Number Nine: Chapter 19

NEW ORLEANS


FADE IN:

EXT. – PORT OF NEW ORLEANS – DUSK

Ruby is escorted from the Mississippi Queen by armed guards, accompanied by the Marquis. We hear Ruby singing W.C. Handy’s SAINT LOUIS BLUES.

I hate to see that evening sun go down
Lord, I hate to see that evening sun go down
Cause my baby he done left this town…

INT. – LOUIE’S UNDERGROUND – NIGHT

We see Ruby at a microphone, pale-skinned beauties all around, smoking opium, sharing stories and entertaining the gentlemen of the New Orleans underground.

Feeling tomorrow like I feel today
Feeling tomorrow like I feel today
I’m gonna pack my bags and make my getaway…

CLOSE UP of a man in the balcony with pale white skin, his face marked in the agony of desire. This is PALE LOUIE. We hear the voice of John Lennon singing I WANT YOU (SHE’S SO HEAVY).

I want you
I want you so bad
I want you
I want you so bad
It’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad…



To the elder caretaker of the old section of Saint Louis Cemetery, the shadowy figure of Louie Marchant was a familiar sight. He always appeared after dusk, always following the same course through the elevated tombs and burial plots, always pausing in the same spots, particularly at the elaborate gravesite of the House of Burgandy where he would someday take his final repose.

Shrouded in darkness, black flowing hair and cape contrasting with his pale white face, he stood transfixed, as if imaging a family history that ran parallel to the history of New Orleans itself. At length, the spell was broken by an expansive sigh as he continued his evening stroll through Louis Armstrong Park into the dark back alleyways of Vieux Carre, emerging with the bustling, jazz filled, alcohol and sex driven crowds on Bourbon Street.

Virtually anywhere else, the mere appearance of Pale Louie – as he was known to the locals – with his shroud of darkness, piercing black eyes and gossamer skin, would draw all eyes but in the French Quarters on a sultry summer night, with the first winds of a storm drawing in from the Gulf, Louie blended seamlessly into the mix.

No one who knew him or knew anything about him dared approach Louie without an invitation. Not even the Voodoo Queens of Lafayette or Metairie doubted the powers of the dark prince in the heart of the Quarters. Stories of those who crossed him, even by some meaningless gesture or involuntary expression, were countless, invariably ending with a bloodless corpse in the marshlands of Lake Pontchartrain.

In a world of infinite possibilities and random chance, if there were such a thing as vampires, Louie would have been their ancient king. As it was, he cultivated the image, savored it and refused to deny persistent rumors that he had on numerous occasions dined on human blood.

None but a madman or saint, if there were such a thing as sainthood, would ever follow Louie within the confines of his dark realm but someone was following him now. So subtle and discrete was he, so soft were his footsteps that Louie himself was only vaguely aware of being observed. He turned once at the corner of Saint Louis and again at the corner of Dauphine but he saw nothing – only the usual wide-eyed tourists looking for the kind of action and adventure that one could only find in the Quarters.

Below the crimson glow of balcony lights, their voices swallowed by a strange hybrid of Zydeco, Cajun and Dixieland jazz, the drunken, drug-infested swarm moved as an interconnected mass, a serpent of desire oblivious to all below the surface of their own desperate libidos.

Louie turned one last time and closely surveyed what remained of the Bourbon Street swarm: a stumbling, pot-bellied Cajun, a Creole drag queen, a peddler of voodoo trinkets, and the fleeting shadow of a man in a jazz hat and a square-shouldered suit.

As if puzzled by a phenomenon he had never before experienced, Louie sighed and let it go. He had other pressing business. The Mississippi Queen would dock shortly at the Port of New Orleans and it carried a valuable cargo and a very special guest.

He marked a course at a quickened pace down the back alleys until he reached what appeared to be a storage shed, where what appeared to be a couple of derelicts sprang to their feet, unlatched and opened the doors, revealing a descending stairwell to the Burgandy underground.

The Queen docked ahead of schedule but was delayed by a small army of port inspectors on a mission. Ostensibly, they were conducting the public business, protecting the citizenry from the scourge of illicit goods. In reality, they were raising private funds for a looming storm.

New Orleans had always existed on borrowed time. In the second coming of the age of privatization, the delicate marshes that had long protected the city, refurbishing sunken land with fresh topsoil, diffusing the force of storms from the gulf, were allowed to erode and fall to encroaching waters. Marshes were of little use to oil refineries, chemical plants and land developers until the next big hurricane intensified over the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and threatened all in its path with catastrophic destruction.

As global climate patterns changed, driven by melting glaciers, exacerbated by diminishing ozone, caused by a massive accumulation of toxic carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, oceanic currents changed with them. Those who struggled to make a living fishing the waters off the Gulf Coast grew more despondent every year as the red tides became more destructive, the wildlife diminished and the waters themselves grew warmer and warmer.

Everyone on the coast knew it was only a matter of time. The levees erected after the flood of 1913 to protect the sinking lowlands, where poor black folks were allowed to buy homes and establish businesses – Gentilly, St. Bernard Parish, the Ninth Ward – were decades too old and badly in need of massive overhaul. It was said they might stand up to a category three storm but they would never hold up against the big one.

The lead inspector of the Port Authority crew summoned the ship’s captain and the Marquis into the captain’s quarters for negotiations. The conversation opened as all conversations in New Orleans opened these days.

“Storm’s coming in. Could be the big one.”

“That’s what they always say,” said the captain.

“The gypsy down at Marie Laveau’s says it is and she ain’t often wrong,” replied the inspector.

The Marquis saw fear in the inspector’s eyes and knew better than to toy with him. The Queen was an institution supplying the illicit needs of New Orleans, Memphis, Nashville, Saint Louis, Kansas City, Chicago and Detroit according the law of supply and demand. In more than a decade of interplay with the chief inspector of the Port of New Orleans, he had never witnessed a whisper of fear before.

“What can we do for you?” asked the Marquis.

“We’re asking a one time contingency fee,” said the inspector. “Double the usual price.”

“Done,” said the Marquis, “and I’ll double that out of my own treasure.”

The Marquis knew the value of trust in New Orleans and trust in a time of crisis came at a premium. Trust in New Orleans was as good as blood and blood was everything. To the Marquis it was an investment and a commitment to the community. It was as prudent and wise an investment as he would ever make.

The inspector nodded with such humility that the captain almost blushed. Hands were clasped and hugs embraced before the money changed hands. To the Marquis, it was worth every red cent and Louie need never know. From this moment forward, the inspector would answer to him first.

“Word to the wise,” said the inspector in parting, “get the Queen out of here first light. This ain’t no easy ride coming.”

The Marquis thanked him and the inspector departed a contented man. Whatever the future held, he would have the resources to take care of his own. It was all he could ask and he would carry the debt proudly.

A warm wind brought a warm rain to the Quarters as Louie’s entourage arrived at the port and the prized jewel of New Orleans was given a queen’s escort to the House of Burgandy where Pale Louie awaited.

Ruby was adorned in costume, jewelry and makeup before she was delivered to the stage of Louie’s underground nightclub. She did not need to be told what to do.

Ruby sang.

I hate to see that evening sun go down
Lord, I hate to see that evening sun go down
Cause my sweet darling, he’s gone and left this town…

Ruby sang and the heart of New Orleans was ripped from its warm and tender womb.