Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,65
She and Richard both lied to me.”
“Do you think Richard is involved with this?”
“I don’t know. I just—I want to go see.”
“See what?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is a bad idea,” Dag said. The light changed, and Dag goosed the car forward. “Let’s just get you home—”
“Please,” I said. “I know I said something inexcusable. I know you don’t have any reason to do this for me. I know I’m a petty, bitchy, selfish, spoiled asshole, and I don’t deserve your help.”
He drove another hundred yards; a strip mall on our right had a sign advertising ALL YOU CAN EAT SEAFOOD and CODY’S HALLOWEEN SURPLUS. From a bar at the end of the strip, a crowd of guys stumbled out into the parking lot, shoving each other, laughing, one guy hooting as two more squared off. A real fight, or pretend? Hard to tell. Along the side of the road, an inflatable skeleton wavered and folded as the Escort whooshed past it.
“Just drop me off, then,” I said. “Here’s fine.”
“This isn’t a good part of town.”
“Stop the car, please. I just need to catch an Uber.”
Dag made a strangled noise, and then he jerked the wheel and cut into a sharp U-turn.
“You don’t have to—”
“For the love of Christ, just say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said softly.
DAG (16)
We drove east, cut south around Slidell, and crossed the lake on I-10. Traffic was light, and the lake was higher than usual, lapping just below the highway; for long moments, it would be just the two of us skating out across dark waters, and then headlights would spring up in the opposite direction, and the world would be normal again. At night, New Orleans was an amber crescent of sodium glare ahead of us, growing taller and brighter with every minute, hung here and there with coronets of halogen blues and whites. After the lake came Bayou Sauvage: switchgrass and wiregrass grew along the highway’s shoulder, their blades tremulous in the Escort’s headlights.
“Where are they staying?”
“The InterContinental.”
“You’re sure?”
Elien trailed fingertips across his forehead like he was trying to concentrate. “No. But that’s where Richard likes to go. Where he told me he likes to go, anyway.”
Parking was normally a nightmare in the Warehouse District. I drove Poydras east, and then I worked my way down Magazine and up Camp, then west on Poydras. We passed the Zatarain’s ad, a huge mural painted on the side of the Queen & Crescent Hotel, a couple of times. It was late, but the city never slept, and people were walking on the sidewalks, laughing, talking, enjoying the cool October air. A man was walking backwards with an enormous foam cup, sipping on a curly straw, talking to his friends. He went down, and I swear I saw him break his wrist, but he just laughed, and his friends laughed, and somehow they got him upright and rescued what was left of his margarita. They were still laughing as we drove on.
“Just let the valet park it,” Elien said. “I’ll pay for it.”
We circled back toward the hotel, coming up north past Lafayette Square this time, where a pair of guys were having a serious make-out session on a bench near the street. One of the guys was black, and the other guy was white, and they were having a really great time by the look of things.
When we got to the InterContinental, I hopped out and took a parking slip from a white guy with locs. A cloud of weed hung around him. He eyed the Escort and then looked at us.
“It’s not going to explode or anything,” I said.
“Let’s not make promises,” Elien said.
“He’s joking,” I said. “Are you bonded and insured?”
The valet was still staring at us.
“I counted the change in the ashtray,” I said. “Just so you know.”
“Ok,” Elien said, taking my arm and hustling me toward the door. “Before you tell him to be careful with your baby.”
“It’s not my baby,” I said, and then over my shoulder, “but it is my only car, so if you could please be careful—”
Elien steered me into the lobby before I could finish. I glanced around and tried not to look like I was glancing around: marble floors, chandeliers, furniture done in varying patterns of black and gold, abstract sculptures that, on second glance, I realized were meant to represent jazz musicians. Mirrors. Televisions. Seating areas were partitioned with transparent curtains, but tonight the lobby was empty. Two restaurants opened off the lobby, and I could