An Excerpt from: Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.

Here's an excerpt from my second novel, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.  This is barely a taste. Call it a literary hors d'oeuvre. Available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle editions.  Pour yourself a drink.  Settle back.  Get comfortable.  It's a sexy, dirty, romantic, side-splitting, romp of a novel.  Do this author a couple of favors:  Repost this blog to widen my circle of readers.  When you finish the book, write a review on Amazon.  Now, on to the excerpt...

When in doubt, have a drink.  If still in doubt, have another.  I sit on my usual bar stool at The Pagan Cajun, better known as simply Jambalaya. The name of the restaurant hides in small letters on an unlit sign over the door, while Jambalaya garishly flashes and features chili peppers sizzle-dancing on either side.  I gingerly sip the ‘Taste of the Devil,’ a Cajun martini, fired by pepper infused rum.  My lips are aflame.  Fred, the white-aproned barkeep, his back to me, polishes glasses or does something else that needs doing.  He stands next to the huge, heavy bar, stocked with the best libations from the four corners.  With a mirrored back reflecting every bottle and every customer in the place, the bar seems twice as large.  At that moment Fred and I are the only two human reflections. 

I go to bars infrequently, but I make an exception for Jambalaya. It wallows in the comfortable memories of days gone by.  A pressed-tin ceiling, old, cracked black and white tiled floor, cluttered, high marble topped tables and equally worn stools are just the spot for Fitzgerald and Hemingway to swap inspiring platitudes.   Faded posters celebrate ancient Mardi Gras and dirty, smoky jazz.  The place is also as intimate as the sights and smells from your grandmother’s kitchen.  Friday nights they have a trio blowing all the standards until everybody’s fed and all the drunks go home. Weeknights I like it better. Solitude. Thoughts that don’t involve women or money.  All that is about to change.

         She steps through the double, beveled glass doors as gently as an angel looking for a rosebud.  I’d seen her a thousand times before and never seen her at all.  She’s blond and I never go for blonds, but I went for this one.  The powder blue suit and tasteful pearls screams of money and lots of it, but I would have gone for her if she’d been dipped in tar and rolled in feathers.  A line from The Great Gatsby floats through my head, “I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”  Sounds good, until you look at it from the other side of the bed.

         To a man, cars and women have a lot in common, at least in the love at first sight department.  Love that Corvette!  Gonna buy it?  Probably not.

         I can tell in the first five minutes if this is going to be just a passing fancy.  I don’t know how I know it, only that I know it.

         The bar stool barely squeaks when she sits down.  A delicate floral scent floats past.  Then, the two bluest eyes this side of a Rocky Mountain sky look my direction.  “Mr. Hudson?”

         “Present, clean and sober.”  I forget about my burning lips.

         “May I call you by your first name?”

         “I always go by Hungus”  No I didn’t say that.  “I always go by Hudson, but the first name is Jack, if you’d prefer.”

         “Mr. Hudson...Jack”  she makes it sound like a gently whispered prayer,  “I’m Candy Brunner.”  Candy can’t have reached her thirties yet and I’m not sure anyone’s going to notice when she does.  She holds out her hand.  I take it and don’t want to give it back, but like a true gentleman, I let it slide across my palm and watch it join its partner in her lap.  “I’m a friend of Margot Bliss.”  She produces a lacy handkerchief and dabs at the corner of one eye and then the other.  “I’m just so sad.  It’s tragic, just tragic.” 

         I wonder if she meant tragic in the classical sense, a rise and fall based on a fatal personal flaw, or if she simply meant terrible.  “It certainly is,” I agree, whichever way she means it.

         “And now Arthur has disappeared.”

         “He has?”  I try to keep from looking stunned.  I fail.  Hundred dollar bills with wings appear.

         “You didn’t know?  The authorities have been looking all over for him.” 

I don’t tell her I spoke with him at his office.  Knew he had sounded in a hurry, but not like he was going to depart for places unknown.

         “Wait a minute.”  It’s time for me to put gorgeousness aside and untangle this Gordian knot, “How do you know I had anything to do with Margot?”

         “Hazel told me.”

         “Hazel Armond?”

         “Yes.  She said you were to meet her husband here.”

         “I’m meeting Mr. Armond, but not today.”

         “She said you mentioned you might have a drink here tonight.”

         I’m trying to remember if I had really said that.  If I hadn’t then I’d better watch myself around Hazel Armond because she’s a mind reader.  And how the hell does she know I’d been hired to keep an eye on Margot?  Jesus, that woman is a spy in her own house.  “Oh, right,” I agree, still not remembering.  I’d mentioned something about getting a drink, but was sure it was tomorrow and Armond not being here proves it. “Speaking of a drink, what are you having?”

