Chapter 6 Keller
SIX
Keller
Carnival Royalty: Many traditional krewes select a king, queen, and royal court each year, often drawn from prominent local families or long-standing membership circles.
These ceremonial roles reinforce hierarchy within the krewe, blending pageantry with quiet signals of lineage, influence, and social standing.
The last player leaves at one forty-three. West locks the door behind him and flips the deadbolt with a solid click that echoes in the now-quiet space.
The dealers finish clearing the tables, stacking chips into trays with the soft rattle of clay on wood. One of them nods to me on her way out. I return it.
West starts the final count at the console, fingers moving across the tablet screen. Numbers settle into columns. The night's take is solid. Not spectacular, but clean and profitable. That's what matters.
I move to the bar and pour myself two fingers of bourbon. The glass is cool against my palm. I don't drink it right away. Instead, I watch the amber liquid catch the low light from the lamps we keep on overnight.
The room smells like stale cigar smoke and spilled bourbon now that the crowd is gone. The ventilation system hums overhead cleaning the air.
Table four still has a forgotten sterling silver Zippo lighter sitting near the dealer's position. I walk over and pocket it. Someone will ask about it next week.
West glances up from the console. "We're clear. Hollis transferred his balance ten minutes ago."
"Good."
"You sticking around?"
"For a bit."
He doesn't push. He finishes logging the night's transactions, powers down the system, and grabs his jacket from the hook near the office door.
"I'll catch up tomorrow. It was a good night."
"Indeed."
The door closes behind him. The deadbolt turns. I'm alone.
I pull my phone from my pocket and unlock the screen. Her message is still there, sitting at the top of my texts.
I'd like that. Interested in a run? I'm always looking for a running partner.
I do like to work out, but I'm less into cardio and more into weights. I appreciate the gesutre, but I'm thinking in another direction.
I type my reply and read it once before sending it.
I don't have any running shoes. How about cocktails tomorrow around seven? Maison Gris on Magazine.
After hitting send, I set the phone face-down on the bar.
The bourbon burns the back of my throat when I finally take a sip. I don't check my phone again until I've finished the glass and rinsed it in the small sink behind the bar.
When I pick it up, her reply is waiting.
Love that place. Seven works.
Maison Gris sits tucked between a gallery and a closed bookstore on Magazine Street. The exterior is understated, just a wooden door with brass fixtures and a small placard.
Inside, the lighting is low and warm, candles on every table, dark wood paneling that absorbs sound. Benson Boone plays through hidden speakers, soft enough that conversation doesn't compete.
I arrive at six fifty and take a seat at the bar instead of a table. The bartender, a woman named Simone who knows me from other nights, pours me a bourbon without asking. I sip it and watch the door in the mirror behind the bar.
Quinn walks in at seven oh three.
She's wearing dark jeans and a cream blouse, hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back. No gala dress, no heels. Just her, clean and confident and real.
Our eyes meet in the mirror. She doesn't hesitate. She crosses the space and takes the stool beside me.
"You're late."
She smiles, small and unbothered. She checks her phone. "Three minutes isn't late."
"Okay, I see how you are."
"I'm serious. It took me three minutes, at least, to park and walk in."
Simone appears, eyebrow raised in question. Quinn orders a gin martini, dirty, no garnish. Simone nods and moves to make it. The silence between us is a tiny bit more awkward than the other night, but it isn't insurmountable. I watch the way she bites her bottom lip.
Simone sets the martini down and Quinn lifts it to take a sip, eyes still on me. She uncrosses one leg and then crosses the other, turning more toward me.
"She swirls her martini once before asking, “So what do you do when you’re not rescuing damsels in distress?”
I don’t hesitate, giving the answer I always do when someone I hardly know asks what I do. “I’m in finance.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just the version that doesn’t require a footnote.
She nods once, accepting it without digging. “The suit should have given it away.”
I smile slightly. “You don't like the suit?”
“I didn’t say that. I'm just saying you look like a guy in finance. It suits you. No pun intended.”
"And you?"
She takes a sip before answering. “I do financial audits. So we have more in common than we realized.”
“So you’re the one who makes people nervous. Financial audits, like a consultant?”
“Sort of. I work for the federal government,” she says casually. “Mostly compliance and audit work. It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds.”
"No offense, but it doesn't sound exciting at all, actually."
That makes her laugh, which makes me smile. I like the way her throat bobs slightly when she laughs. She bites her bottom lip again.
"I like order and identifying anomalies. I know, I'm weird."
"Not weird. Order has its place,” I say. “Someone has to find what everyone else misses." Quinn's smile sharpens. "I guess so."
Quinn studies me for a second, then shifts the subject. She tells me about growing up in the city, about her family's charity.
I tell her what I remember about coming to Magazine Street as a kid with my mother before the galleries replaced half the hardware stores. Somewhere in the middle of that, Simone replaces our glasses without either of us asking.
The conversation loosens. She’s not guarded the way she was at the gala. No silk, no senator at her elbow. Just denim and bare shoulders and a sharp mind that keeps pace without trying to prove anything.
She laughs easily, but she doesn’t overshare. She asks about my favorite part of the city and then listens to the answer instead of waiting to talk.
I check the time once out of habit and realize we’ve been here nearly an hour and a half. The bar has cycled through a crowd. The couple who took the table after we arrived just left. The music has changed twice.
At some point, she shifts closer so we don’t have to raise our voices, and the space between our knees disappears.
There’s a moment when she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at me a little longer than a casual acquaintance.
That’s when I know this isn’t ending at the bar.
The bar thins around us as the hour creeps toward eleven. Simone wipes down the far end of the counter and stacks clean glasses in slow, practiced movements. Quinn glances toward the clock behind the liquor shelves and exhales lightly.
“I should probably head out,” she says, rummaging through her purse.
I nod and slip my credit card out of my money clip and toss it on the bar. “I’ll walk you.”
She studies me for half a second, weighing it, then slides off the stool. “Okay. Let me run to the restroom, and then we can go?”
She phrases it as a question more than a statement.
"Sure."
After signing the tab, we step out onto Magazine Street together. The March air has cooled, the traffic lighter now. The New Orleans night is smaller without the noise of Mardi Gras just a few weeks ago.
Her car is parked in the opposite direction from mine.
“I’m this way,” she says, gesturing down the block.
“My place is four blocks up,” I tell her, not as a suggestion, necessarily. Or, at least, that's what I tell myself.
She looks at me then. “And?”
“And we didn’t finish what we started the other night.”
There’s no edge in it. No pressure.
The silence stretches between us. A car passes, and the headlights slide over her face. “Four blocks isn’t far,” she says finally.
That’s the choice. Without another word, we start walking toward my place. At the corner of Josephine, she is the one to break the silence.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Three years in this studio. But I've lived in the city my entire life."
"Same. Cajun, through and through."
"It's a beautiful thing, right?"
She nods as we cross the street. A couple passes us going the other direction, laughing about something I don't catch. Quinn's shoulder brushes mine briefly. The contact is accidental but electric.
Two more blocks and my building comes into view. It's an old converted warehouse with iron balconies and a brick facade. I lead her to the entrance of the building and unlock the outer door. She steps through first. I follow and let it close behind us with a muted thud.
The door seals out the street noise. She turns toward me in the narrow wash of light in the small lobby, and I realize there’s no one left to interrupt us this time.
I call for the elevator and put in my card, pressing the fifth floor to my loft. She turns toward me, looking for guidance. There’s no crowd waiting for us this time, no music.
No excuse.