New Orleans Noir

bottles of Corona, and hotel beach chairs.
    A chopper’s propellers beat overhead and along the Mississippi.
    Jack picked up the vet’s hat, studied the gold pins, and placed it back, softly, on the chair.
    In an old pile of dog food sat an empty bottle of champagne. Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin. Forty-five-dollar label.
    There were millions of flies and the foul smell of rotting food and human waste. Jack reached into his pocket for a bandana and covered his mouth. He felt lunch back up in his throat.
    From the other side of the building, one of the Army men yelled: “It’s a grand ol’ ballroom, ain’t it?”
    There was better cell phone coverage up on the overpass, and even though I-10 didn’t go anywhere, Jack would drive his truck up there, heading north toward the airport until the water started coming up at the Metairie Cemetery. And he’d sit there and call his dad and talk about busted boats and files lost at sea and insurance folks who wouldn’t respond to messages. Mostly he’d eat MREs with the sun going down, occasionally giving directions to rescue workers from other states who didn’t know the damn interstate was closed.
    It was a week or so after the storm when he felt that bullet zip by his ear and heard the sharp report of a pistol.
    He rolled off the hood and found his footing.
    Reaching into the passenger seat, he pulled out a rifle and duck-walked back behind the concrete barrier. He didn’t have field glasses or a scope but could pick out the rough-shadowed shape in the sun setting through the endless marble mausoleums.
    Another shot pinged off the concrete.
    With breath held, he took aim and shot.
    He heard a scream.
    Jack jumped over the barricade and moved across the interstate and into the waist-deep water, rifle in the crook of his arm, his eyes following the shadowed shape through the rows of crypts and canals of golden water under oaks.
    The water grew up to his chest and he waded into the city, breathing hard, and stopped to listen, slowing down his heart and lungs, hearing that splashing frantic sound in the distance, and then he turned and took in another row of mausoleums, another grand monument to wealth, another angel, another sphinx, another proud man in marble staring down with sad dead eyes.
    He lost the sound.
    He heard birds and a siren, and standing there he knew he was lost. He could not see the road or even find it. He only saw the sun, the giant glowing orb of light painting everything orange and gold and making all the dead things shine so soft.
    Jack spat some tobacco juice into the stale water and walked, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand, following the rows. Past a giant monument to the lost Confederate dead and then past a small statue of a fat man holding a quill pen.
    The light was dull orange now. The bearded trees giving long shadows.
    The sound of birds.
    And then a sucking sound of rotten, slow breath.
    He turned blind down a waist-deep path. In the shadows, only the thinnest sliver of gold light ran down the middle of the still brown water, almost an arrow.
    At the top step of a marble crypt sat a young boy, maybe ten, holding his swollen belly, covered in blood. He breathed thick and hard and wet and he watched Jack come down the waterway and soon emerge on a bottom step, and then another, until the man grew tall and towered above him.
    Jack placed his rifle on the last step. His clothes dripping.
    The boy pushed himself against the locked glass doors to the long-dead family, each of their names and dates of life written in gold on marble.
    Jack took off his shirt and pressed it to the boy’s stomach. He reached for his radio but it had been shorted out. “I’ll fix it,’’ he said to the boy, even as the long shadows covered the lost cove. “I’ll fix it.”
    Jack stayed there until the boy’s head grew cool in the dark, a soft green-marbled moon shining on the cemetery water like silver.

MARIGNY TRIANGLE
    BY ERIC OVERMYER
    Faubourg Marigny
    Pretty and sad, like New Orleans
—The Iguanas
    A sk me, things started to go to shit way before the hurricane. The Pizza Kitchen killings, for instance. Well, what would you have done? One of your coworkers, that sullen kid from the Iberville projects, that dishwasher you hired, him, he was a friend of a friend and needed a break, knocks on the door as you’re getting ready to open for lunch, him and a couple of his equally sullen, hunched-up, shifty friends, course you let ’em in. And