I was torn, I confess. I'd spent much of the day setting up the contact and I knew I'd be smart to cement the relationship. There was a possibility, of course, that Jimmy Tate might reveal the truth about my identity, but I thought I could trust him to keep his mouth shut. At the moment, he seemed more concerned about getting laid. They were teasing themselves, postponing the inevitable, while I was only marking time. Oh, hell, I thought, I'm going to end up alone in my bed anyway, so why rush? I zipped up my leather jacket while I waited for them to disentangle all the various body parts. As we moved through the crowd toward the front door, I got a couple of offers, but I didn't take them seriously. Both were addressed to "Hey, you... yeah, you..." accompanied by much display and posturing. One kid looked like he was sixteen. The other had a big gold tooth sticking out in front.

The three of us left the bar, stepping into a light rain. Jimmy grabbed Bibianna's hand and they began to run. I trotted behind them, catching up when they reached the little restaurant three doors down. After the high-decibel racket in the bar, the cafe we entered was as quiet as a deprivation tank. Bourbon Street was small, essentially one long, narrow room that resembled a mock New Orleans alleyway. The walls were brick, broken up by a series of false windows and doorways, backlighted to create the illusion of warm interiors. A series of balconies jutted out at the level of the second floor, suggesting a gallery of apartments surrounded by wrought-iron railings, the pseudo-French Quarter setting complete with wall-mounted lamps in which tapered light bulbs flickered like windblown candles. Fake green ivy snaked its way up the wall, looking so real I could have sworn I smelled the breeze that seemed to rattle through the leaves.

The restaurant kitchen was hidden around one corner where a wall angled out. The scent of shrimp touffee and blackened red fish hovered in the air as if you'd caught a whiff of someone else's Sunday dinner. There were seventeen tables in all, most of them empty, each covered with white butcher's paper. Hurricane lamps provided illumination that flattered the patrons, at the same time dispensing light sufficient to eat by.