hand over the weathered metal. “Let’s lean it against the bar.”
Reggie wasted no time showing off why he’d made the Pro Bowl a year ago, and hefted the sign as though it was his granny’s suitcase, placing it gently against the wood of the bar.
“Show-off,” Dez grumped, crossing his arms and eyeing the space above the bar. He sensed Tre slipping toward the door and turned. “Hey, Tre, I been meaning to catch you.”
Tre stopped, his eyes questioning, his stance tense. The kid was always jumpy, as though he expected someone to throw a punch at him at any moment. “Yeah?”
“You said at the art gallery the other night you were looking for some extra work?”
“Yeah?”
Conversationalist the kid wasn’t. “So I gotta staff this place and thought you might want dibs on some shifts.”
“I ain’t old enough, am I?”
“You have to be over eighteen.”
Tre nodded. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
“And think about taking that horn Blakely offered you. I’ve never seen a kid who could blow like you, and you were, what, in junior high?”
Tre inclined his head.
“Freaking amazing.”
Reggie spun at Dez’s words and regarded Tre with new eyes. Nothing Reggie liked more than a young kid with musical talent. Reggie played football for his living, but his passion was playing bass and working with inner city kids in the Second Line Players, a weekly program that preserved New Orleans’ musical traditions. It’s where Dez had met the football player. “He’s that good?”
“He was,” Dez said.
Tre wouldn’t look at them. “I’ll check into it. Mrs. Theriot done brought the horn and set it in front of me like she was my mama or something. Determined to give it to me.”
“Then take it. Damn, man, you gotta have something in life. Can’t take care of your brother and cousin and work all the time without having something to take the edge off. Better music than booze or drugs.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good. We’ll plug you into the work schedule and when we’re done, we’ll blow for a while.”
Tre nodded and slipped out the door.
“Well, damn if there ain’t a whole lotta surprises in that antiques store across the street,” Reggie said shaking his head. “That kid really any good?”
“He blew my freakin’ mind when I first heard him. He was only eleven years old and played like he’d been sprouted from the womb with a horn in hand. Freaky.”
“Hmm.” Reggie stroked his chin. “I already liked that kid—he knew who I was but he didn’t ask about the Saints or football. Know how often that happens?”
“Hmm?”
“Never. Kids like him always want an autograph. A pic on their iPhone so they can post to Instagram or whatever that crap is Gemma’s on all the time.” Gemma was Reggie’s twelve-year-old daughter, who lived with her mom in Dallas. Reggie spent the spring and summer in Texas and would be leaving once the club opened. His friend rolled shoulders the size of boulders, and glanced around the club. “You know what else I like? This club. The vibe is good here, and I can see it really taking off in a big way. And now I found a kid with golden lips. Good day, my friend, good day.”
Dez laughed. “Opportunist.”
“I like money in the bank. Besides, I’ve been hankering to find someone new, someone who can really feel the music. It’s like rubbing a lamp and finding a genie to shake things up. I wanna hear this kid play, so call me when he comes back.”
If he came back.
Something about Tre made Dez sad. He didn’t know the kid’s story, but Tre wore enough of his life for Dez to see things weren’t easy for the boy. Not many kids his age would shoulder the burdens Tre carried. Selflessness was a rarity on the streets of New Orleans.
“We’ll see,” Dez said, thinking his words covered a lot in his life. He wasn’t building his house on sand, but he wasn’t on a firm foundation yet. Too many balls up in the air, each with the potential of clonking him on the head.
The last thing he needed was a lump of regret. Too much remorse already in his life.
He glanced out at the street between him and Eleanor, and wondered if he should keep that particular ball in hand.
Only one way to find out...and that meant putting it into play.
* * *
ELEANOR PASSED THE PLATE of sugar cookies toward Kristina Simoneaux, and picked up the agenda. The meeting of the Magazine Street Merchants Association convened at the