The Devil Always Collects Read online

  Friendly exchange of sexual favors has never been condemned by this city. True to the tradition, never-close bars, strip clubs, and breast-flashing Mardi Gras revelers in the French Quarter all fall within the category of just clean fun in the Big Easy. Of course, this kind of frolicking goes on in other cities too. Maybe not as much as in New Orleans, but it goes on. Here, the ratio of hypocrites to “don’t give a shitters” seems to be more favorable. That clears the way for a more everything goes attitude to prevail. And prevail it does. With an international reputation for free-spirited fun, New Orleans draws people from around the world. They come here to let their hair down. They drop their fake, public-image facades, access the reptilian parts of their brains and become their hedonistic selves. In this city, it’s OK. In New Orleans, everything is OK.

  I’m different from most in New Orleans. I’m timid, guarded and careful by nature, always thinking my mother and the whole, dearly departed church congregation is watching me from heaven and judging my every move. I find it hard to let loose. I am too afraid I’ll offend someone or make them mad. I can’t say and do what I really want. I stress about everything. I was never loose back home. All of the other girls were getting felt up, giving blow jobs or screwing by the time they were sixteen. Not me. I was deflowered in college. I thought I was in love or at least that’s what I told my college roommate.

  “Deflowered. Ha! That’s funny,” she said with her eyes rolling head shaking. “You just got laid, that’s all.”

  The whole episode was quite unceremonious if you ask me. I would have preferred some romance. Even without the romance, I did like it, I must admit. The memory elicited a sly smile that momentarily crept over my lips. But my Midwest values snapped into gear and voices in my head chastised me, “Stop admitting you like sex without marriage. You sound slutty.” I repeated this more righteous thought, like a meditation mantra, over and over loud enough for my mom and the entire congregation to hear. Make it stop, please God, make it stop.

  What shall I wear? I’m a 5’4’’ big-boned girl. Not too big boned but a little. I’ve always been told I have a pretty face, cute upturned nose, and full lips, but I just can’t seem to shake those pesky, last 20 lbs. I blamed my weight on baby fat and my big boobs. I was one of the first to bloom and my chest just kept on blooming, making me self conscious. That all changed in college when my roommate at Tulane told me, “If you’ve got it flaunt it.” So, I think I’ll wear something low-cut and a little blousy and some skinny jeans. It’s a little cool tonight so I’ll bring a sweater with me too. It’s cold enough for my black boots. They match the new cowhide purse I bought from a lady who hand-makes them in Baton Rouge. Stylish and fun.

  I walked in Pat O’Brien’s and saw Charlotte’s glowing smile. She was dressed in a slinky top and mini skirt. Her long mid-night black hair gently ricocheted from her shoulders and flowed down her back like a waterfall. Damn, she looked good.

  “Hi, Alexandra,” she said.

  “Did someone airbrush you in Photoshop?” I asked. “You look like a Victoria’s Secret model.”

  She blushed slightly, only because I said it so others could hear. She’s modest but still knows it was an observation and not a compliment. She attracted attention everywhere she went.

  I sat at the bar and the bartender rushed over.

  “What you drinking?” he asked.

  Like he really gave a shit. He just wanted an excuse to get another close look at Charlotte.

  “I’ll have a martini, like she’s drinking,” I said as he and I both cut our eyes to Charlotte.

  She smiled at me approvingly, always happy to see me loosen up. We sipped our cocktails, talking about the last two months of The Walking Dead episodes.

  “Rick is so badass,” Charlotte said. “He isn’t afraid of anything. He is loyal to his people and will kick all the ass he needs to kick to protect them. With a man like that around, you are safe from anything. I love Daryl too. That crossbow thing turns me on.”

  I chimed in, “What a shitty world they live in. It’s bad enough that the walkers want to eat their faces off. They have to deal with cannibal cults, harvesting people for meat.”

