Louisiana Bigshot

conspicuous.
    In the end, he decided not to follow right away. If there was an emergency—like not enough ice cream for dessert—Trey would be back soon enough. But in twenty minutes he still wasn’t back—and in thirty a cab arrived for the missus.
    So much for emergencies. Eddie’s guess was a fight, in which case the kid wouldn’t be going home right away. He’d go to a bar. Just to be sure, Eddie cruised his house once, and exactly as he suspected, saw no BMW.
    It was a small town. If the kid hung out any place at all besides the country club Eddie was going to find him.
    First, he cruised the main drag; the bar wouldn’t be here, he knew. It would probably be in a mall, maybe a motel, something like that—a Mexican restaurant, maybe. Yuppies loved Mexican restaurants. But first, he had to find a bar where they could tell him where to go, and there was such a bar here.
    He figured he could have bought a drink and slithered up to the subject, but it was getting late and he had a long way to go. So instead, he bellied up to the bar, looked around ostentatiously, slapped down a ten, and said to the bartender, “I’ve got a feeling I’m in the wrong place. This doesn’t seem like a meet-and-greet kind of joint.”
    The bartender laughed. “You new in town?”
    “I’m here for a week—got business in Baton Rouge. You telling me this is the liveliest place in town?”
    “Buddy, we haven’t got any lively places unless you count O’Leary’s Irish pub. On Saturdays they sometimes have an Irish band, make you cry if ya drunk enough.”
    “That’s it?
    “Just about.”
    “No Mexican restaurant with a great big noisy bar and everybody in Hawaiian shirts?”
    “Well, there’s Earl’s. Great big country dance hall kind of thing—doesn’t seem like your scene, though.”
    “Now that’s more like it. I want me some redneck women in jeans and tank tops.”
    The bartender shrugged. He was fast losing interest.
    Eddie said, “I thank ya kindly, sir. Can I get directions?” On the way out he went to the phone and surreptitiously looked up the address of O’Leary’s as well. Outside in the car, he flipped a coin—it came up for O’Leary’s, but he went to Earl’s anyway. His instinct told him Trey would want to talk to women—not necessarily pick them up, just talk to them. Also that the banker’s son was less likely to be recognized at Earl’s.
    And, yes! The BMW was in the parking lot, conspicuous among the pickups.
    Inside, the joint was a little too jumping for Eddie’s taste. A live band made it almost impossible to hear. He wished he had Miz Wallis’s young ears—though she probably wouldn’t be caught dead in a honky dive like this one.
    As he suspected, Trey wasn’t dancing. He was just sitting at the bar talking to some guy—not even some woman. Eddie stood behind him, ordered a beer, and insinuated himself into the conversation, which was a piece of cake. Like a couple of walking cliches, the guys were talking about the Saints’ prospects for the upcoming season. It would take awhile, but Eddie intended to hijack the conversation—the trick was to talk about something the other guy couldn’t. And from the dim-bulb looks of him, that would be almost anything.
    When he could get a word in, he said, “Where you boys from?”
    “Right here,” the stranger said.
    The kid said nothing. Eddie said, “Me too. I’m thinking to move to New Orleans, though.”
    That brought his prey to life. “I envy you, brother; I really do. Sometimes I wish I could just get out of this place.”
    “I hear you.”
    The stranger said, “You ever been to a place called Michaul’s? They got Cajun dancing there.”
    “No, I’m more of a jazz man myself.” Just hoping the kid was a jazz fan.
    Trey said, “My sister used to talk about a place called the Tin Roof.”
    His sister. It was a beautiful opening, but too soon to pick up on it.
    Eddie said, “I know the Tin Roof. Jack Maheu’s place.”
    “I don’t know, I never got there.”
    “How come? It’s sure not very far.”
    The kid got a faraway look. “In some ways, it might as well be on another planet.”
    The stranger said, “Hey, what’s your problem, man? New Orleans ain’t but a few miles down the road.”
    Eddie ignored him. “I know what ya mean, son. I know what ya mean. Philosophically speaking, it’s kinda like the Emerald City.”
    The stranger said, “Huh?”
    The kid said, “Exactly!”
    “Ya ever feel like