“You want to chat, let’s do it somewhere with air-conditioning and beer.”
Rick laughed, flashing the sexy little tooth, and gestured to the sidewalk in an exaggerated bow, like a carnival barker. He smelled good—heat, male sweat, and the faintest touch of scent, like Ivory soap. I resisted the desire to sniff the side of his neck and up behind his ear, but could do nothing about the hungers rising in me, pushing against my skin like a pelt. Beast’s hunger, Beast’s nature. I sighed. Beast wanted me to mate. She was getting pretty insistent about it, kinda like a mother wanting her daughter to settle down, get married, and have babies. A mother image with fangs and claws. This full moon, when Beast was closer to the surface, and harder to control? Was gonna be a bitch.
It was too soon to pump him for information, so we chatted about the weather, bikes, and music on the five-block walk—the Joe mentioned that, among other things, he played saxophone in a few local bands. It was casual conversation of the get-to-know-you variety, and we ended up in a dive near the river, one long narrow room with a bar on the right and red leather upholstered booths on the left. I’d have wondered at Joe’s choice except the place was packed with everything from city blue-collar employees in work boots, to men and women in suits. Banker types. Maybe a few musicians. I smelled grass on some. And in the far corner sat three cops. I’d learned that if cops liked an eatery, the food was good.
The cement floor had once been painted red, the paint worn off except in the corners; the walls were a sun-faded and moisture-streaked midnight. The bar was chipped Formica, black with sparkles in it, and a darkened mirror ran the length of the wall behind the bar. Dirty glass shelves in front of the mirror were stocked with a jillion bottles of liquor; some were dust covered, with curling labels. A fine set of cooking knives, with green stone inlaid handles and wicked-sharp blades, lay in an open, velvet-lined tray, gleaming in the overhead lights.
There was no music, which, as I had discovered last night, was odd for the Quarter. But here, people talked. A dozen conversations wove through the air with the scent of food. The dive smelled heavenly of beer steam, grease, and seafood so fresh it still smelled of salt and sea.
The black man behind the counter wore a crisp white jacket, a tall chef’s hat, and a smile. He patted the bar in front of the only two empty round seats and slid over little plastic bowls of hot sauce, ketchup, and tartar sauce. The Joe—Rick—and I sat in the indicated spots. The cook never said a word, just started dishing up food into red plastic baskets lined with newspaper to soak up the grease. He shoved baskets of hot onion rings, hush puppies, and round fried balls the size of golf balls at us; it smelled like heaven.
I tossed a scalding hush puppy into my mouth and bit down, sucking in air to cool my burning mouth. I groaned with delight. “This is good,” I said through spiced, fried corn bread and scalding lips. “Better’n good. Wonderful.” The man behind the counter set two mugs in front of us, again without asking, full of amber, frothy beer. I drank fast to cool my mouth and tried the onion rings. They too were fried, with beer-batter crust, and they crunched like God Himself had made them in His own kitchen. Lastly I tried the unknown fried balls and bit through the crust into highly spiced, ground hog meat and rice.
“Boudin, dat is, right dere,” the cook said. “Good, yes?”
“I’m in love,” I said to the cook as I chewed. “If you aren’t married, please consider this a proposal.”
He smiled, his face creasing into deep, dark chasms, exposing the biggest white teeth I’d ever seen in a human. “Your gal, I like her, I do, Ricky-bo,” he said, in what I assumed was a Cajun accent. He glanced at me, a twinkle in his eyes. “But you bes’ tell her ’bout my Marlene. I don’ like it when a new customer end up bleedin’ on my clean, purty floor.”
Rick, a half grin on his face, was sitting with both elbows on the bar, a hush puppy in one hand and his beer mug in the other. He slanted his eyes at me. “Marlene is his wife. Two hundred fifty pounds of jealous, dangerous woman.”
“And beautiful,” the man said. “Don’ forget beautiful, you.”
“Slap-dead gorgeous,” Rick agreed. “Like molten lava on the dance floor. Makes men moan just watching her. But she carries a fourteen-inch knife strapped to her thigh. In a garter.”
“Jealous,” the cook said again, sliding a steel mesh basket into a vat of hot fat, his chef’s hat canted to one side. “Deadly, she be, yeah.”
“Killed a woman in here last year,” Rick said. He pointed at the floor three feet away. “Woman tried to flirt with him. Died right there.”