  “Yeah, but those cannibals got put down. My man Rick outsmarted them. Executed them on the spot. Had to be done. They live in a kill or be killed world,” she said.

  “You are so right. I love the way they take charge and do what has to be done,” I add. “They live in a crappy world and have to do some crappy things. I don’t think I could make it even a single day in that world. How about you?”

  Charlotte grimaced. “There’s never any hot water and they stay filthy. I like it better as an imaginary world. I am all about the modern conveniences we have. No makeup or lipstick. Savage.”

  We listened to the piano over the steady hum of the people talking as we sat in Pat O’s patio bar, smelling the rich French sauces being prepared in the kitchen. Neither of us brought up what was really on our minds. Always on our minds - the serial killer staling the French Quarter streets. Any distraction from the searing fear gripping me and every other woman in the city was a welcome relief.

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two guys approaching us. I turned to Charlotte and said, “Incoming,” expecting them to make the usual strafing run on Charlotte and then move on.

  She looked up at them and said, “Hi, Brad, wasn’t sure you were going to make it. Who’s your friend?”

  Oh, shit, she knew them. It dawned on me that I’ve been ambushed. She suckered me in with the whole catch up on the Walking Dead ploy to get me here to meet this guy.

  “Charlotte, I’d like you to meet Tom Sanders,” the slightly shorter one named Brad said as he gave Charlotte a knowing smile.

  “Pleased to meet you, Tom. This is my friend Alexandra Lee. Would you like to join us?”

  Brad and Tom both told me how happy they were to meet me. I smiled and said the same. I had a death grip on my martini and sucked a huge gulp down. Brad and Tom ordered beers and Charlotte broke the silence.

  “So, Tom, what do you do?”

  “I am a marine biologist,” he answered. “I’m studying the effects of the BP spill on the marine life in the Gulf.”

  “You are not a native New Orleanian?” I asked.

  “No, a Northern California boy.”

  “Northern California. You are a long way from home. Is this your first Mardi Gras?” Charlotte asked.

  “No, I’ve been in New Orleans for six years. I did my post-graduate work at Loyola. I took summer courses at LSU in Baton Rouge too.”

  Tom looked at me and asked, “What do you do to pay the bills, Alexandra?”

  I fidgeted with my drink cup. I was captivated by his cornflower blue eyes. He was ruggedly handsome, strong and lean. His gaze was intense, excluding the world and focusing solely on me. I didn’t feel like he was looking in my eyes. I felt like he was looking through my eyes to my soul.

  “I’m in public relations,” I said.

  Tom politely nodded, ran his finger through his thick black hair, and smiled, acting as if mine were a real job. He is a scientist, I thought, and I am an illusionist. Our two worlds couldn’t have been further apart. I spent my days putting spin on the misdeeds of a water polluter and he was studying the effects of the worst environmental disaster to ever hit the Gulf Coast. Yet, I felt chemistry with him. I have always loved science and I did take first place in the county science fair once. But I gave into my searing passion for journalism, although I can’t help but wonder if journalism is what I’m doing. Public relations is not journalism. Have I sold out and taken the easy path?

  I ordered another martini. Tom nurtured his first beer as I dove into my second martini. As a marine biologist, surely he knew about Bayou Oil’s spill. I was afraid he would find out that I was getting them off the hook for poisoning the marine life he was studying.

