The Dead Play On

“Fine with me. It’s not even a special sax,” he said. “I could have sworn... I mean, I played better with that thing than I ever played in my life.”

“Like Amy said, maybe because you believed you could play better,” Quinn suggested.

“But I saw scenes from Arnie’s life.”

“Things you knew because you were his best friend,” Danni said. “Things that fit with the way you think he died.”

Tyler offered them a dry half smile, tilting his head at an angle as if he could hear the music better that way. “He’s not half-bad,” he told them.

“He’s also a bagpipe player—or was,” Danni said.

“You’re sure it’s not the sax?” Tyler asked.

“Not according to the people who should know,” Quinn said. “Do you want me to go in and get it for you?”

“No,” Tyler said. “I have another—let him play. Go ahead and let him play.”

“Come on, then,” Quinn said. “Let’s head over to La Porte Rouge.”

They walked up the one block from Royal to Bourbon and turned to the left. Neon lights blazed from everywhere. Women in scanty outfits stood by doorways with placards that advertised dollar beers and cheap food. People with drinks in open containers—from those who were barely twenty-one, if that, to retirees—cruised along, checking out the various venues in search of one that drew their attention or just taking in the sights and sounds. Music flowed from every establishment. In the street, songs combined and created an intriguing disharmony. Strip joints vied for business alongside all-night pizza joints and white-tablecloth restaurants, souvenir shops, voodoo shops and, always, music clubs.

There really was, Danni thought, nothing quite like Bourbon Street—the good, the bad and even the ugly.

They reached La Porte Rouge and let Tyler lead the way in. The band was in the middle of a Journey number.

The bar was like many on the street. The building itself was about a hundred and fifty years old; the long hardwood bar was about fifty itself, she thought. The stage backed up to the front wall so that the music oozed out the windows and open doors to encourage those who walked by to step in.

Cleanliness was definitely not next to godliness, but the place wasn’t particularly dirty, either. So many people flowed in and out; so many drinks were spilled by the clumsy and the already wasted, that there was only so much the staff could do to keep up. But tonight, while there were twenty or so patrons scattered at the tables or standing in front of the band, it wasn’t particularly busy. It was a Thursday night, and there were no major conventions in town, plus it was still only about eleven or eleven thirty. Bourbon Street would pick up soon—the night was still young in New Orleans.

Tyler was immediately recognized by a pretty blonde woman in black leggings and a corset-style blouse that was white with red trim; Danni saw the same blouse on another woman and figured it had to be a waitress uniform. The blonde wore it well; she was pretty without looking as if she should have been working at one of the nearby strip clubs.

“Tyler!” she said, kissing his cheek and smiling at Danni and Quinn. “I thought you were taking the night off.”

“I was—I am,” he said. “I was just bringing some friends by.” He introduced them all to each other.

The young woman was Jessica Tate. She seemed glad to meet them—“any friend of Tyler’s...”—and especially enthusiastic when she discovered that Danni owned The Cheshire Cat. “I love that place. I haven’t seen you there, though. There’s a guy who looks like Billy Idol most of the time when I’m in—sweet accent on him, too,” she said, smiling.

“His name is Billie,” Danni told her.

“I’m talking away,” Jessica said, “and I’m supposed to be working. What can I get you?”

They ordered soda with lime and took seats at a table near the band.

“The band breaks for a few minutes every half hour,” Tyler said. “You can talk to them soon.”

“Terrific,” Quinn said. Danni watched him as he studied the group. Quinn loved music. She wondered if one day, far in the future, he would have a chance to go where he wanted, play when he wanted and revel in his guitar.

After a few minutes she turned her attention to the group. Shamus Ahearn definitely looked stereotypically Irish. His hair was strawberry-blond, his skin pale and his eyes were light. Gus Epstein had dark, curly, close-cropped hair and was thin and wiry. He seemed totally focused on his guitar as he played. Blake Templeton—dark-haired, dark-eyed—was on keyboards. He was doing the lead vocals, too, and had a strong, smooth voice with a tremendous range.

“Nice!” Quinn called to Tyler over the music.

Tyler grinned. “We’re even better with a sax. I thought Eric—the bartender—might sit in for a few, but I guess it’s just a little too busy.”

“It’s busier now than when we got here a few minutes ago,” Danni noted, looking around at the growing crowd.

“Yep,” Tyler said. “But tomorrow night at this time... Well, you two are from here. You know. Friday nights in the Quarter...”

They talked about the reemergence of the French Quarter since the storms. Jessica brought them their drinks, apologizing for having taken so long. Danni watched her as she headed back to the bar, stopping to take an order along the way. She saw the bartender come over to her and smile as he listened to her recite the drinks she needed. He seemed to enjoy his job; the sudden influx of customers didn’t get to him. There were eight seats at the bar, and every one of them was filled. He was friendly, calling out to the guy at the end that he needed just a minute as he filled Jessica’s order.

Danni turned back to watch the band. Shamus suddenly noticed Tyler in the audience and looked at him curiously then studied her and Quinn—and never missed a beat.

A few minutes later Blake announced that they were taking a five-minute break and turned on the music system so that Lana Del Rey spilled out over the speakers, and then the whole band headed to the table.

“What gives, Tyler?” Shamus asked, sliding into the chair next to Quinn. He quickly offered Quinn a handshake as he studied Danni. “Hi, Shamus Ahearn. Nice to meet you.”

They went around the table making introductions. Then Tyler addressed his bandmates. “They want to ask you guys about Arnie’s last night,” he said flatly.

“Oh,” Shamus said, studying Quinn again. He grinned. “I should have realized you were a cop,” he said.

“I’m not a cop,” Quinn said. “Private investigator.”

“Oh. Okay,” Shamus said.

The rest of the band looked at one another then all shrugged as one. Speaking for the group, Gus said sure, they would be happy to do what they could.

Jessica came by with a tray holding three glasses of water and set them down in front of the band.

“Thank you, love,” Shamus told her.

“Pleasure.”

“You going to sing with us tonight?” Blake asked her.

“Can’t. It suddenly got too busy,” she said. “You guys okay?” she asked Quinn and Danni.

“Just fine, thank you,” Danni assured her.

“What about me?” Tyler teased, raising his eyebrows in a mock leer.

“I know you’re fine—and if you weren’t, you’d lean over the bar and pour yourself a soda,” she said. “So don’t get fresh with me, Tyler Anderson.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jessica moved on.

Gus Epstein was sitting next to Tyler. “I don’t know what we can say that would help. We finished up here about 3:00 a.m. on the night he died. And he was his usual self all night. Friendly, happy. He was just a great guy.”

“Amen to that,” Shamus said.