Addis saw Evan Hynes-Pierce standing in the doorway. He wore a white linen suit with a vest and a Panama hat. His collar was open. There was no tie.

What god-damn great timing.

“Mr. Graham Greene, I presume,” Addis said.

“I am chasing after the power and the glory.”

“And the dirt.”

“Curious isn’t it? How well they mix.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t feel like bantering.”

Addis headed toward the stairwell.

“Had a tough time in Alexandria?”

Addis stopped; he clenched a fist and took a breath.

“Stalking me?” he asked. “The Secret Service might be interested in that.”

“Yes, file a complaint straightaway. But do we really want to draw attention to our trip—yours and mine—to the city first peopled by French discards?”

Hynes-Pierce placed a crooked finger before his lips.

“This is more than a cozy getaway with a lovely ex-lover. Don’t take offense, but you do not look relaxed.”

“How did you know I was in Alexandria?”

“People like to talk. Have you ever noticed that? Even when they don’t want to. I’ve been in this business for twenty-three years—went to the Sun instead of university, I did—and I’m still stunned by what people will tell you.”

“And what do you expect me to tell you?”

“In this instance, I have no illusions. Fancy a walk?”

“What do you want?”

“Actually, I’m here to reach out, to share information. Come along.”

He nodded toward the door and adjusted his hat.

“For a minute or two,” Addis said.

The two walked along Bourbon Street. The sun was setting and tourists were filling the Quarter. Frat boys and German backpackers were purchasing Hurricanes at streetside counters. They passed a bar with a pianist playing a jazz version of “Amazing Grace.”

“Tourist jazz,” Hynes-Pierce said. “A disgrace to the departed.”

Addis shrugged.

“Earlier today, I had a moment,” the reporter continued, “and I visited Storyville—or what used to be Storyville, the prostitute paradise for the fine seamen of your Navy—until a no doubt god-fearing Navy official in 1917 ordered the brothels closed. Fine, the buggers had to find elsewhere to make landfall. But these places of evil were also refuges for musicians: King Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton, and Louis Armstrong. They all began their careers by entertaining the clientele of whores. Now today, if you visit Storyville, what do you find?”

“Please,” Addis said. “Do tell.”

“Public housing that would make a squatter in Brighton feel quite fortunate. Broken windows. Refuse in the hallways. Plastic vials littering the street. Oh, there was this lovely statue of a Mexican leader with the inspiring inscription: ‘Peace is based on the respect of the rights of others.’”

“That’s fascinating,” Addis said.

“What did you make of President Hanover’s decision not to add any money to the federal housing budget?”