cuba Committee, as I said. There was also the Junior Anti-Communist League, though that sounds better in Spanish. There were the Defenders of Free Enterprise, and the Anti-Socialist Alliance. Quite a few groups actually, though I’d say their membership probably overlapped considerably.”

He was almost drowned out by sirens blaring outside on St. Charles Avenue. It took a minute before they wound down. Cherrylynn used the time to scribble down the names the professor had just given her.

“Have there been books written about any of them?” she asked.

“Not really. There is my paper, of course, but it hasn’t been published. You’d have to do original research. I had sort of a head start. My late father was actually in such a group. He told me a little bit about it. I’ve sometimes even imagined that I was under surveillance due to my interest in this subject.”

His phone rang.

“Excuse me one second, Cherrylynn.”

The teacher held his phone to his ear. His brow furrowed. He nodded without saying anything, then pocketed the phone and stood up.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Resilio, but I have another appointment now and we’ll have to break this off.”

“Sure,” Cherrylynn said, backing out the door. “Can we talk again another day?”

“I’ve covered most of it,” he said. “See you in class.”

Calhoun Street, where she was parked, was blocked by fire trucks. Their rotating lights gave the neighborhood a carnival atmosphere. She tried to walk past them on the oak-lined sidewalk, but was stopped by a helmeted fireman.

“You can’t get through this way, ma’am,” he said. He had a big red mustache. “Go over and use the campus.” He pointed off to his right.

“But my car is parked here.”

“Yeah, what kind is it?”

“It’s a blue Civic.”

“Could be your car was just fire-bombed. Wait here a sec while I get a cop.”

Her mouth fell open. Then she dug her phone out of her purse and tried to reach her boss. But Tubby was still out of range, driving in the country with his date for a nice dinner in Covington.

* * *

On that same Saturday evening, Raisin got to the Monkey Business Bar at about five o’clock after a strenuous day of playing tennis with his girlfriend, Sadie. She was tired and had no interest in going out for beer and music. She did ask if he wanted to join her at a party with people from her work at the oil company. They were all going to watch LSU battle Alabama on television. She promised there would be great food. Tickets on the fifty-yard line at Tiger Stadium might have gotten Raisin’s attention, but otherwise he was not an LSU fan. And for some reason he wasn’t that interested in eating any more.

But he did like to drink. So he did. By the time nine o’clock rolled around, after he had met everybody at the bar who was worth meeting, and just before the music was about to begin, he gave up his stool and took a fresh-air break outside.

The street was full of traffic, going places on a Saturday night. Raisin leaned against Janie’s cypress siding and lit a cigarette. Screw quitting! He could smoke on his night off if he wanted to.

He watched a squirrel, nope, a big rat, traverse the power line overhead on an errand of its own. Inside the next band was tuning up. The chalkboard by the front door said this would be a group called “Roll of the Dice.” A white Dodge Charger with a pretty female driver and a backseat full of girls stopped right in front of him. Because the driver and the passengers were all intent on their phones, he felt entitled to study them at length. But just when he was getting interested, they drove away.

“Wham!” the band started and the night came alive. Groups of people materialized from wherever they were huddled in their cars and crowded into the bar. By the time Raisin had stubbed out his first cigarette, a line was beginning to form outside. There was a twelve-dollar cover and maybe that would be an issue when he went back inside.

He stepped over the curb between two parked cars and pulled out the Samsung tester Jason Boaz had made. He fiddled around with it. He couldn’t quite see what he was doing. Truth to tell, he was a little bit lit. After a couple of tries he sufficiently mastered the tiny keys to turn on a running video of whatever he pointed the camera at. A little more manipulation, following the distraction of a pack of women arriving in tight skirts, and he had a decibel reading. Ninety-eight points. Was that too high or too low? He didn’t know, but he hit “Save.”

The band was getting noisier, but something even louder began to intrude upon St. Claude Avenue’s urban environment. Raisin looked down the street and beheld what looked to be a giant Mardi Gras float. Multi-colored lights flashed brightly and loud music blared from some serious amplifiers. It was shades of Monster Mudbug, the tow truck driver who wowed the city in crustacean costume and was Tubby’s frequent client. Raisin could see, as the float came closer, a ring of women and men dancing ecstatically around it, waving feather boas and swirling hula hoops. But it wasn’t Monster Mudbug. Not a crawfish in sight. The dancers all appeared to be naked, though the women were decorated with sparkle and sequins. Up top was a regal figure, playing the role of the King, though essentially a naked king. His throne was constructed from a maze of galvanized pipe. His Highness’s scepter resembled an inverted Texas oil well. Behind him was a flashing LED screen that interspersed the name “Dinky Bacon” with black-and-white photographs from New Orleans’ musical and architectural past. There was a confetti machine blasting bits of green paper, like shredded money, behind him. Pulling the spectacular contraption was a four-wheel-drive pick-up truck. A man crouched in the bed, filming the whole scene.

“Art is Free!” bellowed the speakers, drowning out the generator.

Raisin dug this action and flipped out his sound meter. He pointed it at the float, which was lighting up the sky for a block in all directions. The decibel level went steadily up and up, but Raisin’s attention was grabbed by the hula-dancing girls. He jumped into the street to join them, but there were crowd-control chaperones alongside the float who objected.

“No photos! No video, old man!” A twenty-something biker-type wearing a leather vest slapped at Raisin’s camera and sent the decibel-reader flying into the empty lot beside Ashton Monk’s shotgun.

“Hey, dickhead!” Raisin who was incensed, grabbed for his assailant’s leather collar and got his beard instead.

The disagreement was quickly forgotten when a deafening explosion shook the street and rocked the walls of the bar. Raisin instinctively dived to the asphalt.

Porch lights came on up and down the block.

Raisin snuck a glance under his elbow to see the bearded giant crouching beside him, looking fearfully toward the heavens.

Raisin socked the guy where it hurt and made a run for his Miata. He locked himself inside, as the people emptied from the bar, running in all directions.

When the dust finally settled, it turned out that nobody who counted was hurt. Dinky Bacon’s video went viral.

Raisin tried to reach Tubby to file a complaint, but his friend was cloistered inside a house in Folsom. Tubby had turned off his cell phone for fear that it might be used to track him by the night prowlers who had just tried to kill him.