Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
“ T he thing is,” Flip explained to Miss Amelie, “I was asleep after midnight. And even if I was sleepwalking or something, I don’t own anything that makes music except my phone. Even at full volume, it’s not noisy enough to bother the neighbors.”
She exhaled a stream of smoke and regarded him, narrow-eyed. “You don’t need me to tell you what’s what, boy. You already know.”
He shook his head and hugged himself. Although it was indeed chilly this morning, he felt as if he was freezing , in a way that endless layers of clothing wouldn’t help. “I’m afraid I’m losing my mind.”
“Maybe it’s in your suitcase.”
Fuck, his suitcase. He’d been so distracted with Tony and Scratch that he hadn’t checked on its status since the previous morning. Whatever. Tracking the AirTag and calling the airline hadn’t done him any good so far.
He needed to return to more urgent matters. “It’s not just the neighbors hearing him. I looked up the songs this morning and, sure enough, they all exist, and they all sound exactly like he played them. He told me one of them came out the year he died, and the brothels were shut down the previous year. I looked up all of those things and they all track. But I didn’t know about any of that until he told me. At least, I don’t think I did. Oh! And last night I found a busted umbrella and brought it inside, and he took it with him, and now it’s not anywhere in my apartment.”
He took a few deep breaths and wished very hard that the world would start making sense again.
Miss Amelie simply shrugged, as unruffled as if they’d been discussing the weather. “I heard on the news the other day that they’re overrun with rats over at police HQ. The rats are eating the weed in the evidence room and getting high.” She croaked a laugh. “This city got rats. And we got ghosts. Can’t do much about either. I prefer ghosts, myself. They’re cleaner. And yours is a looker. Sweet too. It’s sad when they die so young.”
“Mine?”
“Sounds like Scratch has taken a shine to you. I ain’t surprised. Been a while since we had someone with a Clear Eye, and you ain’t bad-looking yourself.”
Flip blushed. “We, uh, kissed. A couple of times.” He’d left that part out when he told her about his nighttime visitor, though he wasn’t about to go into their more R-rated antics. Not that he thought she’d be shocked. It just felt… private.
For the first time since they’d met, Miss Amelie appeared genuinely surprised. “Can you feel him?”
“Um, yeah. I mean, except that he’s not real and I’m just dreaming him.” He kept saying that even though it was feeling less and less true.
“Woo-eee! I can see ’em just fine, I can hear ’em, but I can’t touch ’em. And I’m clearer than most.” She tapped the center of her forehead. “That’s some talent you got, boy.”
“But I don’t?—”
“Must’ve been real nice for Scratch. He’s lonely, poor soul. You know there’s different kinds of ghosts? Some of ’em ain’t figured out yet that they’re dead. In denial, I guess. Some have unfinished business. Some died with such strong emotions—anger, usually—that they stay tied to this place. Scratch ain’t none of those. I asked him once why he’s stickin’ around, and he said it’s ’cause he likes the place so much. I say maybe so, maybe not.”
Flip was gaping at her. “You’ve… talked to him?”
“Course!” she said, flapping her hand dismissively. “I’m friendly with my neighbors.”
This was too much to process. If Flip thought about it hard enough, he might be able to devise a way to test her, to prove or disprove her claim. He couldn’t come up with an option right now, though. “I’m so fucked up,” he moaned .
“Why you gotta complain about this? It ain’t hurtin’ you none. You got a damn fine man keepin’ you company, playing music for you. Wish I had the same.”
Rubbing his temples, Flip stood. “I have to go get ready. I have a da—uh, appointment soon.”
“Uh-huh,” she said knowingly. But she called out to him as he started to walk away. “That was real nice of you to give Scratch a present. Don’t look so confused, boy. The umbrella?”
“I didn’t— It was just a broken one I brought inside. I have no idea why. And I don’t see what a ghost would do with a busted umbrella anyway.”
“Did it look broken when he held it?”
Flip frowned as he tried to remember. “Um, no. I don’t think so.” No evidence of busted spokes or torn fabric, at least as far as Flip had seen. Instead, it had been neatly furled.
“People ain’t the only things with an afterlife. Some animals can be ghosts too, although it’s rare. And objects too, ’specially if they’ve spent a lot of time close to people and then met a sudden end.”
“There are ghost umbrellas ?” He held up his hand to stop her from answering. “Never mind. Don’t answer. I’m past my maximum weirdness level already today.”
Her laughter followed him all the way into his building.