         “Just a little bit of Perrier,” she says softly, looking at Fred.  Fred turns, smiles and brings a glass, with a slice of lemon on the lip, and small green bottle.  He pours slowly and we all listen to the fizz.  Then he smiles again at Candy and goes back to polishing glasses.  His eyes can’t help but dart up to the mirror now and then.  There are three reflections now and two of us don’t matter.

         “You’re working for Mr. Bliss?  That’s what Hazel said.”  The deep blue eyes wash over me.  She has a little half smile, almost a quirk, except on that face I wouldn’t call it a quirk.  I’d call it Mona Lisa in the flesh.

         “Yeah, I’m working for him, but I don’t know where he is, if that’s what you’re asking.”  At least I hope I’m still working for him.  I need the money even more now that my house has been trashed. He never told me to quit.

         Candy reaches over and pats my knee, a friendly gesture at best, but nevertheless. Women use little touches like brush strokes on a canvas.

         “So, you just came down here to sip some seltzer water and tell me how sad it is about your friend going missing?”  Why does my brain have to work like that?  Why can’t I just enjoy the moment and chalk it up to good fortune?  Because, I started off suspicious and the last couple of twisted days fanned a raging paranoia.  As much as I like myself, I never was leading man material and beautiful women don’t just drop by to enjoy my company.  Small consolation that beautiful women don’t just drop in out of the blue to enjoy anyone’s company.

Beckham's Bookshop New Orleans

Decatur Street in New Orleans is one of the few thoroughfares in the French Quarter that isn’t pockmarked and doesn’t share the squalid conditions found on the back streets.

 

Matter of fact, this broad street has quite a few wonderful spots worth a visit, some of which I wrote of earlier:  Café du Monde, Jackson Square and the Red Slipper breakfast spot. There’s also the old Jackson Brewery, now a high-end conglomeration of shops.

 

On my last trip to New Orleans, I found a gem on Decatur Street, and what for me is a very special place, Beckham’s Bookshop.  I confess I’m addicted to bookshops, especially those dusty places that have a cluttered, backroom ambiance, with a fabulous array of used books, stacked carefully on worn and a seemingly endless array of book cases and also stacks of books on the floor by wooden chairs that creak when you sit down.  With all this and more, Beckham’s has found a proper spot near the top of my list.

 

Two older men, seated in their own creaky chairs looked me over when I walked in, or at least one of them did.  The other one was involved with a magazine and in a battle to overcome poor eyesight. The one who wasn’t involved was bald, wore glasses and had on a dress shirt and jacket.  He smiled.  I smiled.  End of conversation.

 

I looked around. At once I knew I was in a place to linger, to marvel.  Paperbacks, leather bound classics, best sellers of yesteryear.  It’s the kind of place where, no matter your level of education, you are overwhelmed with how much you don’t know and how much you want to know.  I asked myself how long has it been since I’ve read the authors of the twenties.  Too long. Then I found a biography of this and that well-known classicist, whose names I recalled.

 

You have to understand me to understand my passions.  I’m stuck in the 20s, 30s, and 40s.  Books and music. Wit as well as somber novels.  Raymond Chandler, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, to name a few. Writers and artists from their most productive years in Paris and London and New York.  I spotted a book: a bio of Dorothy Parker.  Remember her and the Algonquin Roundtable, meeting at the eponymous hotel in Manhattan?  Care to read a few lines from her pithy mind ?

 

“This wasn’t just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible.  This was terrible with raisins in it.”

 

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.”

 

“Tell him I was too fucking busy -- or vice versa.”

 

And one of my favorite bits of Parker verse:

 

By the time you swear you’re his,

Shivering and sighing.

And he vows his passion is,

Infinite, undying.

Lady make note of this—

One of you is lying.

 

I asked the clerk, Do you have any books in French?  Yes?  Plenty.  Upstairs in the back, left corner.  Ah, yes.  Books that stretch my memories of high school when I swore I would learn French, while my grades offered different options.

 

A bookstore, especially an old one, like Beckham’s, on a passible street in an old and crumbling city, is like a diamond of a thousand facets, sparkling in every direction.  A place of dreams, wrapped in clouds of self-promises.  Or maybe it’s an older woman, face streaked with ancient wrinkles, and yet whose beauty shines through the years and the pages.

 

Yes, I bought some books, a couple of them in French.  Hope undying. Vive l’espoir! Long live hope!

