Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
That Old Black Magic (10 page)
T
he aroma of frying beignets greeted Piper when she entered Boulangerie Bertrand at 7:00
A.M.
The display cases were full of fresh rolls and enticing pastries. A few customers were already waiting to be helped by two young women wearing pink aprons behind the counter. As Piper entered the kitchen, Bertrand looked surprised to see her.
“I don't expect you to come in on weekends, Piper,” he said, his eyes briefly shifting their focus from her face to her breasts. “It's going to be a beautiful day. You should be out there enjoying our
belle ville.
”
Piper smiled uncomfortably and spoke very quickly. “Thanks, Bertrand. Really, though, I want to be here. You're never going to believe itâI did get the part. I have to shoot today, but my call time isn't for a few hours. I don't have to make my way down there until then. So I'd love to spend time watching and learning from you, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to take even more time off while I'm here. And I just want to work as much as I can to make up for that.”
Bertrand put down his mixing spoon. “You got the part?
Magnifique!
” He wiped his hands on his apron and kissed her on the cheek.
“Thank you, thank you,” said Piper, stepping back. “I still can't believe it. But it means that I'll also be on location tomorrow.”
Bertrand looked puzzled. “Sunday, too?” he asked. “They shoot on Sunday?”
“Sometimes,” said Piper. “They're on a tight schedule. We'll be on a sound stage tomorrow.”
“How wonderful for you, Piper!” said Bertrand, nodding with approval. “Marguerite will be so pleased when she hears it.”
Piper glanced over Bertrand's shoulder toward the little room at the back of the kitchen. “Is Marguerite in the office?” she asked.
“No, she takes the weekends off to go to the gym, get a massage, and do whatever else she desires. My wife works very hard. She deserves some pampering and time to herself.”
Piper smiled. “That's smart, Bertrand.” But she found herself wishing that Bertrand's wife were with them in the bakery.
P
iper helped out at the counter as a steady stream of customers came in throughout the morning. They bought bags of powdered beignets, French almond croissants, and rings of buttery pastry with praline filling and caramel icing sprinkled with sweet southern pecans. Piper noticed that the voodoo cookies were also big sellers. She was about to go to the kitchen to ask Bertrand if he wanted her to try her hand at decorating more cookies when she noticed three men enter the store together. One of them came to the counter and asked to see Bertrand.
“I'll get him for you,” said Piper.
Bertrand immediately came out to the front and shook hands with the men. They chatted for a few minutes before he led them back to his office. After about twenty minutes, the men emerged. Piper could hear Bertrand's instruction to them before he turned back to the kitchen.
“Go ahead, make yourselves at home and get whatever you need. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask.”
As she continued to wait on customers, Piper was aware of the men's activity. One took measurements of the space. Another took pictures of the roomâthe chandeliers, the display cases, and their contents. The third, a man wearing a red shirt, watched intently as the customers ordered and paid for their baked goods. Piper noticed that the man engaged several customers in conversation as they left the store.
What was he talking with them about?
She edged her way down to the end of the counter, closer to the front door. She was able to catch snippets of conversation.
“If this bakery were somewhere else, would you still patronize it?” asked the man in the red shirt.
“Sure, if it had the same quality stuff that this one does,” answered the customer. “I'm only a tourist, but I've been here every morning during the trip. If this were near my town, I'd be there all the time.”
W
hen the Saints Go Marching In” could be counted on to collect a crowd on Royal Street. Cecil nodded appreciatively at the onlookers as they applauded when he finished playing. Taking the clarinet from his mouth, he watched the dollar bills pile up in his instrument case.
It was time to take a little break. He reached down and opened his cooler. As he took out a bottle of water mixed with bourbon, Cecil felt a tap on his shoulder. A gangly young man with acne on his face stood beside him.
“Hey, I'm Mike's son,” said the teenager.
“I know who you are, Tommy,” said Cecil, standing up and offering his hand. “Sorry 'bout your daddy.”
“Thank you,” said Tommy. “I came because my dad always liked jazz funerals. My mom and I wanted to know if you could organize one for my father.”
