Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/190



GAYLORD LE CLAIRE STARED INTO the face in the shadows. He had the poet's insatiable appetite for imagining and the mystery of New Orleans distilled it. There in the shadows was a bronze face …

"Bob," he cried with a sudden burst of joy. He reached out his hand. It stopped suddenly in mid-air.

"Bob? Paul's the name," came from the shadows. And a hand reached out and took the extended one.

"I thought …" Gaylord began with dismay and alarm. "I thought you were a friend of mine from back home."

"No, I'm afraid I'm not. I wish I were though. You seem so disappointed. I'm Paul Boudreaux. And have lived in New Orleans practically all my life," he answered, still holding hands.

"You looked so much like a friend of mine … I just knew you were Bob." He grinned and added, "I'm Gaylord Le Claire."

They shook hands.

"Gaylord Le Claire. Nice to know you … You've got an awfully pretty name … French, aren't you?"

"My father is. My mother's German." Then with another grin, "I guess I was talking out loud to myself when you came up."

"I was wondering what kind of buddy you wanted."

"Did you see those two drunks? One was sure taking good care of the other one."

"Yes, I saw them." Paul laughed softly. "I was afraid for a moment they were going to land under that cab."

"So was I … Sure scared me for a moment."

Gaylord looked at the man. He did look like Bob. Had a pleasant, 180