 

 

New Orleans French Quarter

 

When I speak of New Orleans, I speak of the French Quarter, the land of dreams, the rhythmic notes of jazz, a gracious lady and tangled upstart of languages and conquests that treads the dusty path of history. But, let’s not mince words.  New Orleans today is a decrepit, scrappy, moth-eaten town, the kind of place that makes you want to scrape the bottoms of your shoes and replace the axles on your car.

Robed in a colorful history and still offering the flavors of France and Spain, spiced by the making of America, it now lies desecrated by cracked third-world streets and sidewalks, adorned with drugs and filth. 

 

Night sneaks into the city like a creeping, feral cat. Back streets in the French Quarter, le Vieux Carré, all except restaurants and bars, are closed with chains and iron grills, and the quarter is home to rabble in filthy, garish clothes, stumbling and yelling, their unshaven faces reddened by drink and plenty of it.  Small groups of beggars clog the street corners, singing off-key songs with high pitched voices, and tin can and tambourine for drums, plastic buckets on the edges of the broken streets, waiting for the gullible to drop coins and bills.  Of course, you can get out of the old quarter, but then in my mind you are out of New Orleans and into the scabs of modernity, with casinos and shopping malls and buildings that reach to the clouds.

 

Remarkably, some small parts of the old city retain their history and beauty, gently whispering to sit, relax, ponder and read. 

A black wrought iron fence surrounds Jackson Square, one of the few places of solitude. A heroic statue of the 7^th President and ‘Hero of New Orleans’ astride his horse marks the center.  The square languishes just in front of the St. Louis Cathedral on a corner side, opposite the famous Café du Monde, home to rich chicory coffee and beignets, French-style fried donuts, dusted with white powdered sugar.  Coffee called and so did beignets. 

 

While I sat and sipped and tasted my feather-light treats, a small combo played wonderful notes of When the Saints Go Marching In, the happy sounds so far removed from the screech on the corners of the night. When they tired, a smooth as glass saxophone artist took over, calming, soothing and leaving promises that the soul of this city lived on.

 

Coffee sipped to the last bean, I followed the call of the book I’m reading, Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf.   Across the street in Jackson Square, I settled into a seat on one of the wrought iron benches that form a semicircle close to the Jackson statue.  I guess I should have been reading some Faulkner.  After all, for six months he lived in Pirate Alley (1925-26, called Orleans Alley until the 1960s), between the Cathedral and the Cabildo, the old Spanish governor’s mansion.   Faulkner wrote his first novel there, Soldier’s Pay. Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain also spent a lot of time here and  famously said, “New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin.”

 

You may wonder if I ever made it to some of the fine restaurants.  Yes.  On one of the back alleys, I watched my step and dined on seafood pasta and some flame-charred oysters at a crowed, rundown eatery, that was close to my hotel.  Delicious, but more was to come.

 

The next morning I wove my way through a light, foggy drizzle to meet friends at the Red Slipper, a breakfast joint I’ve written of previously.

 

That night, we took an Uber to Dragos at the Hilton Riverside, all agleam in tile and stainless steel.  We sat at the bar, and once again dined on chargrilled oysters.  Delicious!  It was a remarkably quick addiction. 

But, all in all, it will be a while……never say never…..before I return to this city, the Queen of the Mississippi.  And when I do, I’ll stay at a hotel away from the French Quarter, enchantingly romantic as it may seem. I remember New Orleans as one would remember a charming lady, well dressed and well spoken.  That lady has aged in heartless ways, lost a few teeth, still wearing the same dress that now has rips and stains.  With whiskey breath she slurs her words and offers a crooked smile.  

 

Oh, my darling, whatever has become of you?

 

Ah, New Orleans

 

Ah, New Orleans, that decrepit old whore!

 

A face rife with fissures and echoes of jazz,

The half forgotten jazz that plays to ghosts, 

With notes of a lost generation and whiskey

Flavored by sugary stagnation.

 

Sit ‘n a bar, dine on oysters, with yesterday’s 

Stale recipes and coagulated sauces.

 

The diners come to say they’ve been here.

Oh, yes, I’ve seen the Street Car Named Desire,

And don’t know Tennessee Williams.

And Bill Faulkner?  Who is he?

 

And never heard Louis or Al blow their

Dented trumpets or Pete his licorice stick.

 

The streets reek of tawdry bodies sick with lust

 And find romance a bothersome chore.

 

Oh, yes, a weak old whore, with cracked teeth

And dusty hair.  See how her rouge has faded

And her mascara creeps down her legs.

