Rescued By A Kiss (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

I didn’t want to mention S.J. filing for bankruptcy would perhaps affect how fast he was going to pay to get the divorce filed. “Julia, I’m going to say a prayer that you find a good man. St. Ann, St. Ann, please find Julia a man.”

“Y’all Catholics have a saint for everything, don’t you? Well, if you ask St. Ann to find me a man, make sure you ask her to find me a rich one, and make him tall and good looking.” Julia was a Baptist and scoffed at many Catholic traditions.

“This isn’t like an order you can place at a drive-through window. You have to have faith that your prayer will be answered. Do you still have that big, Black and Tan Coon Hound your neighbor left you when she died?” I said to change the subject.

Julia and I were both animal lovers, but she took in all sad dog stories. I only took in sad Schnauzer stories. Once, she stopped on the interstate in the pouring rain and coaxed a lab mix into her Mercedes. She had mud all over the leather seats, up to her ankles, ruining her very expensive four-inch pumps. It probably cost more to clean the car seats and replace the shoes than pay for the divorce with S.J. Julia had her principles! She would not take any pet to a shelter, and now she had another mouth to feed. This is how Julia and I, kindred spirits who loved animals, are friends in spite of many other things that we do not have in common.

Julia was dating S.J. when I first met her. We both were working at the phone company. S.J. told you, and would tell you often, he was a retired athlete. I’m not sure what he retired from as he never finished his story, or he changed the subject if you got around to asking. He stood 6’9” and carried an extra one hundred and fifty pounds. I felt petite standing next to both of them. S.J. drank a lot and he turned into a mean drunk. I can’t imagine what possessed Julia to marry this buffoon, but marry him she did. S.J. might be what got Julia into taking on stray dogs, or maybe the dogs influenced Julia to take on S.J.

After her neighbor died in the hospital, Julia kept the 120 lb. Black and Tan Coon Hound she was watching for her. S.J. started to rag on her about all the dogs she was taking care of. His drinking, saying negative things about the dogs, and his inability to sexually please Julia, bought him a one-way ticket out the front door.

“Yes, I still have the Coon Hound. Why? Do you have a saint for him, too?”

“As a matter of fact, we do. Our dog saint is Saint Francis of the Animals. Before you ask, there is no cat saint so he has to do overtime for cats and all other animals.”

“Wow. You Catholics gyp the animals out of their own saints when you have a saint for every other people thing, right? Isn’t there Saint Lucy for the eyes, Saint Ann for a man, Saint Rapunzel for hair . . .”

“There is no Saint Rapunzel. That’s a fairy tale. You are going to get us both struck by lightning. I’m going to get hit by being in close proximity to you. Now stop.”

As I inched through the French Quarter, I tried not to hit drunken tourists. Men walked around looking up at women on the balconies lifting their shirts, or at women in the street pulling up their shirts all for a pair of beads. No one looked at traffic or oncoming cars.

The barkers all along Bourbon Street stood in doorways and tried to coerce tourists walking by to come in and enjoy the entertainment—for a price, of course. The price usually involved a two drink minimum. Two drinks in a Bourbon Street club costs you about the same as ten in a regular bar. Barkers opened the club doors long enough for anyone thinking about entering to get a glimpse of almost naked girls dancing on the bar. Then, you had to pony up the two drink minimum to go in and get a better look.

Club Bare Minimum didn’t have a barker. Their doorman worked as the bouncer, and stood just inside the door out of sight. One of the very young and attractive girls stood in the doorway in her top hat, long gloves, tuxedo bow tie, G-string, and Pasties with a come hither look inviting men in. I couldn’t figure out what men thought they could see by going inside the club when they already saw it all out here on the sidewalk.

Using the pretty girls over big hulky bouncers at the door was novel. The girls performed exotic dancing. Technically, they did not strip, meaning they didn’t take it all off. They left on so little I didn’t think it merited debate.

When I pulled up to the front door Julia jumped out and said, “Leave the keys. C’mon inside.” A man, I did not see when I pulled up, stepped out, and Julia said to him, “Jim, park this in the VIP lot.”

