New Orleans Noir

like thick, twisted vines, dangling down into the water, no longer sparking as they had when Katrina swept inland. Only the roofs of a few drowned cars made it possible to separate street from front yards.
    One of those cars, Sonny saw, belonged to his neighbor on the corner.
    The car was a distinctive color. Blackberry, its owner, Charlie Pham, had informed him just a week earlier. The presence of the expensive car in front of Sonny’s modest house puzzled him. No doubt the five members of the Pham family would have evacuated New Orleans in their minivan. But why, Sonny wondered, wasn’t the new Cadillac parked in the relative security of Charlie Pham’s brick garage? Sonny pondered this briefly, then shrugged, confident that there was some simple explanation.
    His wandering gaze moved on, taking in the flood-ravaged houses of neighbors and friends. Abruptly, he looked back in the direction of the grotto, grateful that Tam had not lived long enough to see another home—another community—devastated and abandoned. They had been little more than children when they’d fled the Communists, abandoning their village in the North for the safety of South Vietnam. Then, when Saigon fell, they’d left Vietnam behind forever. And they’d come to America. Where their lives had been blessed.
    Until now.
    Once again, Sonny felt a stab of anger toward the Virgin. He used that feeling to push aside his fear and waded forward again. As he neared the grotto, he made an even greater effort to stay on the path as tangles of thorn-laden rose tendrils broke the water’s surface all around him—reminding him that he’d left Tam’s roses untended and untrimmed for a long time.
    Sonny considered the possibility that the flooding was punishment for his neglect. But in the space of a few steps, he dismissed the idea as superstition and turned his attention to the task confronting him. He elbowed aside debris that had collected in front of the grotto, then firmly closed his eyes and mouth, held his breath, and plunged into the water. His fingers slipped over the smooth, rounded stones that lined the grotto’s interior. Then they encountered the statue. He wrapped his arms around the Virgin, reminded himself to use his knees rather than his back to bear the weight, and hefted the statue upward, out of the water.
    It was heavier than he remembered.
    He hugged the statue tightly against his chest, staggering beneath the weight, and moved back along the path. By the time he reached the place where he’d bumped into the hose, he was breathless from exertion. And he knew that he’d have to rest before carrying the statue the remaining distance into the house. But it felt like failure—and, though he hated to admit it, a lot like sacrilege—to drop the Virgin back into the muddy water. So, now more tired than cautious, Sonny left the path and headed for a nearer goal—Charlie Pham’s Cadillac.
    The flooding had caused him to misjudge the car’s location. But it was still closer than the side porch. Struggling to maintain his balance and his hold on the statue as he stepped off the curb, Sonny waded forward into the street. He ignored the water that crept up his shoulders and tried to ignore his growing dread. Maybe the car had simply broken down and been left where it stalled. Heading away from Charlie’s house.
    But heading where?
    With his last bit of strength, Sonny hefted the Virgin onto the roof, laying her on her back. The rigid blue folds of her cast-stone robe scraped the pretty dark purplish paint of Charlie’s pride-and-joy as Sonny pushed the statue into a secure position. Then he finally admitted to himself that only a catastrophe—and nothing so small as an approaching hurricane—could have prompted Charlie to leave his new car in the middle of the road.
    Free of the statue’s weight, Sonny almost bounced as he walked in the deep water around the car, seeking an explanation for why his friend had abandoned his Cadillac.
    Just as he noticed that the driver’s door was open, Sonny also saw the top of a human head. It bobbed a few inches above the water, in the V where the door hinged to the car’s frame. The bald dome with its distinctive, monklike fringe of longish dark hair was definitely Charlie’s.
    Sonny’s first thought was that Charlie was the victim of an unsuccessful carjacking. Or a robbery gone wrong. Periodically, the streets of Village de l’Est spawned violent gangs—gangs encouraged by the