Ordinarily Flip would have spent the next hour fretting over spectral rain gear and the possibility that either he was completely losing it or he’d done some heavy petting with a ghost. Instead he fretted over Tony. Maybe fretted wasn’t exactly the right word. Worried , in the sense that a dog might worry a chew toy. Flip kept thinking about how smart Tony clearly was, and how interesting, and the way his face had lit up when Flip had asked good questions.
The truth was that Flip hadn’t been on a date—or anything like one—in eons. Not since he first started seeing Ethan over two years ago. And even then they’d been introduced by a mutual acquaintance, hooked up a couple of times, and then just sort of… fell into togetherness. Ethan was a college professor, and the two of them would just hang out in cafés, each on his laptop.
Did Flip look stupid in the vintage sweater? The young woman at the shop had told him it looked great on him, but of course she was trying to sell the thing. He really wished he had his second-favorite pair of jeans, but they were in his suitcase, and his suitcase was… not here.
He didn’t have butterflies in his stomach; he had fucking Mothra.
Flip arrived at the Bergeron-Catanzaro house a few minutes before two. Tony stood on the front porch, conversing with a short, fiftyish woman with spiky copper hair. He beamed when he saw Flip. “You made it!”
“I wasn’t about to miss out on a tour from such a knowledgeable guide.” Flip climbed the few steps to join them.
Tony introduced the woman, who was the director of the foundation that ran the house. She shook Flip’s hand, told them both to have a good time, and ducked inside.
“That sweater’s amazing,” said Tony.
Mothra settled down a little. “Thanks. I bought it here. I mean, over there.” He pointed in what he thought was the general direction of the shop.
“Good find, and it suits you. If you’re into that sort of thing, I can recommend a shop over on Magazine Street. Hell, we can go there today if you want. Make it part of the tour.” Tony’s cheeks colored slightly and he ducked his head. “Historian,” he said in explanation. “I’m a huge nerd for old things.”
“I’d enjoy seeing that shop. My luggage is in limbo and I could use a couple more things to wear.”
Tony lifted his head. “Excellent.”
They began in the blocks surrounding the Bergeron-Catanzaro house. Tony showed Flip the Ursuline convent, the French Market, and Jackson Square. They walked to the river, where Tony talked about the shipping industry and how it had shaped New Orleans—and how hurricanes had shaped it too. He was a fascinating speaker. Full of knowledge, thrilled to answer questions, and pleased to learn that Flip was more interested in the everyday events that had happened than in murders, vodou, or vampires. Flip didn’t divulge his very recent ghostly visitations—if that’s what they were—which had been more than enough supernatural shit as far as Flip was concerned.
They strolled through Tremé, a neighborhood where free people of color lived in the early nineteenth century. Tony took them to Congo Square, now a part of Armstrong Park, which led to a discussion of music. “It’s like our food,” Tony explained. “People brought their traditions from Africa and Europe and the Caribbean and mixed ’em together to create something new and wonderful.”
“Creole,” said Flip, remembering what Tony had told him the other day.
“You’re an A-plus student for sure.”
They strolled for a while after that. Sometimes Tony pointed out something of interest but they also talked about other things. Flip learned that Tony had grown up in the city, moved to New York to attend college, and had worked for a time at a museum there, helping run educational programs for kids on field trips. But New Orleans had pulled him back, and after he’d attended grad school there, he found his dream job at the house his ancestors had once lived in.
As for Flip, he talked about his books a little bit, but only because Tony seemed genuinely curious about them. “I love the way an author can make a reader travel in space and time,” said Tony. “It’s magic.”
That was nice to hear.
And then Tony paused on a street corner. “This neighborhood might not look very exciting now, but a little over a hundred years ago, it was hopping. The city council decided to locate all the brothels here. Made it easier for the rich folks to control things, keep their fingers in the pots. It became a big tourist attraction. Some of the houses were cribs, just dumps where a man could rent some poor woman for fifty cents. But some were grand mansions where customers could sip cocktails and listen to good music.”
Flip froze. “Music?”
“Sure. You could argue that Storyville was the birthplace of jazz.”
Of course it was. Flip must have heard about all this a while ago and then forgotten about it. He hadn’t learned about Storyville from a ghost in his dream—because, despite Miss Amelie’s views, ghosts didn’t exist.
He struggled to maintain his composure. “I think I, uh, heard something about the military closing it all down?”
“That’s right. There were a lot of soldiers and sailors shipping out of here during World War I, and the brass wasn’t happy that their boys were spending free time with our girls. And with some of our boys, for that matter, but that wasn’t nearly so open. Anyway, the Secretary of War made them shut it all down. It didn’t end prostitution, of course, but I guess it satisfied somebody. It also put a lot of those musicians out of work.”
Musicians like Scratch.