Jim, must have been standing inside the door behind the girl working the street. He looked to be about 6’3” tall and 200 pounds of solid muscle wearing the tightest shirt and jeans I have ever seen on anyone. Before I could argue with Julia, Jim opened my door and helped me out by the elbow while I held Isabella. He didn’t look like the kind of guy you could reason with or have any sort of discussion with for that matter. His appearance and demeanor made me think Jim’s actions were louder than his words.

I stood there on Bourbon Street in front of an exotic dancing club and watched my mother’s station wagon be driven away by some guy named Jim to God knows where. Oh right, the VIP lot. I doubt I could find it, and it didn’t matter since I didn’t get a claim check.

“Julia, I’m only going to be here for a minute. Won’t Jim wonder why he’s parking my car and I have a dog?”

“Jim doesn’t wonder. C’mon,” she said halfway through the door. I hurried after her, or else I’d have to wait on the street alone—being gawked at by the drunken tourists. I managed to catch up to her when she said, “Follow me to my dressing room.” Once in the dressing room she began to transform into the entertainer. She instructed me to call her by her stage name, Jewel, while we were in the club. The dressing room was the size of a broom closet. To pass someone you literally had to face each other, stepping sideways like crabs in order to squeeze by. Metal lockers the size of cereal boxes lined the wall. They were stacked seven high and five across. Julia found an empty locker and started to undress. She handed me her clothes and said, “Here, put these in one of those.” There was no way all the clothes she wore into the club were going to fit in one of these lockers. She needed one just for her purse which was the size of a Mardi Gras float.

“This isn’t going to work. All this stuff won’t fit.” I said.

“Look, there are several lockers empty. Put my stuff in the empty ones and look around in my purse. I have a couple of combo locks. Use them.” Jewel said.

“What’s going to happen when your manager sees me in here with Isabella?” I asked.

“If you knew half of what goes on in here, the dog won’t faze him. Trust me.” Julia kept changing out of her clothes and into her costume. It took her forever to get the smallest articles of the costume affixed to her person so as not to move or fall off. I didn’t see how it mattered since there was nothing left to the imagination even with them in place.

Dancers and bartenders all wore the same costume, the bare minimum. Julia’s costume was the same get-up as the girl at the door. Julia’s started with a Tuxedo jacket over the pasties which she would remove before making her way into the exotic part of her performance, i.e. the pole.

The top hat covered more than the rest of the costume put together. You could put Julia’s, I mean Jewel’s, entire costume in the hat. All the dancers wore the same long gloves, tuxedo bow tie, G-string, pasties, and top hat, but added their own accessories to make them stand out as performers like tuxedo jackets, feather boas or giant fans.

Once I had most of her clothes stuffed into three compartments and locked, I asked her for directions to the ladies’ room. She instructed me to leave the broom closet, umm, dressing room, go to the hallway and look for the first door on the right marked with an L for ladies. I left Julia holding Isabella until I came back.

The door to the ladies’ room was narrower than the average width of standard doors. Everything in the French Quarter was built smaller. These structures are over 200 years old, and built for smaller people long before beignets and daiquiris added to the need for oversized doorways. People were shorter and smaller and had smaller feet, so steps were narrower with a lower rise and interior doorways didn’t need to be very wide. I had to turn sideways to get through the door into the area with the toilet and sink. Once inside, I sat, grateful for a quiet moment alone. As I contemplated my next move I heard snoring. I stopped thinking about how to get back into Charity when the snoring grew louder and added on a whistle chaser. I looked up and realized the sound came through the vent directly over my head as I sat on the commode. I gathered myself up as fast as I could, and ran to find Julia.

“Julia! There is someone hiding in the ceiling in the ladies’ room looking through the vent when you squat!” I said in a frantic whisper.

“What?” Julia didn’t stop putting on her makeup. “I told you to call me Jewel in here. There are always Peeping Toms in there.”

“This guy is not peeping, he’s snoring and he’s in the ceiling.”

“What do you mean in the ceiling?” She stopped applying eyeliner and looked at me.

“Come and see, or rather, come and hear.” I said leading her to the ladies’ room. At the door I put my finger to my lips to keep quiet so we wouldn’t wake him up. We both couldn’t fit so I pushed Jewel/Julia into the room with the toilet so she could be under the vent. I pointed to the vent above the toilet. We both heard it, a low exhale with a whistle sound followed by an inhaling stutter-snore. I was holding Isabella who cocked her head, the same as we did, trying to figure out what was up there.