Cecil considered the request. When a respected fellow musician died, other New Orleans musicians played in the funeral procession from the church, the funeral home, or the home of the deceased to the cemetery. It was a sign of respect. Jazz funerals were sometimes done for young people, too. No matter the circumstances, when someone young died, it was always a tragedy. Prominent members of the community also qualified. Cecil wasn't quite sure if Muffuletta Mike would be considered a prominent citizen of New Orleans, but if his family was willing to pay, Cecil would be able to round up musicians always hungry for gigs.
“When's the funeral?” he asked.
“Tuesday. My mother wants to get it over with, but the priest won't do a funeral Mass on Sunday, and Monday is St. Patrick's Day.”
“St. Patrick's Day would be bad,” agreed Cecil. “It'd be real hard getting men together to play then. So many have gigs in bars and restaurants. How y'all doin' anyway?”
The teenager shrugged. “My ma's doing what she has to do, I guess. She wants to reopen the shop as soon as possible,” he said glumly.
“Who gonna run it?” asked Cecil.
“She is, and I'm going to help her.”
Based on some of the conversations between father and son that Cecil had overheard in the sandwich shop, he was pretty sure the kid was none too happy about the prospect. The kid would have to suck it up and get over it. Life was tough, and you had to do what you had to do.
“Well, tell your mama that I'll get some boys together,” said Cecil, pushing his hat back on his head. “Where the funeral at?”
“Our Lady of Guadalupe. Tuesday morning at ten.”
As the young man walked away, Cecil knew that it was the right thing to be accommodating. The kid and his mother were in charge now. He wanted to stay on their good sides. He didn't need anyone else telling him to move away from his lucky spot.
Muffuletta Mike had been wrong to do that.
E
ven though it was part of his job to create goodwill for the radio station and hopefully boost ratings with public appearances, Aaron enjoyed his role as a local celebrity. Much of his free time was spent attending fund-raisers, acting as master of ceremonies at charity auctions, or attending the dedication of new buildings. This morning he would be wielding one of the kissing canes at the St. Patrick's parade. Held the Saturday before the actual feast of St. Patrickâso that work didn't keep people from attending the parade in the Irish Channelâthe parade was always a colorful and huge event.
Traffic moved slowly as he drove down Royal Street. Passing the Gris-Gris Bar, Aaron remembered that Monday night, the real St. Patrick's Day, he had committed to emceeing the fund-raiser for the bartender's kid. It was a worthwhile cause, and Aaron looked forward to it. The green beer would be flowing.
He turned his head to look at the other side of the street. There was actually a line forming in front of Boulangerie Bertrand. Aaron wasn't too happy to see it. A couple of weeks earlier, Bertrand had dropped his
Aaron Kane Show
sponsorship. The program manager had really grumbled about that. But maybe, if this new series of hoodoo-themed shows took off as Aaron prayed they would, the bakery would get back on board.
The taxi traveled farther down the block, passing Muffuletta Mike's. The shades were drawn, and the yellow police tape still obstructed the door. The building looked eerie and forlorn. But the stream of people barely seemed to notice as they passed, and Cecil in his porkpie hat continued playing his clarinet on the sidewalk.
Aaron made a mental note to talk to the musician. It would be interesting to get his take on the whole hoodoo thing. In fact, if the guy was colorful and interesting enough, maybe Aaron would ask him if he'd like to be a guest on the show one night.
P
iper stood in front of Boulangerie Bertrand frantically trying to wave down a taxi. Each one that went by was already occupied.
She couldn't be late getting to the parade staging area. Piper thought she'd left plenty of time to get to the place where she was to meet the film crew. She hadn't accounted for the fact that she wouldn't be able to get a ride.
She started to walk down Royal Street. If she could get over to Canal Street, she might stand a better chance of finding a cab. But when she reached the wide thoroughfare, she had no luck.
Her face twisted in a worried frown, Piper stood at the side of the street straining to catch a glimpse of any taxi in the distance. There weren't any.
What was she going to do?
“Hey,
cher
. Need a lift?”
Piper looked over at the dusty, moss-colored sedan that had pulled up beside her. The car windows were open. A middle-aged man wearing a green T-shirt was behind the steering wheel.
“I need to get to Felicity and Magazine,” said Piper. “But I can't find a cab.”
