The Lucy Ghosts

'Okay Frankie. Let's see how good you really are?'

The white Cadillac pulled away from the kerb and headed north, up Canal Street before turning east onto Burgundy street.

Adam watched the crowds as they cruised past. The gawkers had been replaced by a new class of gawker. This time there were no children, only their parents out to explore the fleshy side of life.

The clown with the balloons was now handing out leaflets inviting passers-by to Chris Owen's Club on 500 Bourbon Street, the last of a tradition of one woman shows in the Quarter. The fat boy and Kristofferson weren't to be seen and had been replaced by a young boy, no more than sixteen and five feet nothing tall, painted white from head to toe and with a white traditional angel's dress on, who now propositioned lonely middle aged men walking the strip. He was just one of the many whores and pimps who worked the strip.

The erotic sex shops were doing a brisk trade. Billie pointed out a dildo, bright gold, that was twelve inches long and six inches in diameter. It was under a handwritten sign which proclaimed 'The Golden Horn — only $25- only six left in stock'. From the way the sign curled at the edges, the six in stock had been there a long time.

Music blared from the clubs, the crowds shouted above the cacophony. Sin City was having fun.

Frankie turned down Dumaine Street and pulled up to the kerb.

'Heya, Julie,' he shouted to a plump girl in a short working skirt that made her appear even plumper.

'Heya Frankie baby,' she called back as she strolled towards the car. 'You got me some customers.'

'Maybe later. I'll see what I got. You seen the Fruit Juice Kid?'

'Nah.' She turned and looked down the street, across Bourbon which was sealed off to traffic, towards the New Orleans Voodoo Museum. When she had scoured the area, she turned back to him. 'Nah. Can't see him outside the museum.' She leant into the car, past Frankie and smiled at Adam. 'Heya, you're nice. Whadd'ya want mess round with that magic shit for? I got better things to keep you two occupied.'

'Not tonight, honey,' replied Billie tartly, irritated at being ignored by the girl. Adam grinned back and shrugged.

The girl stood up again. 'You want me to tell him you're looking for him if I catch him?' she asked Frankie.

'Yeah. I'll be around. If you see him, tell him I'm up at the Congo.'

'See ya, Frankie baby.'

'Take care,' he said, putting the car into reverse and backing up the street to Burgundy.

'And don't forget the customers?' Julie shouted after him.

'Sure thing. Later,' he yelled back. He spoke to the others as he reversed the car, his eyes fixed on the rear mirror for he couldn't swivel round with his disability. 'The other side of the CIA. Pimping on Bourbon Street. How do you put that down in a report?'

'Do you get a cut?' asked Billie.

'Damn right. You don't think I can live on that pissy salary the Agency pays, do you? Not here in New Orleans.'

He turned the car into Burgundy and took the next left up St Philippe Street, northbound and away from the tourist centre.

'Who's the Fruit Juice Kid?' asked Adam.

'The man,' replied Frankie. 'The drinker of blood.' He laughed and said nothing more. If anything's going on, he'll know where,' he added.

The Cadillac crossed over North Rampart towards Louis Armstrong Park, the large park named after the city's most famous native son. His statue stands proudly at the brightly lit entrance, looking out on the area where he was never welcomed to the better clubs during his acclaimed career.

'This used to be Congo Park,' said Frankie as he dragged himself from the parked Cadillac and into his wheelchair. Like many disabled people, he was proud of his independence and didn't readily ask for assistance. Adam, mindful of this, had simply pulled the wheelchair out and opened it up for Frankie, handling it as if he was simply helping someone with their luggage. That was when he noticed the satin finished Heckler and Koch P7 strapped to Frankie's chest.

'Didn't know you guys carried?' he said.

'This isn't for the Agency,' Frankie replied, tapping the weapon. 'This is for New Orleans.'

They followed Frankie into the park, now mostly in darkness, the meandering paths illuminated by overhead lights.

'Slaves used to come here,' recalled Frankie. 'Used to dance and fuck all over the place. Big religious meetings, too, with drums and fired up voodoo preachers. All that black magic started here, where the whites used to come and gawk at the antics that went on every Sunday. That's why they call it Black Sabbath. Used to slit the chicken's throat over there, by that little fountain. Sacrifice anything to their heathen god. Now that fountain, that was the centre of Congo Park. And that's sometimes where these guys hang around.'

There was no-one there, no Fruit Juice Kid, only the occasional swish in the trees as unseen people watched them.

'Don't worry,' said Frankie. 'They're just drugheads out to see who they can rob. As long as you walk on the path, they don't come at you. Not unless you really looked helpless. Anyway, they know me. They know I'm armed.'

The tall black man in the white suit was waiting by the Cadillac when they returned. He had white curled hair, knitted tightly to his scalp, but the face was young, no more than twenty. The eyes were slit, chinese style, but the nose was flattened, his nostrils flared, in the negro manner. His lips were thin and mean looking.

'Heya, Frankie,' he called. 'I hear you been looking for me.'

'Heya, Fruit Juice. How'ya doing?' replied Frankie as he pulled up alongside the car. He held his hand out and the tall man slapped it in welcome. 'Meet my friends. They looking for some action.'

'Action? What kinda action?'

'A ceremony.'

'Ceremony? Hell, you know those ain't legal, Frankie.'

'Come on. These ain't tourists. These're friends. That's Billie, from California. Known her for years. And Adam. He's from England.'

'England? Shit, what's a nice boy like you doin' over in this neck of the woods?'

'Seeing the world,' replied Adam.

'New Orleans is the world, boy. There ain't nowhere else.' He reached in his pocket and took out a slim tall bottle filled with a red liquid, the dark red of blood. He twisted the top off and offered the drink to Adam. The hands holding the bottle were old and gnarled, in complete contrast to the youthful face. Adam realised his age was impossible to determine. 'Share a drink, boy?'

'What is it?'

'Blood and piss. Of a baby girl child,' he grinned at Adam. 'Keeps you young forever.'

Adam shook his head. 'I'll pass this time. If you don't mind?'

'Don't mind at all.' He laughed and swigged from the bottle, took a deep mouthful and relished the taste. Then he screwed the top back on and slipped the bottle into his pocket. He turned to Frankie. 'You sure got polite friends, Frankie.'

'That I have. You gonna help us?'

'Too early for that sorta action.'

'Dark enough.'

'Mebbe.'

'And no tourist shit.'

'Would I do that to you, Frankie?' Fruit Juice laughed, a singular high pitched shriek.

'So whadd'ya say?'

'Depends.'

'How much?'

'You tell me.'

'A thousand dollars,' interjected Adam.

'Two thousand.'

'A thousand.'

'No American Express,' Fruit Juice joked. 'Even if it's platinum.' He leant forward and peered closely into the Englishman's face, stared at him for a full minute in silence. Then he stepped back.

'You troubled, boy. Your eyes, they got the death wish.' Fruit Juice turned and started to walk away.

'We got it on, or not?' shouted Frankie after him.

'Mebbe. If so, see you at Number One. In one hour. If not, ya'all have a good day now.'

Fruit Juice disappeared into the darkness, beyond the lights that filled the street.