New Orleans Noir

pool table, scurry out the back door.
    Paul speaks first. “Fuck. Al-Qaeda.”
    There has to be at least two hundred Turks, singing, yelling, waving flags. None of us can move. Literally. Try to fall down, you’ll stay upright. Fuck the fire code.
    The Turks take over the pool table. They take over the dartboard. They pin Turkish flags up on the wall, over Celtic crosses, over printed lyrics to “Danny Boy,” over family photographs.
    “Fuck,” Billy says, behind the bar. “Muslims. They don’t drink.”
    Happily, not true. Like their English nemeses, it’s Budweiser all around.
    I step outside for the fresh air. Two buses from Florida, Escambia County plates, parked in the left lane of Banks, next to the neutral ground. Florida?
    More Turks are pouring out of the buses, singing.
    It’s enough for me. Across the street there’s a birthday party. Some guy’s kids. They’ve got one of those giant inflatable jungle gyms—moonwalks is what they call them—out front, the kids, six of them, all of four or five years old, catapulting themselves to the top, back down, over and over, happy as hell. Man out front, drinking a High Life, I recognize from nights at the pub.
    “Hey, man,” I holler, crossing the neutral ground, crossing Banks.
    He calls back: “The hell’s going on over there?”
    I reach his fence. “Turks. Fucking Turks.”
    “Turks? Ragheads?”
    “Well, you’d think. They all drink, though.”
    “Oh,” he says, then “oh” again, as if, well, in that case, they must be all right. “Hey, it’s Sharonda’s birthday! She’s five. She’s right there, see her? Jumping up, there!”
    Sharonda, on the descent, waves to her daddy.
    I approach the giant plastic gym. “Sharonda! Your daddy says it’s your birthday! How old are you?”
    “I … am …” She holds up her hand, giggles, counts fingers. “I’m FIVE!!”
    The girls resume their jumping, higher now, to entertain the new guest. “Hey, man,” the daddy says, never can remember his name, “have a drink, huh?”
    We go up the stairs to the front porch. Cooler in front, High Lifes. His lady’s sitting on a wooden rocker, glass of iced tea in hand. “How you doin’, baby?” she says to me.
    “Pretty good. Congratulations on your daughter’s birthday.”
    “Ohhh … I can’t believe she’s five. You got kids?”
    “No. No wife either.”
    She laughs. “’S wrong with you? You got cooties?”
    “Lots of angry ex-girlfriends.”
    We sit and watch the kids, quietly. The music coming out of the house, it’s kid music, something like Raffi. My man digs out two more High Lifes, pops the tops off, hands me one. He makes eye contact with his wife, says “Baby?” real quiet, but she shakes her head.
    Across the street, the jerseys are gathered outside the front door in shock. Most of them have palms attached to ears, phones cradled between, shaking their heads, you won’t fucking believe what’s going on here.
    A kid rides through the crowd, and I watch him lazily drift toward downtown; he fades out of sight. Kids are everywhere—street, neutral ground, sidewalk. Some are oblivious to the excitement at the pub, a few point and laugh. Makeshift hoops hang off second-floor porches, a few games of horse. The soccer jerseys stand out. Everyone’s got torn clothes, matches the paint peeling off crumbling houses.
    I slap my friend on the back and rise. “You’re a lucky man,” I say.
    He laughs. “Sometimes, man.” I catch the funny look he gives me before he turns his head.
    I wish his wife a good day, and run downstairs to the kids in their jungle gym. “Hey, Sharonda, y’all want to make some noise?”
    “YEAHHHHHH!!” The kids have been hitting the caffeine.
    “Okay, look across the street. There, see the guy in the green shirt? That’s Billy. Everybody, on the count of three, yell Hi, Billy! Okay? One, two, THREE.”
    It’s a hell of an uproar. Billy peers across the street, shakes his head and waves. As I cross the street, the kids take turns yelling at Billy again.
    “Hey, Billy, so what’s the story?”
    “Ah, mate, there’s too many fucking people in there.”
    “And?”
    He shakes his head, smiles. “What are ya gonna do? Drink faster!”
    England-Turkey kicks off. The Turks shred their vocal cords, singing. I stand in the corner by the front door. Any trouble breaks out, quick exit.
    Fifteen minutes into the game, the door swings open next to me. A bunch of the brothers who had run out after