 

A ragged whore whose beauty is blighted

And cracked with age, her hair a dusty mop.

 

But, bring your money and your sex, the old 

Girl needs it.

New Orleans, Today and Yesterday

New Orleans, Today and Yesterday

Crowds at Central Grocery Co.

I must admit, today’s New Orleans is no longer the New Orleans of my misspent youth and wistful dreams.  But, memories are kind, and if the city falls short, perhaps it’s my memories that need adjustment.  Oh, the faded visions of the women who were prettier, incomparable food that changed my expectations forever, aromatic beer that washed down sea brined oysters, and starry nights that made me never want to leave!

The reality of today’s New Orleans is as sad as seeing an old lover in a nursing home.  Oh, yes, it gets worse.  Time doesn’t march on, it stomps, wearing jack boots.

The French Quarter’s sidewalks are like broken teeth, and roads have potholes big enough to bait a hook and give it a try.  Swamps and tangled jungles of millenniums past seem to be creeping forward again.

Sad, because the French and Spanish, Cajun, Creole, and African people have given New Orleans every cultural chance to rise above the muddy waters of the Mississippi, to push back against modernity.

In decades past, was the French Quarter really so crowded that I couldn’t find my feet?  I don’t remember a two-block line on Decatur Street waiting for chicory coffee and beignets at the fabled Café du Monde.  Not to worry.  These days there are several locations scattered around the city. But, it wasn’t really the coffee that called; it was an atmosphere of the clip clop of horse drawn carriages and timeless views of the wrought iron fence enclosing Jackson Square.  Café du Monde in a mall just can’t compare, beignets or not.

Could be that my expectations are just too high, or maybe I’m just too damn old to fit in.  On the streets of today’s New Orleans, the young women wear ripped jeans and dirty t-shirts, as tasteful as a smudge of dirt on a hamburger bun.  Their faces look as if makeup was applied by Stevie Wonder. Tattoos, or as I called them, body-graffiti, adorning every inch of skin, and smart dressers stand out like Tuxedoes at a beach party..

The good news is, there is still much to enjoy in New Orleans. The French Quarter still boasts of elegant restaurants and glorious street jazz.  Only a short walk away, the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas offers a truly marvelous adventure in aquatic life.  I watched penguins fed by hand, and personally hand fed stingrays. Give yourself lots of time!

Another attraction not to miss is The National World War II Museum. Displays and recordings and films (Don’t miss the films!) lead you all the way through.  A friend of mine told me he spent four hours there.  I said to myself, no way, then spent four and a half hours myself and only felt as if I’d seen a portion.  All phases of one of the greatest conflicts in all of history, is right before you.  Better than any history class and a hell of a lot more fun!  Visit this fabulous museum!

B-24 Liberator 

A mockup of the D-Day Invasion at Normandy, France, June 6, 1944

So, how did the city get it’s name and what’s all this Frenchy stuff?  Only time for a thumbnail sketch. 

The French arrived in 1682, and Nouvelle Orléans was founded by Jean Baptist Le Moyne is 1718.  In 1763, the Spanish took possession. 1800, France reacquired the city and the Louisiana territory.  Then in 1803, President Thomas Jefferson bought the entire territory for 15 million dollars, which was about 3 cents an acre, and almost doubled the size of the United States.  And by the way, Orléans is still a city in France!

So now my pagan readers are tired of rich history and ripped jeans culture. “How ‘bout them damn restaurants? I don’t go to Nawlins for no damn museums!  And I flunked historeeee three times.”

Ah, I detect proud members of the drinking class.  So, I’ll heed your plea and mention some restaurants.

Antoine’s:  A noble restaurant, visited by royalty and celebrities for ages.  Exciting to soak in the elegant atmosphere and be served by waiters in black suits and white shirts, but for the exorbitant prices you pay, you can find better chow, if not better ambience.  Ask a waiter to show you around and impart some thrilling tales of Antoine’s glory days.

Red Slipper:  A small chain, with outlets around the city.  A wonderful breakfast with a variety of eggs Benedict and don’t forget to try the award winning Bacon Bloody Mary.

Gianna:  An Italian restaurant owned by the wonderful butcher shop, Cochon.   Best food of any variety I had on this visit to New Orleans.  Gianna features northern Italian Cuisine, meaning very fresh pasta with cream sauces rather than the red sauces from the south of Italy. Wines are superb and the bar will satisfy your every alcoholic dream.

It’s easy to give up on this interesting old city, but adjust your view and spread your wings.  Enjoy the French Quarter and street jazz, but don’t stop there.  There’s a new New Orleans that has much to offer.