Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/288



IT WAS MISTING RAIN WHEN PAUL Boudreaux emerged from his favorite bar. Flashes of lightning illuminated the sky for a brief second, then followed distant rolls of thunder. A cloud, hitherto unseen, came upon the horizon, and hovered like a dark hand before a face.

The whores, pimps, queers and tourists had taken to the many bars and restaurants, leaving the usually busy Bourbon Street practically deserted; alone with its many electric signs, reflecting on wet stones, and drooping awnings. Cabs, kept busy by whistling people, splashed down the street, and those who whistled in vain returned behind doors. Doors that they had emerged from. Doors that kept inside the loud disturbance of blaring instruments and shouting. It all went on around him, concealed and unnoticed.

"Raining again," Paul murmured, watching the drops splatter against a lighted street lamp. "Wish Dusty wouldn't have been off tonight."

A cab pulled up, and the driver asked, "Cab?"

"No thanks," Paul replied without looking.

"Won't cost you nothing, no."

Paul looked into the dark front seat. "Gaston," he cried. "I didn't know it was you … How's everything … how's tricks?"

"Good tonight … Where ya going? Can I take you?"

"No … thanks … I'm just walking," Paul said. "You'd better get some cash customers tonight. May not be raining tomorrow."

"So what? Hop in."

"Not tonight, Gaston … Thanks … thanks anyway."

"Want to be alone?"

"Sort of …"

"Ok Paul … I'll see ya …" 278