We backed out of the bathroom and when we got in the hall Jewel said, “That dumb bunny. I bet he crawled up from the men’s room side.”

“I think you should call the police.” I said, thinking this provided an opportune time to leave during the confusion. I wanted to get my car and continue on my mission even if I had to do it without her help.

She said, “You’re right. Wait here.” She ran off and returned with Pinky, the manager.

Pinky looked to be in his fifties, wore his hair in a neon pink-spiked mohawk and carried a cat-o-nine tails over the shoulder of his sleeveless leather vest, no shirt underneath. His six pack looked like it was working on being a keg. After a brief introduction as being Julia’s friend and ride, he conducted an up and down visual review of me and then the situation in the ladies’ room. He didn’t ask about or act like he noticed Isabella.

“Don’t let anyone go in there. I’m calling the cops,” Pinky said as he marched off to find a phone. Over his shoulder he shouted, “Jewel, don’t let her leave, she’s a witness.”

“Witness? No, no, no, no, no, no. I can’t wait for the police.” I tried to answer as he bolted off to make the call. It was going to take at least an hour for the police to get here, and another hour for them to figure out the situation, take notes, statements, and arrest this clown. It could take hours before I could return to Charity. If the police put my name on a complaint it was sure to find it’s way into Dante’s hands, and subsequently, my parents. This couldn’t get any worse. But, I have been wrong before, and I would be wrong again.

“Julia, I mean, Jewel tell Pinky I have to leave,” I said trying to appeal to her for help.

“No can do. Pinky’s the man. What he says goes. The cops aren’t gonna care if some Peeping Tom sees us. You’re a patron, a tourist-type person. This is clearly a violation of your privacy. This is bad for Ceiling Boy. Sorry, you have to wait.”

“I don’t think someone snoring while I sit on the throne is a violation of my privacy. I didn’t see him, I heard him. How much do you think he could see? He’s asleep—and snoring. You . . . you and I heard him snoring. Maybe I am violating his nap time,” I said.

“You can’t get your car if Pinky tells Jimbo not to let you leave. This won’t take long.” Julia busied herself putting on more makeup, lots and lots of makeup. “Here, you want to try some?” she offered me her brushes.

“No, I have to leave, and I don’t want to get arrested looking like a streetwalker if I ever get out of here.”

Just then Suzanne squeezed into the dressing room to get ready for her shift. “What’s with the ladies’ room?” she asked. “Pinky said don’t go in there. Where are we supposed to go?”

I explained what was going on and Suzanne wasn’t even fazed. She said, “I’ll go in the men’s room if I have to. I grew up with brothers, what’s the big deal? And what’s with the dog? You rescue another one?”

“No, this dog belongs to the guy I kissed at the parade.” I said.

Suzanne stopped changing clothes and faced me to give me her full attention. “Oh, this oughtta be good. Go on.”

I told her what had happened, and that I wanted to get back into the hospital to tell Jiff his dog was okay.

“Why don’t you just call and leave a message?” Suzanne asked.

“If I call and leave my name, it’s possible whoever shot him might be able to figure out who has his dog and who I am.”

“Good point. You know, I think you should consider getting your own place. You are up to your neck in personal stuff with your family, Dante, and his family, and they all have a ringside seat to everything you do. Wait til they hear all this,” she said.

“My mother said if I move out—and no respectable woman moves out on her own without a husband—I can’t come back if I don’t make it.”

“Well, thank God.” said Julia, now completely transformed into Jewel. “For a minute I thought you might have to suck it up and crawl back to Mommy Dearest if you needed to. Knowing you can’t move back means you have to make it. The ol’ ball and chain is doing you a favor!”

“Your mother’s trying to control you. Besides, your dad would help you. He might even move out with you,” Suzanne laughed at her own joke. “Listen, my roommate is leaving to get her own place. You can move in with me. Heck, I don’t care how many dogs you bring home.”

“You’re right. I have to get through this with Jiff and Isabella and review my expenses. I’ll let you know in a couple of days. Thanks.” I said.

The waiting began. The police arrived an hour later even though their precinct is one block away. They questioned me and continued to the ladies’ room where they demanded, using a megaphone, for the guy to come out. After a few shouts at him, he woke up, and you could hear him mutter in a groggy voice, “Man, I’m stuck.”