I twitch the cig between my fingers. “I didn’t even hear he’d been sick.”
“Me neither.” His thumbs rapidly tap the screen for another few seconds before he pockets his phone with a long sigh. “That’s the other thing, Vin.”
I slip the cigarette between my lips again. “Hm?”
“I was thinking maybe having people come here from out of state for this thing might actually be a bad idea completely.” He rests his hand on the railing and jerks his chin at the tourists on the sidewalks below. “The last thing in the world we need is one of them bringing that virus to this damn house.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Meyer.” I flick the ash onto the floor of the balcony. “You just gotta go to the worst friggin’ case scenario with everything, don’tcha?”
“I’m serious, Vin. They’re saying this thing is airborne and—”
“Meyer, are any of these folks coming from New York?” I cut him off, pointing the cigarette at his face.
“No, but we don’t know who all they’ve—”
“I feel real friggin’ bad for Lenny,” I say, pressing my palm against my chest, “I do.However, he’s in New York. That’s where all these poor sons-of-bitches are spreading that shit around. It’s not even anywhere else right now.” I wave the cigarette through the air in a gesture up and down Chartres Street. “The Big Easy might as well be a whole world away from there. We got nothing to worry about.”
“Beyond that, but semi-related,” Meyer interjects, switching gears, “I got an email from one of these venue promoters on the East Coast that they’re concerned about having to cancel shows if this thing gets too bad. We might need to think about what we’re gonna do to supplement income if we have to cancel some shows.”
“Psh.” I toss the cigarette butt on the floor of the balcony and grind it out with the heel of my shoe. “I swear to God, everybody and their friggin’ grandmother is blowing this shit way out of proportion.” I turn to face him directly, raising my brows and staring down my nose at him. “Hear me right now, Lowenstein.” I point at my eyes and then at his. “We gotnothingto worry about.”
Five
Ava
Steppingout of the backseat of the Lyft car, I’m practically knocked on my ass by a veritable party for the senses.
The narrow street is lined with old buildings, each with different pastel-colored facades, alternating in pink, orange, turquoise, and white, and all with brightly colored, contrasting doors and shutters. Nearly all of them have multiple levels of balconies, all of them featuring the iconic cast iron railings, adorned with tropical plants, strings of shiny beads, and flags boasting pride for everything from the New Orleans Saints football team, to the state of Louisiana, to the green-gold-purple colors of Mardi Gras. Tourists and locals mingle as they wander down the brick-paved sidewalk, carrying souvenir bags and go-cups of hurricanes. The air is pungent with the heady scent of Cajun food and thick with humidity mingled with the slow, swinging melody of a solo jazz trumpeter who stands at a street corner a few blocks away.
“Here ya go, miss,” the driver cuts into my brief escape into my senses, setting my rolling suitcase on the sidewalk next to my feet.
“Oh. Thank you.” I turn to him and smile, pulling out my phone to tip him.
“You enjoy your visit now, miss,” he says, lifting his black Saints ball cap in an old-school salute to me before plodding back onto the cracked asphalt street and to the door of his car.
“You too,” I say in reflex, then cringe at my awkwardness even though he’s already closed the door and probably didn’t hear me, and also probably wouldn’t care anyway. Nevertheless, the verbal faux pas lingers in my mind for several seconds as I turn from the bustling sidewalks and look at the door to Lucky De Luca’s jazz manor.
The emerald green door is recessed from the sidewalk by two stone steps leading to an elevated front alcove that is flanked by pristine white columns and an awning. The manor consists of three balconies, each with the same intricate railings and long rows of floor-to-ceiling windows, which feature shutters in the same deep green as the door. Peering upward, I can see a few people loitering on each level, making conversation too low for me to hear, and I don’t recognize any of them.
“Sooo…” I say under my breath, “I guess I just knock on the front door then?”
Grasping the handle of my suitcase, I roll it over the bumpy sidewalk to the front door and heft it up the steps. I pause there to check my phone again, just to make sure I have the right address.
Before I even get to the email with the itinerary, the front door swings open, revealing a man in his late twenties who’s so handsome that I have to dart my gaze away from him. In the half-second I saw him, it was all dimples, an easy smile, pale green eyes, slicked-back chestnut hair, and a square jaw so sharp you could slice cheese with it.
“You’re one of the contest folks,” he prompts in a smooth, velvet voice.
“Um, yeah,” I say, mostly to my suitcase and the concrete step below my feet.
His upturned palm appears in my line of sight. “Patrick Donnelly. I’m Lucky’s drummer.”
I glance up. “Oh.”
Getting a good look at his face, I suddenly recognize him. I recall a vague awareness I’ve had over the years that Lucky De Luca has an attractive drummer, but that he’s usually somewhat hidden behind the rest of the spectacle of shiny brass instruments, bodacious dancers, and striking female vocalists.
Now that I’m thinking about it, everyone in Lucky’s band is striking, attractive, and bodacious, which is one more reason why I’m now terrified to be here.
Patrick’s palm is still hovering in mid-air between us, and I hastily release the handle of my suitcase to shake with him. “I’m Ava Herald. I’m from Austin, and I—”
