of folks like her, people who aren’t leaving even though they could. And then there’s others like those who live here. This is their home, the street, and they got nothing else. They’ve lived in misery all their lives, and this isn’t going to be any different. They’re not going somewhere else; they’re staying right here. Believe me, they’re ready to protect their homes and families with their own lives, even from somebody claiming he wants to help.”
“But there’s a hell of a storm coming,” Johnson objected. “I don’t think they understand the danger. They could get killed.”
“Yeah, yeah, they could get killed,” Bill agreed. “They don’t care. Johnson, with all due respect, you’re an outsider, you drive down the street, and you see their shitty little world and ask yourself, ‘Why do they want to risk it?’ You don’t realize that maybe this is a pile of shit, but it’s theirs, it’s all they’ve managed to make for themselves. I learned a long time ago that every arrogant SOB who visits NOLA looks down on these kids.”
Provoked, Johnson took a deep breath, but Amaia got in before him in an attempt to calm things down. “And how about you, Mr. Charbou? Are you married?”
The policeman guffawed. “‘Mr. Charbou’? Don’t call me that ever again. Bill or Charbou, but forget your ‘Mr. Charbou’!”
When it became obvious Charbou wasn’t going to answer the question, Bull spoke up. “Bill Charbou doesn’t have any other family here. His parents, brothers, and sisters live in Baton Rouge. Nobody’s left for him here ’cept his old auntie. He’s got half a dozen girlfriends, but not one of them likes him well enough to wait out the hurricane with him.” He pretended to be pained when his partner punched his shoulder. “Ouch! Guess by now they’re all holed up somewhere safe with some other gentleman friend.”
“Augh!” Bill Charbou moaned and shook his head, pretending to be offended. His partner laughed.
They turned back toward Simon Bolivar, crossed Marigny and Esplanade, then took Dauphine.
Dauphine Orleans Hotel had an orange façade facing the street of the same name. Bottle-green shutters on the balconies contrasted with the ground floor’s white arches. Bill stopped their 4x4 in front of an open archway beside the main entrance and pointed. Despite the evacuation order, the parking lot in the hotel’s inner court was full. They went in and found three large black women busy behind the reception desk. The proprietors quickly checked the visitors in and invited Bill and Bull to take a seat in the little bar next to reception. One of them came out to show Amaia to her room. Bill, who’d insisted on carrying Amaia’s knapsack for her, escorted them to the elevator but was reluctant to give up her bag. The hotel owner grabbed it out of his hands, brooking no nonsense, but gave him a sweet smile when she told him to wait in the bar.
She turned to Amaia as soon as the elevator doors closed. “Your friend there is a fine-looking man. You know if he’s single?”
Amaia smiled. “Yes, I think he is.”
The woman looked at her, intrigued. “Well, seems to me he likes you.”
“He likes me”—Amaia smiled—“he likes you, he likes the women he sees walking down the street . . .”
The woman laughed. “Don’t worry, your ‘boyfriend’ gonna be fine in May Bailey’s; it’s the hotel bar now but used to be one of the city’s best whorehouses.” She gave Amaia a wink. “That has to be one of the most witchified places in the Big Easy.”
Amaia grinned. “You mean there are ghost prostitutes?”
“Fallen ladies, they call ’em here. We got a ghost, but not exactly a prostitute one. The sister of May Bailey, the madam, didn’t like life here, she dreamed about getting away. Met a young soldier who proposed to her and promised to take her away, but on the very day of the wedding, he died in a gunfight. They say it broke her heart and drove her out of her mind. Never did get away from here. Some of the clients say they seen her in her white-lace gown, crying her heart out in the garden or up on the balconies.”
The elevator doors opened, and the woman took Amaia to the first room on the right. Amaia smiled to herself as her new friend unlocked the door, wondering how many times she’d told that story to her customers.
The woman turned to her and resumed her tale. “But you don’t have to