“I’m having trouble with the city,” Janie explained. “They don’t like me having live music here every night.”

“Why not?” Tubby asked, enjoying a loose shrimp. “What kind of music do you put on?” Tubby was having a hard time getting his hands around his sandwich, so he speared three errant shrimp with his fork and popped them into his mouth.

“All kinds of music,” Janie said. “We had Paul Sanchez here. And Gal Holiday. We had the Luminescent Lizards. We get folk stuff. We get Indie. We got soft and we got loud. But that’s the problem.”

“Loud?” Tubby repeated. He anticipated what was coming.

“Yes, indeed. Loud! Which has got some of the neighbors upset. Worse than that, it’s got me dealing with the zoning flunkies and the quality of life cops. It ain’t pretty.”

“They want you to turn it down?”

“They want me to turn it off! And guess what, they want to jerk my license because they say St. Claude ain’t zoned for bars and music.”

“You’re kidding me.” Tubby was incredulous. To his left Raisin glared and shook his head at such municipal stupidity. “What are we here?” Tubby continued. “The Ninth Ward? The birthplace of the brass band, the jazz funeral and the second line? The cradle of New Orleans music culture. The womb of…”

“He’s getting it,” Raisin interrupted.

“I know, it doesn’t make sense,” Janie said sadly. “But now you know my problem. And this comes when for the first time in my life I’m making lots of money.”

A paying client? Tubby sat back in his rickety chair and cleared his mind. He brushed the crumbs off his chest. “Tell me all about it,” he said.

* * *

There had been a time when Tubby had been much better connected to the police force. He had been pals with Homicide Detective Fox Lane, a five-foot-ten inch, 105 pound, marathon-running dedicated cop. About the time of Katrina, however, she had taken a bullet in the chest in the line of duty, accepted her pension, and now was chief security officer at Alluvial Bank. Chasing white-collar embezzlers and money launderers was a lot safer than chasing Seventh Ward narco gangs.

So he called up his own private investigator, Sanré Fueres, who called himself Flowers. He was still in his prime, still single, and was still going down dark alleys.

“You been out of town?” Flowers asked.

“I was down in Florida for a couple of weeks working on my tan.”

“With Marguerite?”

“How’d you know that?”

“Right.”

“I need a little help with New Orleans finest. Have you ever heard of something called a quality of life officer?”

“Sure. I don’t think I know any of them, but those are the guys who check out convenience stores selling vodka to minors, loud music, vacation rentals by owner, things like that.”

“Really? Well it’s loud music I’m concerned with. Out on St. Claude Avenue in the Ninth Ward.”

“On this side of the Industrial Canal?”

“Exactly.” The other side of the Canal was a flood-ravaged wasteland dotted with new experimental houses financed by Brad Pitt. Maybe it would be the next target for hip rejuvenation, depending on how you read the cards. Today’s leaky-roofed and abandoned fixer-upper was tomorrow’s organic juice bar or sexy clothing boutique.

“You’re going to be in the Fifth Police District. I don’t actually know any cops over there. No, wait, I know about one guy. He’s being punished for something and got transferred out there. You want to talk to him? Or do you want me to?”

“Why don’t you call him and see if he’ll talk to me? I’d like to get to know some of the police working in that area.”

“Okay. I’ll take a shot and get back to you.”

“Thanks.” Knowing Flowers, that would take about twenty minutes.

It took fifteen.

“Guy’s name is Officer Ireanous Babineaux.”

“Jesus, that’s quite a name. What do they call him?”

“Officer Ireanous Babineaux.”

“Fine.”

“I got his cell number. We swapped texts. He’s willing to meet you for coffee and a doughnut if you like tomorrow morning at Elizabeth’s Restaurant on Gallier Street.”

“I’ll have to look that one up.”

“It’s by the river. He says eight o’clock.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there.”

* * *

That frightened, scared place was buried far down in the young man’s mind. Deep, but always there. Even when he wasn’t so young anymore it was still there. His proximity to the shooting affected him in ways he didn’t fully know about. He never got married, for instance, possibly fretful of being too candid with another living soul.

Steady jobs held no allure, though with a business background and all the engineering courses he’d taken he was certainly qualified for one. He took no interest whatsoever in politics, or in the causes his parents espoused, and he kept an extremely tight circle of friends. Not that he liked solitude, because he didn’t. But instead of community engagement he took to the horses.

The Fairgrounds Race Track was the best place in the whole world to him. The Racing Form meant more than the chemist’s periodic table, the broker’s NASDAQ index, the entertainer’s score or the gambler’s dice. He worshipped the odds calculator on his iPhone app, and he was working out ways to improve it— twists he could patent or copyright, ideas he could sell for a buck. His laboratory was the air-conditioned grandstand, smelling vaguely of hot dogs, mustard and hay, where he could be found every race day between Thanksgiving and Mardi Gras.

When Louisiana’s racing season ended in the spring, he might take a girlfriend up north to party and bet at Belmont or Pimlico, or he might just kick back in his Lakeside townhouse, close the curtains and work his brain. Cutting-edge, youth-oriented, consumerism fascinated him. He was always conceiving new things to sell to that market. Not everything he conjured up about caffeinated vodka or spray-on pheromones was a winner, but enough were hits that he made money and could keep his life insulated from the oh-so boring, oh-so threatening world. He drove a Lexus. He got take-out swordfish tacos and ropa vieja whenever he felt like it. Or sushi, if he wanted to forget where he had come from.

X

Elizabeth’s Restaurant was a very happening place, once you found it. Tubby went the slow route, not on purpose, but that’s the way it turned out. He piloted his newest car, a black 1978 Camaro with the spoiler on the back, which got nine miles to the gallon, all the way through the French Quarter and its throng of tourists— hurrying along to Café du Monde for their beignets and café au lait. It was still an early hour, but this was when sugary days began. The visitors were serenaded by ships’ horns, trolley bells and clanking train cars, none of which they had at eight a.m. in Chevy Chase.

As usual Tubby got lost as soon as he crossed Esplanade Avenue into the Faubourg Marigny. All of a sudden the streets angled off in crazy directions. No big deal to the local man. It was still only seven-forty-five. However, he was challenged and blocked. On Chartres Street, a Rock Star Waste Disposal truck idled in his path. The workers slammed gigantic plastic garbage cans over the curbs and gave each other commands in an unintelligible tongue. When he finally burst free, he found himself in a neighborhood he knew virtually nothing about.

But it wasn’t hostile. Little girls wearing school uniforms were carrying their backpacks to class. Delivery trucks were dropping off bread and vegetables at the corner stores. There were lots of quaint restaurants and special shops, all closed at this hour but emitting people who rented the apartments upstairs and at this hour had to hustle to work. Such cool people, Tubby thought. Mostly young and looking healthy. Jeans and sneakers and flowery cotton prints and layers were the style. And here he was, still stuck in a suit and tie.