  “Do
you enjoy doing PR work?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte and Brad were lost in their own conversation. They were going on and on about the Mardi Gras Season. The first parades rolled one week from today. Parade after parade for two weeks, ending on Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras sights and sounds dazzled their beholders with elaborately costumed, bead-wielding riders perched on purple, gold and green floats. As they snaked though the streets, they pelted hand waving revelers with brightly colored beads and trinkets. Each parade-goer shouted, “Throw me something, Mister.” The float caballeros eyed the crowd for kids and costumed folks, fully into the carnival spirit to toss their beads to, but saved their best beads for boob-flashing babes. Marching bands, jazz musicians and powerful sound systems pounding out uplifting tunes like Mardi Gras Mambo fueled the crowd’s enthusiasm. Every structure with walls and roofs had King Cakes boxed or half eaten. Topped with the mandatory tri-colored sugar icing, these cinnamon cakes were often filled with cream cheese. Tradition required the person who got the slice containing a hidden plastic baby to buy the next one. King cakes and Mardi Gras are like Christmas and eggnog but without the nasty aftertaste. What a great marketing ploy—a cake that when eaten required an unlucky baby holder to buy another one. Only Ash Wednesday, the day after Mardi Gras, relieved the loser of his obligation to replace the cake with another.

  Charlotte loved the King Cake tradition for two reasons. First, she worked in marketing, as the in-house marketing director for Superior Sugar Company, and loved any great marketing scam. Second, it sold gobs of sugar for her company. We met when she hired the Jenkins PR firm to handle the PR for her company’s acquisition of vast sugar cane farms in South America. I worked on the project with Charlotte. We’ve been great friends since.

  “Brad tells me you aren’t a native either,” Tom said. “Where are you from?”

  “Indiana, raised on a farm. Nothing like New Orleans,” I answered fidgeting with the stem of my martini glass.

  “That would explain your rosy complexion and pleasant demeanor.”

  He spoke with such sincerity in his voice that I almost believed what he said. He couldn’t be talking to Alexandra. He must have been talking to Alex, the high school girl who won the science fair. She was pleasant, had a rosy complexion, and was shy and very loving. Alexandra wanted to poke zombies in the head with sticks. I felt like the chemistry between us was as thick as the chicory coffee at the Café Du Monde. And, Tom seemed to feel it too. His sparkling blue eyes never left me as if he and I were the only two in the place. He still hadn’t looked at my boobs, though, and I was happy about that. This was odd because I put them on display for New Orleans to admire. Others admired them but not Tom. I wanted to pull my blouse up and hide my cleavage for fear that he might think I was a slut.

  A voice screamed across the bar, “CHARLOTTE!!! WHAT’S UP!?!”

  We all looked to see Mandy Morris, wearing a low cut top and skin tight black leather slacks, and her entourage pouring into the bar. Mandy’s father was the owner of Superior Sugar and Charlotte’s boss. No way had Charlotte planned this. This could turn into a real cluster. Mandy was a spoiled brat. We called her the Paris Hilton of New Orleans. Party girl supreme. Ten people trailed behind her as a wannabe entourage. They circled us at the bar and ordered drinks.

  All the commotion was apparently too much for Tom. He looked at me and said, “So nice to meet you. I hope I see you again. I have an early morning boat ride in the Gulf and need to get back to my place.” I thought take me with you. He told Brad and Charlotte good night and didn’t even look at Mandy or any of the other interlopers.

  Mandy tried to persuade Charlotte, Brad and me to go to The Cat’s Meow to sing karaoke with her and the rest of her friends. Charlotte declined, and Mandy ordered a round of tequila shots as an alcoholic bribe. When Charlotte still declined, Mandy relocated her group to a nearby table. Brad and Charlotte resumed their conversation. I really felt like a third wheel. Abandoned by Tom, two martinis and a shot circulating in me and a boob blouse adorning my body, I wanted to party. Why not? I was a city girl now wasn’t I? And, I needed to celebrate my victory at work today. I told Charlotte I was going with Mandy and headed to her table.

  Charlotte and I had been out with Mandy before. Mandy knew how to party. She should; she practiced every night including most Sundays. Hanging with Mandy was like riding the scariest roller coaster in the park. The only difference was that someone maintained the roller coaster to make sure it was scary but safe. Mandy careened through life, crash after public crash, but kept on going. What was I about to get myself into?

  Mandy spied me walking over and yelled, “Alexandra! Sit down, girl, and show us those big boobs.”