“And you ain't
gonna
find one,” said the driver. “This is one of the busiest days of the year,
cher.
But I'm goin' over that way to see the parade myself. I'll give you a ride if you want. I don't know if we'll be able to get to Felicity and Magazine, but I'll drop you off as close as I can.”
Piper quickly calculated whether it was wise to accept the stranger's offer. It probably wasn't. But she was desperate. She reached for the handle on the car door and got inside.
Her parents and Jack would die if they knew what she was doing.
F
alkner hurried back to his apartment after finishing his morning tour of the Garden District. He was determined to make some progress on his thesis. Every day he woke up planning to get something written. Today he was actually going to do it. No matter that he was going to miss the St. Patrick's parade. He had partied hard enough at Mardi Gras. That was part of his problem. He was always finding a good reason to party. He knew he had to practice at least some discipline.
Falkner sat at his desk and switched on the computer. It helped to have a plan. He was going to tackle one of the oldest and best-known English nursery rhymes. He typed in the first verse.
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man.
Bake me a cake just as fast as you can.
Pat it and roll it and mark it with a “B.”
And put it in the oven for Baby and me.
Falkner continued to type, noting that parents and caregivers often replaced the “B” and “Baby” in the last two lines with their child's first initial and first name when reciting or reading the rhyme.
Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man
Bake me a cake as fast as you can
Roll it up, roll it up
And throw it in a pan!
Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man.
Falkner described how the rhyme had developed to be accompanied with elaborate clapping patterns, teaching children hand-eye coordination and rhythm.
Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man
Bake me a cake as fast as you can
Roll it up, roll it up
Put it in a pan
And toss it in the oven, as fast as you can!
Falkner wanted to throw his whole freakin' dissertation in the oven. But he kept at it, writing about the first, much different version that was published in the late seventeenth century.
Pat a cake, pat a cake Bakers man, so I will master as I can, and prick it, and prick it, and prick it, and prick it, and prick it, and throw't into the Oven.
It didn't even rhyme.
Pat a cake, pattycake, paddycake. Who cared? Falkner had had enough. He was sick of his thesis, sick of having it hanging over his head, sick of the whole damned thing. Why was he putting himself through this agony? The thought of teaching at the end of the academic rainbow held less and less allure.
If only Aunt Ellinore would just die, he wouldn't have to worry about finishing the stupid thesis. When he inherited all that Duchamps money, he wouldn't have to worry about his future. He'd be on easy street.
For distraction Falkner began surfing the Web. He entered Piper Donovan's name to see what came up. The first entry was something on IMDb.com. Falkner clicked and found out that Piper was an actress. He read about the television parts she'd played. He pored over her professional head shotsâsome happy, some serious, some playful, some alluring. She was so much sexier with her blond hair falling down around her shoulders. Why did she always wear it up in that ponytail? If she was an actress, what was she doing at Boulangerie Bertrand?
Though he was bored by his thesis, Falkner was more intrigued than ever by Piper. He decided to take a walk over to the bakery.
He was very disappointed when Piper wasn't there.
T
he traffic was horrendous!
Piper repeatedly looked at her watch, her stomach tensing. At one point the driver stopped to pick up more passengers. They all jammed together in the backseat of the old sedan. Piper felt better that she wasn't alone with the man in the green T-shirt anymore. Surely there was safety in numbers.
The car seemed to catch every light. Between blocks the traffic inched along. Warm, sticky air blew through the window as Piper peered out, watching men and women dressed in emerald strolling the streets, giving out flowers, beads, and kisses. As she got closer to her destination, she could hear the music of marching bands.
The driver turned around and looked at her. “I 'spect this is as close as I kin get you to Felicity and Magazine,” he said. “It's about three blocks over.”
“Okay. I'll get out here,” said Piper. She took a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to him. “Thanks very much.”
The driver appreciatively took the cash. “Thank you kindly, miss. Luck o' the Irish to you!”
P
iper ran the three blocks, noticing the bright fluorescent-colored signs with arrows directing her to the location. She was overheated and out of breath when she finally reached it. She quickly found the production assistant. She handed in her passport and SAG card and filled out her paperwork. She was shown to her trailer, and then she was escorted to the wardrobe mistress and the makeup artist. At last the PA led her to an assistant director, who went over her blocking with her.
