Pirate's Alley

“Nope, that’s a human miracle. When did you get back, and what are your plans for the day?”

 

 

“I arrived shortly after sunrise so that I might avail myself of the hotel’s … what odd words do they use … ah. Breakfast buffet. One can eat as much as one wishes, for as long as one wishes, all for the same amount of money. It is a quite interesting experiment, although I do not feel it is practical for the building of wealth.”

 

I tried to envision Jean Lafitte lining up at the trough of a hotel all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet, stuffing down muffins and omelets and pancakes. I failed. “They make up for it by charging more for the rooms. And your plans for today?”

 

He paused, which raised my warning flags up the mast of life’s sailing ship. “I thought I might explore the city. One does not often see Nouvelle Orleans under snowfall. I imagine it is quite beautiful.”

 

Sightseeing? Something smelled rotten in the state of the historical undead. “I’d enjoy that, too.” I’d hate every second of it and might well freeze to death. “Can I go with you?”

 

Another pause. Damn it. He was up to something.

 

“But of course, Drusilla. We will have a dinner date at noon and then we shall enjoy a stroll.”

 

Explaining the difference between a lunch date and a dinner date didn’t seem worth the effort. I glanced at Alex’s bedside clock. Holy crap; it was almost eleven a.m. already. “I’ll come to your room as soon as I can get back to the hotel from Uptown.”

 

Next to me, Alex grumbled something into the mattress. I probably didn’t want to know.

 

“I shall await your return.” Jean hung up.

 

“Yeah, bye to you, too,” I said to the undead air.

 

“Pirate’s on the move.” I poked Alex in the hip, probably harder than necessary, but I owed him. “I’ve gotta go.”

 

“Au revoir,” he said into the pillow.

 

I waited a moment to see if he was joking, but he went back to sleep, or pretended to. One way to find out. “Okay, I’ll just take your keys and leave the Range Rover with the Monteleone valet. I’ll text you the ticket number.”

 

He jerked the pillow off his head and threw it on the floor. “Having you sleep here seemed like such a good idea last night. Now, not so much.”

 

Yeah, well, he hadn’t complained during the makeup sex. One of us had to work for a living, even if it meant babysitting an undead pirate who was plotting some type of mayhem.

 

If possible, the drive back to the Quarter was worse than last night’s trip. The snow had tapered off, but more fools like us were out trying to drive around. The city had made a valiant attempt at dumping sand on a few of the major streets to provide traction but all it did was make a mess.

 

By the time we turned onto Royal Street, my nerves were fried and I wasn’t even driving. “Why don’t you park and come into the hotel for a while? Don’t you have transport watch at the Napoleon House in a couple of hours?”

 

Alex grunted, which is what passed for conversation with him until he’d been up awhile.

 

“I don’t speak caveman. You’ll have to translate.”

 

He pulled the SUV to a cautious stop in front of the Monteleone, which meant his answer was no. “I don’t want to see Lafitte before I’ve had coffee. Or after. And don’t let him touch you.”

 

I kissed him, lingering over it a moment. We needed more time together than half an argument followed by makeup sex; our fledgling relationship was already treading water. Maybe all the pretes would retreat to their respective corners of the Beyond for Christmas and leave us alone for a day or two. A girl could dream.

 

“Talk to you tonight?”

 

“Later, Jolie.” He must be waking up. He’d managed to smile instead of scowl.

 

I took off my coat as soon as I got inside the Monteleone lobby so security wouldn’t mistake me for a panhandler with bad fashion sense and toss me out on the curb. Then, on the elevator ride to the eighth floor, I felt guilty for that thought, and wondered how the city’s shamefully large homeless population was faring during this weather.

 

Many of New Orleans’ homeless were the working poor, whose hard minimum-wage jobs didn’t provide enough money to pay the city’s inflated rent and utility costs. Between misbehaving pretes and personal crises, I hadn’t heard the news in a couple of days.

 

A dark-suited room-service waiter exited Jean’s room as I approached down the eighth-floor hallway. “Is Mr. Lafayette in?” I asked. “I’m staying across the hall and was supposed to meet him for lunch.” Maybe Jean had gotten tired of waiting for me and ordered his own meal.

 

The young man smiled. “The dude ordered two entrees, so unless he’s really hungry he ordered for you.”

 

Great. Lunch a deux in the pirate’s suite. “How thoughtful of him. I’ll have to give him a special thank-you.”

 

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