Witness To Kill (Change Of Life Book 1) by Kent Keefer Read Free Book Online

true . . .
    cain’t have too many homicide dicks in the Easy these days. Know what their
    motto over ‘n homicide is?” He chuckled cynically. “Our day begins when yours
    ends.”
    He snickered, then shook his head in amazement. “Three
    Hundred sixty-five murders down here last year! You probably noticed how
    careful the cops down here have to be . . . the night . . . you know, uh . . .
    t’other night.” He continued quickly. “We joke each other downtown . . . had
    yer one a day? But it ain’t funny, really.”
    He nodded his head around. “But these people got to be kept
    safe. Safe, ya know? They don’t givea damn ‘bout enforcin’ a bunch of petty
    rules.” He sighed deeply. “Don’t think you kin know that ‘thout spendin’ time
    down here, you know?”
    Mary didn’t know. And she didn’t know what he was
    talking about, so she said nothing and they walked in silence down the slope
    toward the earthen mound thrown up over the years to separate New Orleans’
    lowest and oldest section from the spring meanderings of the Big Muddy. They
    passed Jackson Square, just up from the outdoor tables lined outside the Cafe
    du Monde, a French Quarter landmark nestled between the end of the city and
    the narrow gauge track that runs inside the levee to the downtown business
    towers.
    The streets forming Jackson Square were jammed with tourists
    gathered around thespian panhandlers plying their trades and talents. A blond
    guitarist in a leather cowboy hat strummed from a bench while her bandanaed dog
    danced around on its hind legs; wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, a black
    saxophonist sat cross-legged in the shade of a giant cypress, playing a song
    with drawn-out notes as if no one was watching; in one open-front tent a silent
    dark-eyed woman drew wispy portraits of the parents while an open-faced man
    jabbered nonstop as he twisted balloons into the shapes of cartoon characters for
    their kids; on a prime corner a white-faced mime in funereal garb juggled
    tennis balls in front of a singing human juke-box that had once housed only a
    refrigerator.
    As they walked the gingerbread and pastel blocks, Mary broke
    the silence, motioning downtown. “Have you ever been to Disney World?”
    “No.” He answered, following her gaze toward the shafts of
    the steel and granite skyscrapers with a puzzled look. “Been promisin’ my
    grandson to take ‘im ever since she passed . . . LaDonna, ya’ know. But we
    ain’t made it down there yet.”
    “Well, when I’m here . . . looking downtown from here in the
    Quarter . . . sometimes it makes me think of Disney World.”
    Sherry peered up at her, shielding his eyes with his hand.
    She sighed with her eyes away. “Standing in one time, in one world actually . . . looking at the next.”
     
    *** *** *** ***
     
    They accepted a table behind the favored ones lined along
    the white picket fence bordering Decatur, well away from the other guests. A
    tilted umbrella shielded them from the lowering sun; the hat stayed square on
    Sherry’s head.
    “You know,” he said, gesturing around the restaurant. “This
    here’s onea the few places down here people from New Orleans, natives, ya know,
    is willin’ to go to ‘thout gettin’ roped in by out of towners visitin’ ‘em.”
    As he spoke a waiter leaned between them, pouring from a
    long-handled silver pot releasing streams from two spouts: hot black poured
    from one joined at the cup by cold white flowing from the other.
    Mary nodded. “I’ve been here a few times. I used to come
    down here on weekends with some of the other girls after we closed,” she spoke
    spooning the coffee and milk concoction. “Do a little barhopping. But it was
    wild, too wild really . . . not fun. I guess by the time we got off and came
    down here everybody was just too drunk.”
    She held up her little cup and sipped cautiously.
    “Some of them got mean . . . crowds of young guys . .
    .yelling things . . . grabbing at you. It