Shetsks. “No, girl. Don’t be such a ‘fraidy cat. Besides, that guy Meyer told me two other fans are going to be there with you, so you can form a nervous little fan squad with them if you need to.”
“I guess thatwillmake it a little less awkward.” I sigh. “Well, I guess all I’ve gotta do now is see if Roger will give me the week off.”
Zoey chews her bottom lip for a second, then shakes her head assertively. “No. You’re going to email him on Sunday afternoon and tell him you’re not feeling great. Then on Monday morning, you’re going to email him again and say you woke up with a fever.” She turns over her palm as though presenting the solution on a silver platter. “He’ll immediately freak out and tell you to work from home.” She winks at me. “We all know he’s kind of a germ-a-phobe anyway. Even before the dreadedcoronaviruswas a thing.”
The wine I’ve been gulping for the past thirty minutes seems to hit me all at once, and I giggle until I snort. “That’s shameless, but also brilliant actually.”
She gives her mass of tightly coiled ebony curls a toss over her shoulder. “Iambrilliant, thank you very much.”
We continue to snicker as she flops onto the sofa next to me, reaching for the remote and flipping on the TV. It’s tuned to one of the cable news channels, and the anchor justhappensto be discussing the aforementioned virus.
“Zoe,” I say after a minute of being lambasted by doom and gloom. “Do you think I should be getting on a plane with that virus going around?”
She hitches a shoulder and switches to PBS and an episode ofAntiques Roadshow. “No. The news has to make everything sound dramatic to scare people and keep them from changing the channel like I just did.”
She laughs, but a subtle feeling of worry settles in my stomach. “I know, but only a couple of months ago, they were all saying there’s no way it would show up here.”
She drags her deadpan gaze to my face. “It hasn’t shown uphere. It showed up inNew Yorkbecause it’s a major international hub. And look.” She switches the channel back to the news. “It’s stilljustin New York. And it’s less than two hundred people. Evenjustin New York, that’s a negligible amount of people.” She shifts on the sofa to face me directly. “Even if it somehow manages to come all the way here, there’s no way it’s going to become some kind of big, hairy deal bynext week. You have nothing to worry about.”
Looking back at her totally serious expression, I decide she’s probably right.
And besides. I’ve got bigger, more exciting things to think about right now for once.
* * *
Lucky
“You’re friggin’shameless,” Meyer says, tossing my phone onto a coffee table. “You should leave this girl alone.”
“Fortunately for me,” I retort, cradling a small espresso glass in my palm and swirling a spoon through it, “you don’t get to tell me shit.”
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and pitches forward at the waist, raising his brows at me. “AJ is already talking to every dancer she knows about how you fucked and fired her. She’s also talking to Sloan. And Becca. And Renée. And Amelia.” He pulls out one hand to point at my face. “You arethis closeto being the catalyst forhashtag me too, two-point-oh.” He tosses his hand in the air and lets it fall to his side. “And you wanna extend that to your fanbase? You’re fucking crazy.”
Sipping the espresso, I wave my hand at him. “This girl loves me. She’s atop fan,” I say with a laugh.
“She ain’t gonna love you when you corner her, fuck her, and then ignore her after she leaves.”
“Yes, she will.” I swallow another sip and then set the glass down on a side table before slipping a cigarette out of my silver case. “I know how to finesse the groupies. It don’t matter what AJ and Sloan and who-the-fuck-ever else are saying, because they all got the same warning before I took ‘em to bed. They don’t got a leg to stand on.” Slipping a smoke between my lips, I light up, take a drag, and then point at Meyer with it. “The groupies don’t have a bone to pick afterward ‘cuz they got no vested financial interest. They’re just excited that I paid ‘em the time of day. Ava will, too.”
He scratches the back of his head while shaking it indignantly. “Ava don’t strike me as no groupie. She didn’t jump at the chance to come here when you handed it to her on a silver fucking platter, and it took herfriendapparently taking the bull by the horns to get her to agree to coming.” He levels his steely blue gaze at me. “Ava strikes me as the type of girl that would be a pushover, then overthink everything afterward, andthenpublish a manifesto about the famous musician she admired who took advantage of her. And then,BAM!”He slaps his palms together. “Every other fan of yours that’s got an ounce of social justice warrior in them bands together with her, and you’re suddenly the latest casualty of cancel culture.”
I chuckle heartily and stroll toward the French doors that lead to the second-story balcony. “I hope you don’t pull a muscle reaching like that, Meyer.”
He marches out after me and leans one palm on the iron-lace balcony. “This girl is more like one of the dancers and singers than the groupies. This girllovesyou. She admires you. She has for years. If you start coming onto her, she’s gonna get her hopes all up, only for you to dash them after she goes home. Andthen, she’s gonna hate you.” He cocks his head. “Making your most loyal fanshateyou is no recipe for success.” He presses his hand against his chest. “I’m supposed to look out for your bottom line. Making your fans hate you isn’t good for your friggin’ bottom line.”
I don’t have any interest responding to his tirade, and his phone starts going off with text notifications anyway. Leaning my hip against the railing, I drag and puff while watching the tourists meandering up and down the cracked sidewalks of the French Quarter. A brass band is set up on a street corner diagonal from the manor, jamming out, swinging and swaying, while pausing their playing to chant the chorus in a deep, rich, graveled baritone. I can feel the thud of the big bass drum in my chest, and I start subtly nodding in time to the rhythm. I have a love-hate relationship with New York City, but since I’ve been in New Orleans, I’ve had nothing but love for it. The heart of this city fused with mine immediately, and now, nobody can convince me that we aren’t cut from the same gritty, soul-saturated cloth.
This is the city that mixed up the primordial soup that became jazz, and none of it would exist the way it does without the foundations laid here in this musician’s paradise.
“Ohshit,” Meyer suddenly says under his breath.
I slide a quick glance toward him while drawing in another drag. “Hm?”
“No friggin’ way.” His eyes are glued to his phone while his thumbs fly across the screen, typing out a message. He cuts a look up at me. “Lenny Weissman is in the friggin’ ICU with that virus.”
My nonchalance quickly sobers. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.”