  Oh shit, I thought here we go, as I tugged at the top of my blouse. And go we did after another martini down the street to The Cat’s Meow on Bourbon Street. We sang on stage, sang along while standing in the shoulder to shoulder crowd, and drank and drank and drank. Somewhere along the way I blacked out. I was in trouble. No Charlotte or Sarah there to look out for me. Only Mandy, the booze queen of New Orleans, who couldn’t even take care of herself. I was in trouble. No way would this end well.

  Chapter Three:

  The Zombie Life

  “Hey... Hey...I gotta go. Look, uh, I had a great time last night. Got to go to work now. My boss is a jerk.”

  “Is it morning? OK, bye,” I said with a drowsy half-articulated grunt, the sour taste of bile in my mouth. Grunting is not ladylike, I thought. But then, neither is picking up some guy in a bar and bringing him home. Home, yes, home. Thank God I made it home. But, wait, who is he and where’s he going? Shit, I don’t remember his name, his face or what the hell happened to me. The door slammed. “Oh my God, why was that so loud?” I really don’t remember him. I wish I had awakened before him so I’d at least know what he looked like. I don’t think I can show my face in public again. “It’s the last time I ever go out,” I proclaimed loudly as if speaking the words gave them more power. Power to stop me from turning into a New Orleans party girl like Mandy.

  It was morning, though you’d never know it by the way my head felt. I’m really not sure what happened last night—or why, for that matter. As the room started spinning, I looked all around for blood or condom wrappers. Oh shit! I reached for my lower parts and it didn’t feel like anyone had visited. That’s weird. Did Mr. X spend the night? I was confused. I really didn’t know what happened. What I did know was that this morning I pledged that I’ll never do whatever it was I did last night again. Even though I said this in earnest, I knew better. Because the truth was, I’d made that promise to myself a bunch of times before. Who was that guy anyway? I vaguely remembered meeting lots of cute guys last night. Most of them talked to my boobs and not to me. Was he one of them, one of those John Does with an interchangeable face? I couldn’t tell much from what I glimpsed this morning—the blurry back of his head. I just wished this room would stop spinning. I needed aspirin and coffee.

  As I slowly kicked off the half mangled bed covers, I looked around the room desperately searching for — no hoping for — a bottle of aspirin. Maybe if I could just have a coffee and an aspirin, things would be okay. Ahhh, there they were; thank goodness. Right there on the nightstand. What a gift. I didn’t even have to get out of bed. Who the hell did I bring home? What was his name...Zach? No that’s ridiculous; the only Zach I knew worked at the Cafe Du Monde. He would never be caught dead partying till sunrise in the Quarter. I just think Zach is a great name & he is a great guy. He’s the kind of guy I should be dating: in his final year of graduate school, doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks, doesn’t even eat the beignets at the cafe. Very environmentally conscious. His lifestyle was more like the farm values I was raised with. He has asked me go places with him but I’ve always said no. What was I thinking? Of course, I wasn’t thinking. I can’t think. I have booze brain. And, why were all of these thoughts colliding in my
aching head right now?

  My spirits lifted as my body celebrated the surge of caffeine working its way through my bloodstream. Maybe this will make me feel better? Maybe not. I didn’t care. I needed it. Food to soak up the alcohol. Beignets. All I needed was a beignet, I thought. I’ll worry about my diet tomorrow. Today’s a day for fat clothes anyway. Today? Oh my God, it’s Friday. I had to go to work. I remembered the Dunkin Donut’s one block from my office. It wasn’t the Cafe Du Monde, but it’d have to suffice. Sorry, Zach. My momentary panic faded, the sounds of the city coming to life outside my condo.

  I turned on the TV just like every day to help me wake up and tell me what’s going on in the world. The TV was my roommate. I talked to it and it talked to me. Get up and do your normal things, I told myself. I was a city girl now and I needed to know current events.