DIAMONDS IN THE NIGHT

Slow rain, dimpling pools of water along ancient streets, fell in theFrench Quarter.  As it did, it createdcolorful shadows in flashing neon that danced on surrounding brickmasonry.  Johnny T. Sampson didn'tnotice.  He had a distasteful task tocomplete and jerked his collar around his neck as he glanced back at the lightsof Bourbon Street. 

       Friday night droves oftourists, crowding the narrow thoroughfare, ignored bone-chilling humidity inthe Quarter.  Among them were severaltipsy college girls who brushed against Johnny T, flirting with him as hepassed.  Seeing only trouble in his asheneyes, they shrugged and kept walking.

       Johnny T. touched his jacketand inhaled deeply for the tenth time in as many minutes, letting damp airflood his lungs.  With temples throbbinglike a jazz funeral, he turned away from flashing neon and melded intoLafitte's shadows.  Soon, he was out ofsight.  One block from the strip-showbarkers and foot-long hot dogs, the Quarter sucked him up like Iberville'sashes.

       Rain dribbled down JohnnyT's neck as he made his way between old buildings that, amid bleak darkness,mimicked eroded mountain peaks.  He hadlived in the city since birth but despised the cloying dampness and constantrain.  Now, his feet were wet fromtrudging through puddles, and a drunken bum accosted him as he approached RoyalStreet.  Stumbling up to Johnny T, theman stunk of wine and vomit.

       "Can you give me adollar for a cup of coffee?"

       Johnny T didn't answer.  Instead, he made a face and continuedforward.  Persisting, the bum said,"Go back to Africa."

       Johnny T ignored the drunk,walking faster and quickly eluding him. Still, the man's words burned into his brain like a short round ofwillie-peter.  Times had changed.  Winos once stayed south of Canal Street -mostly in the blue-collar district around St. Charles Avenue.  Lately, they had begun gravitating toward thelights and tourist money of the French Quarter. Johnny T. Sampson didn't like it.

       Johnny T wiped away waterdripping down his forehead, glanced at his watch, and hurried down the street,wanting to reach Twotime's apartment on Esplanade before the dealer left on hisrounds.  Streets were dark and deserted,and his heels, combined with a mournful tugboat whistle to replace the oldwino's taunts, echoed vacuously against uneven cobbles.  The silence pleased him.

       Johnny T soon reached theold French government building, long ago converted to apartments, where Twotimelived.  Dim light filtered through giantoaks surrounding the complex as he studied the names inscribed on entrybuttons.  Twotime responded on the firstring through a tinny door speaker.

       "Who is it?"

       "Twotime, it'sme."

       When a sharp buzzinterrupted the silence, Johnny T pushed open the heavy oak door and walkedinto a garden courtyard where lush vegetation abounded.  As he did, sugary smells and tactilesensations instantly confronted his senses. Beads of moisture dripped from rubbery palms, their prehensile trunksbent and twisted.  Like tired old menwaiting for the streetcar on St. Charles Avenue, Johnny T thought.

       Potted plants lined the mazeof walkways, and baskets of hanging bougainvilleas draped from everyconceivable hook and grapple.  Johnny Tmade his way along the crumbling mortar pathway, breathing deeply of thecourtyard that reeked of sweetness and antiquity.  Fountains dripped warm water from rusty pipes,and he tossed two quarters into one for good luck before starting up thewrought iron stairway.

       "Door ain'tlocked," someone said from behind a third-floor doorway.

       Johnny T twisted the oldbrass handle and entered Twotime's murky apartment illuminated only byflickering candlelight.  Twotime waitedat a cheap, chrome-legged kitchen table and grinned when he saw Johnny T.Sampson.

       "Johnny T.  My man," he said, standing and dapping aclose-fisted greeting.

       "Heard you had somekiller smoke," Johnny T. said, taking a chair across cracked Formica fromthe dealer without waiting for an invitation.

       "Heard right, JohnnyT."

       Twotime pushed the chair outof his way and searched through the single cabinet nailed carelessly to thewall.  No more than ten feet wide, thenarrow apartment consisted of one folding bed, a chipped porcelain sink, and asmall closet with a commode and leaky shower head.  Faded curtains, replete with mildewed roses,draped the closet door, and yellowed plaster walls sweated from incessanthumidity.

       Finding the package, Twotimeplaced it on the table in front of Johnny T. "Best shit I ever had," he said, still grinning.  "Sample the merchandise?"

       Johnny T nodded, watchingTwotime extract a package of rolling papers from a cigar box beneath the table.Twotime continued to grin, humming an unrecognizable tune as he rolled apencil-thin joint.  Twotime's dampundershirt plastered his torso.  Hissweaty shoulders glistened, contracting into knotty balls as he worked.  Frowning concentration masked his face, andhis ivory teeth flashed in candlelight as the red bandanna around his neckabsorbed sweat beading down his face. Dormant humidity, trapped in the tiny room, made Johnny T feel like hewas trying to catch a breath underwater.

       Wiping sweat from his ownforehead, he closed his eyes, opening them at Twotime's question.  "Still going to Xavier part-time, JohnnyT?"

       "I had to dropout."

       Twotime glanced up from thetabletop, dark concern etching his brow. "What happened, my man?"

       "Kayla'spregnant."

