I exit the café by trotting down an outside metal stairway and turn down narrow Dumaine Street. The French Quarter is always brimming with bodies, but today the place is packed more than usual. And the air is practically buzzing with excitement and anticipation. In just over an hour, the first official “krewe parade” of the season is going to be passing through. Organized by the Krewe of Cork, a parade group social club of revelers with a particular fondness for food and wine, it promises to be a boozy, boisterous event.

As I get closer to Bourbon Street, I can see spectators already lining up along the sidewalk, jostling for the best views. Lots of them are obviously tourists, their cheeks already rosy from guzzling all those awful, overpriced fluorescent-blue hurricanes, beads around their fleshy necks.

But I also see plenty of locals, especially parents with young children. Fathers in Saints jerseys hoisting toddlers onto their shoulders. Mothers setting up homemade wooden Mardi Gras ladders—painted crazy colors and decorated with streamers and glitter, a fun, popular craft—to give bigger kids a seated perch.

If you ask me, that’s what makes this celebration—and this city—so special. Mardi Gras is a whole lot more than just the debauchery you see in the movies. It’s a rich cultural tradition that’s fun for the whole family.

Then all thoughts of fun melt away—like an ice cube dropped on the sidewalk—when from the corner of my eye, I see a man dressed in black, carrying an automatic rifle, shoving his way among the happy and clueless civilians.

CHAPTER 8

I spin and take in a full view, and then relax my fists—where did they come from?

It’s just an NOPD cop, who’s joined by another emerging from the crowd.

I don’t know them personally, but they’re members of the department’s elite tactical unit, the NOPD SWAT team.

They’ve each got a military-grade M4 assault rifle slung over their shoulders. And they’re dressed in full tactical gear: fatigues, Kevlar vests, combat boots, even ballistic helmets.

Normally these guys work high-risk warrants. VIP protection. Riot control.

Seeing a pair of them strolling down the street is both concerning and confusing. I’ve never seen anything like it during Carnival time.

Are they just on routine patrol? Or is something else going on?

“Excuse me, officers,” I say as they approach. “Was there some kind of critical incident in the area we should be aware of? I’m wondering why you—”

“No, sir,” the near one says, eyes looking over the crowd. “Please move along now.”

Neither one even slows down as they stroll by. Normally I’d flash my badge and ID myself, but of course that’s not an option anymore. Right now I’m just an ordinary citizen, being treated like one.