“The parade is already in full swing. You and Channing notice each other just as you are about to get onto one of the floats. You look each other up and down. You say your lines, Channing says his. Yada, yada, yada. On âI'm Amy' you climb onto the float. He calls back to you, âYou look like a Leigh Ann to me.' You shoot the puzzled expression, and you throw him a set of beads.”
“Got it,” said Piper.
“Great. We'll get this going ASAP and then send you on your way until tomorrow when you do the tomb scene.”
E
verything happened so quickly. Channing Tatum came over and introduced himself. He was exactly what you'd want him to be. Charming and polite, he asked Piper about herself and even showed her a picture of his new baby on his iPhone. At one point Piper felt herself looking around wondering if this was really her life. Moments like this one made all the dry months and countless rejections worth it. She knew that it would be hard to find a girl who wouldn't kill to trade places with her right now.
The director appeared and walked Piper through her blocking for a second time. Piper listened closely so she would execute each movement exactly as instructed. The last thing she wanted was to hold up production because she hadn't been paying attention. As soon as the director walked away, a makeup woman appeared for some touch-ups.
Piper couldn't believe this was actually happening.
She took a deep breath. While she was eager to do good work and give the director what he wanted, she also knew she had to appreciate this moment as it was happening. She had wanted this. She had trained for this. She'd endured hundreds of rejections, but Piper knew that a moment like this was the payoff. She was here in costume, on a spectacular set, with a woman powdering her nose, a man making sure she was perfectly lit, and a scene partner who happened to be one of the biggest stars in the world.
This was the kind of thing that could keep her going for years.
T
hough Piper felt confident that her delivery had been spot-on each time, it took six takes before the director was satisfied he had what he needed. After they shot the master, they got Channing's close-ups and then hers.
When the director finally called that they were moving on, Channing said good-bye to Piper before being whisked away. Piper went back to her trailer, hung up her costume, and checked with the PA, who assured her that she was free to go for the day.
She decided to go and enjoy the parade.
Magazine Street was a sea of green. Piper reveled in the pleasure and satisfaction of having finished the scene in her first feature film as she made her way through the crowds and watched the floats decorated by New Orleans marching clubs. The float riders threw carrots, potatoes, moon pies, and beads to the onlookers gathered on the sidewalk. Pets joined in the festivities as well, sporting leprechaun attire and green-tinted fur.
Under a bright sun and a clear blue sky, families and friends were gathered for the opportunity to celebrate one of the biggest street parties of the year. Some set up ladders along the parade route, climbing atop for the best views. Others scaled trees and found perches among the branches.
“Hey, mister, throw me something!” yelled a man next to Piper.
Waving hands rose into the air as a head of cabbage came hurtling from the float. Everyone in the crowd lunged for it. The person who snagged it was roundly congratulated for the catch.
“What's with the cabbage?” Piper asked the man standing next to her.
“They aren't supposed to throw them, just hand them out. Somebody could get hurt by one of those things.” The man shrugged. “But the tradition is to cook them for dinner on St. Patrick's Day night.”
Piper followed along the sidewalk, stopping to listen to the bagpipe players. She thought of her father. He loved the bagpipes. Piper wished he could see this parade. It was very different but perhaps more enjoyable than the ones in New York City he had taken her to as she grew up.
As she turned to continue up the street, Piper bumped into a puff-chested man with a florid face. He was dressed in a black suit and a green top hat. He held a long staff bedecked with giant clusters of green-and-white paper flowers at the top.
“Would you like a flower?” he asked.
“Sure. Thanks,” said Piper as she selected one, pulling it out by the stem.
She was completely caught off guard when the man leaned forward and kissed her firmly on the mouth.
Startled and feeling threatened, Piper pushed the man away with a hard shove.
“Easy,
cher,
” said the beefy man. “It's a kissing cane, sweetheart.
You
get a flower.
I
get a kiss.” The man chuckled as he walked away in search of his next prey.
Piper found herself angry. “Ugh,
seriously,
” she muttered.
But as she traveled farther down the sidewalk, she was aware that her extreme irritability was unreasonable. Normally she would have laughed and taken a stolen kiss in stride.
Why was she so uptight?