A quiet side street, a break from the cacophony. Three blocks of bookstores and boutiques invisible to the tourists. A cruise ship was docked at the port on the left just past the casino. He had an urge to jump aboard and ride it to wherever it went: Haiti, Curaçao, Cayman. It didn't matter. He needed out of this swamp called New Orleans. As he got closer to Canal, he heard the ringing of the Red Line Car coming down the riverfront. He thought about taking it up to Marigny, but the meeting was at Caesar's. His presence was required. As he crossed over the wide Boulevard, a tune seemed to rise up from the street. It sounded like a Second Line dirge, but he wasn't sure. The unclaimed melody drifted like wood in the river. The source was a man in a coat of many colors, a one-man band rig strapped over his shoulders; his money case sat in front with a few bills showing. Normally, he would stop, but there was no time. A man with a North Carolina Tarheel hoodie stepped out ...
