“New Orleans!” the conductor called out. “The Crescent City. The City that Care Forgot. Last stop. All out. Laissez les bon temps rouler.”
Fannie grabbed her satchel and hastily followed the other sleepy-eyed people out of the train. When she emerged from the train station, she found herself on a wide boulevard called Loyola Avenue. Fannie had never seen so many cars puttering along in either direction, honking at the train passengers who were trying to cross the street. She’d only ridden inside one automobile, a rusted relic of a pickup truck that her father had owned ever since she could remember that had a hole in the floor the size of a tire.
Fannie’s eye landed on a shiny red Packard. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen: long and lean, with a black leather top that was rolled down in the back. The passengers, a man and a woman, were chatting gaily as they drove by. Fannie took in a deep breath. Perhaps one day she’d own a car just like that one.
She followed some of the other train passengers a few blocks to Canal Street, which was bustling. Noise seemed to come at her from every direction—the clanging of the streetcars gliding past in the middle of the boulevard, the honking of the passing autos, the whistles bellowing from the ships on the river, the bells from nearby churches ringing in the noon hour, and the street vendors hawking waffles, pralines, and lemon ice. She walked past restaurants, cafés, and movie houses clustered between department stores.
Dozens of people hurried past her, bumping and pushing her along, every once in a while hurling a comment in her direction to watch where she was going. She paused on a corner to let a trolley go by. Intrigued by the name on the front of the streetcar, Desire, Fannie decided to follow it down Bourbon Street.
Many of the buildings on Bourbon Street were tightly shuttered and appeared derelict, yet there was a feeling of old worldliness about the French Quarter that made Fannie want to linger, a certain splendidness that somehow made up for the squalor of the crumbling buildings and the stench of day-old trash piled waist-high in the alleyways. She clutched her satchel against her chest and smoothed down her ragged hopsack shift, suddenly feeling self-conscious as well-heeled people brushed past her.
She wandered aimlessly down Bourbon Street, wondering how she was going to get along with no money. The run-down bed-and-breakfast she just passed advertised rooms for three dollars a night. She only had enough for one night’s stay. Then what?
Fannie found herself across the street from the Starlight Jazz Club, where a man was lingering against the doorframe. His eyes fell upon her, where they remained long enough for her to become uneasy. She turned to go.
“Hey there, you got a name?” he called out.
Fannie gripped the handle of her bag with both hands and peeked out from under her tattered cloche hat. “You talking to me, mister?”
The man waved her over. Fannie hesitated, unsure if she should talk to a strange man. Then again, what other choice did she have? She crossed the street and went over to where he was standing.
The toothpick in his mouth fluttered up and down as he studied her face; then he took the opportunity to study the rest of her. “You need a job?” he asked after a while.
“Um, well . . . yes sir,” she said meekly.
The man motioned for her to follow him inside. He leaned his elbow on the massive carved oak bar. “How old?”
“What?” she asked, distracted by the heavy stench of pine oil and stale alcohol.
“How old are you?” he repeated.
“How old you got to be?”
The man let out a slight laugh. He came up to her and cupped her breast in his hand. Fannie jumped back.
“Not from around these parts, I take it?” His accent was sharp and clipped, as if he were too impatient to finish his words.
Fannie held her satchel up over her chest. “No, sir. I’m from Evangeline Parish.”
“Whereabouts?”
Fannie hesitated. “Near Mamou.”
“Mamou? Where in the hell is that?” The man scratched his head under his hat.
“Up the road from Ville Platte.”
“You one of them Cajuns?” he asked, wrinkling up his nose.
“No, sir.”
He fingered the gold cross around her neck, turning it over in his hand. “You a Catholic?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why you got that cross around your neck?”
Fannie shrugged. “My mama, she give it me when I was a baby. Worn it ever since.”
He let the necklace drop and stepped back. “Don’t matter none. Lots of Catholics around these parts. Know anyone in New Orleans?”
“No, sir,” Fannie said.
“You a drinker?”
“No, sir.”
A half smile slid up one side of the man’s face. “Well, you will be soon. No doubt about that. Got a name?”
“Frances Hadley.” She drew in a breath, wishing she’d made up a name.