       "Your girl ispregnant?"

       "I've got a job on thedocks now. It pays well, but it leaves no time for study."

       After Twotime rolled thejoint, he magically produced a lighted match from beneath the table's decimatedsurface and held the flame to the joint until it flamed.  Inhaling deeply, he held the smoke in hislungs to heighten its effect.  His biggrin returned as he expelled a blue plume of smoke.

       Twotime rolled his browneyes, dilated now and surrounded by seas of bloodshot white, before handing thejoint to Johnny T.  Sweet and pungentsmoke combined with the dank odor of damp clothes and old construction asJohnny T put the joint beneath his nose. Closing his eyes, he let the acrid vapor waft into his lungs, only openingthem after Twotime's question.

       "Hot in here, JohnnyT.  Take your jacket?"

       When Twotime stood from hischair to take the coat, Johnny T. recoiled, clutching the jacket and leaningaway from Twotime's extended hand.

       "Something thematter?"

       Johnny T. shook hishead.  "Don't want to catch coldwhen I go back outside."

       Twotime nodded, and Johnny Twiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. He quickly took another hit from thejoint before handing it across the table. Then he leaned back on two spindlychrome chair legs and said, "Trouble, Johnny T?"

       Despite Twotime's seriousquestion, Johnny T failed to stifle a momentary giggle caused by the creeperweed.  Finally, he said, "Temporarysetback.  Nothing I can't handle."

       "Need some money?"

       Johnny T cocked his headalmost imperceptibly and said, "Who doesn't?"

       "How much youneed?"

       Fumbling for his wallet onthe nightstand behind him, Twotime turned his back to the table.  When he did, Johnny T drew a breath of stale,marijuana-flavored air and explored the pocket of his coat with his fingertips.  He flinched as Twotime turned around.

       In Johnny T's eyes, Twotimesaw the same look the college girls on Bourbon Street had seen.  For a long moment, silence became a mutedroar above the crackling of burning candlewick and continued until Johnny Tlowered his gaze, reached across the table, and clasped Twotime's wrist.

       "No, man," he saidin a measured whisper.  "Keep yourmoney.  I'll think of somethingelse."

       "Are you sure, JohnnyT?"

       Johnny T reached for hiswallet, hand trembling.  "I'msure.  How much I owe you for thegrass?"

       Twotime shook his head.  "Weed's on me this time."

       Johnny T protested, butTwotime insisted, bundling the package and handing it to him.

       "Thanks, Twotime,"Johnny T said, feeling giddy. "Gotta go."

       "Change your mind andneed my help, Johnny T, don't be afraid to call."

       Johnny nodded.  His legs were wobbly, and his hands suddenlyshaking in an uncontrollable shudder.  Ashe held the door, Twotime watched the younger man stumble outside and descend therain-slick stairs.

       "Don't bust your ass,Johnny T," Twotime said, shutting the heavy door behind him.

       Johnny T gripped the coldiron rail, staggering down the stairs as a muffled whoosh of warm air escapedfrom Twotime's apartment.  Reaching thecourtyard, he looked both ways with exaggerated caution as gentle rain continuedto fall.  Now, cloying garden odors and apersistent buzz in his head elevated his senses as it dulled his faculties, theparadox of the weed.  Proceeding slowly,he opened the heavy courtyard door and followed gray shadows back downEsplanade.

       Darkness made himinvisible.  When he reached the leveealong the Mississippi River, moaning boat whistles broke the silence, andflickering running lights flooded his brain. When he reached the French Market, he found fruit and vegetable peddlersarranging their wares.  He continued walking,making his way across the levee, following the River Walk toward the noise andlights of Jackson Square.  He stoppedwhen he reached the river's edge.

       Shutting his eyes, Johnny Tdrew warm air into his lungs to calm his nerves.  Alone and shrouded by river sounds andpersistent gloom, he finally opened them and stared at boats along the river.  Stark tranquility transfixed him as heremoved the snub-nose from his jacket, tossed it into the river, and listenedfor its dull splash.

       Salty air, drifting up fromthe Gulf, mingled with piquant chicory-laced coffee and slowly rottingvegetation as he walked along the levee. Cold rain had ceased falling, leaving only large puddles on the streets.  When he reached the heart of the Quarter, hefound a late-night, early-morning crowd milling around outdoor patio tables atthe Cafe du Monde.  Because of incessantrain, the crowd was thinner than usual, and Johnny T quickly found an emptytable.  He ordered coffee from awhite-smocked waiter, then rested his head on the table, allowing spilled sugarto dust his forehead like carelessly applied makeup.

       As Johnny T. Sampsonlistened, music from a mellow clarinet floated through the Quarter, and shoutsand laughter rose from beyond Pirate's Alley. He could hear the traffic clamor on Canal Street as it punctuatedmuffled darkness, creating illusions of reality and allusions oftransmutation.  It didn't much matter.

        A mule-drawn carriage clattered to a stop atthe corner, delivering a romantic couple to the edge of the scene. Holdinghands and undeterred by the light rain that had begun to fall again, they tooka table beside him. Lost in a drug-induced reverie, Johnny T remained obliviousto their presence. Under the flashing neon lights, the rainwater sparkled likediamonds, glistening in the night as it flowed along the streets and into thestorm drain. 

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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.