Big Easy by Eric Wilder

Author:Eric Wilder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, occult, paranormal, private detective, thrillers, ghost story, hardboiled, procedural, magic wizards
Publisher: Eric Wilder

Chapter 21

I’d learned a lot from Armand and Madam Toulouse, but I still needed to add a few details before Maurice Duples returned to New Orleans. Celeste could fill in some of the gaps about her father if she, along with Mama, weren’t still annoyed with me. The two had become fast friends. Celeste had moved out of her hotel room and was now staying with Mama. Mama was in the process of assisting Celeste in earning a Master’s Degree in New Orleans nightlife. I decided to give Celeste one more chance.

“I can’t remember why I’m irritated with you,” she said when she answered her cell phone. “Mama’s busy doing something else tonight so maybe I’ll give you one more chance.”

Mama had led Celeste on an advanced tour of many New Orleans’ hot spots but had not yet shown her everything. There were still places to see. One such landmark was Dagobert’s on Lake Pontchartrain. It was where I intended to take her.

Celeste and I had taken the streetcar from Mama’s to the bus stop. It was a blue afternoon in the Big Easy, all overcast and misty but not enough to prevent Celeste and me from enjoying the bus ride down Lakeshore Drive. Dark clouds were moving up from the Gulf, and a stiff breeze was chopping Pontchartrain’s surface into soapy-green froth. Boats still on the lake had taken notice and were lowering their sails. Making for shore under engine power.

Hurricane Katrina had destroyed many of the marinas and most of the boats on the lake. Still, there is a plethora of rich folks in this part of the world, and the old ways soon began reappearing. An anomaly of the storm, Dagobert’s Restaurant had survived virtually unscathed—at least one thing fortunate for the citizens of New Orleans.

Celeste and I were the only passengers on the bus. The driver, oblivious to both of us, snapped his fingers as he sang along with the music from his headphone radio. After disembarking at West End Parkway, we watched the bus pull off in a cloud of diesel smoke. Luckily, for us both, I’d brought an umbrella.

“Where are we going?” Celeste asked.

“Dagobert’s,” I said as thunder rumbled overhead and fat raindrops began falling, slowly at first, and then faster and harder.

Celeste’s expressive eyes were two shades darker than the storm clouds racing above us. A strong wind jostled tethered boats and slapped lines against furled canvas. It picked up as we approached Dagobert’s near Lake Pontchartrain’s marina.

New Orleans’ cuisine is world famous, but the city has a secret of which Dagobert’s is a part. It is a haven for fried-food junkies. You name it; they fry it in the Big Easy—shrimp, oysters, catfish, and hushpuppies—even top sirloin steak. The West End, on Lake Pontchartrain’s bank, is where most citizens satiate their hunger for fried food. Dagobert’s was arguably the best restaurant in the West End and had remained a prime destination for knowledgeable locals.

Steady rain left us both damp despite the umbrella

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