Danse Macabre

By Robert Mayer

New Orleans, August 2005. The lives of a ballet dancer, a reporter, a psychiatrist, and a voodoo queen intersect and overlap in the shadow of a stalker and a serial killer... and all the while, a bad wind named Katrina is headed their way.

Written by Robert Mayer, acclaimed author of Superfolks, The Dreams of Ada, and Combustoica's The Ferret's Tale, this all-new novel mixes stark reality with mysticism, dark history with hope, and both the lowest and the highest of human impulses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Combustoica
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936404070

Robert Mayer

Robert Mayer has written for Vanity Fair, The New York Times, The Washington Post, Newsweek, GQ, and more. His first novel, Superfolks, changed superhero fiction forever. Best-selling author John Grisham called his The Dreams of Ada "a fascinating book, a wonderful reminder of how good true-crime writing can be." Mayer lives in New Mexico with his tapestry-weaving wife, La Donna, and their people-loving pit bull.

Book preview

Danse Macabre

by

Robert Mayer

Copyright 2011 by Robert Mayer. (www.robertmayerauthor.com) All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition. Published by Combustoica (www.Combustoica.com), a prose project of About Comics, Camarillo, California.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to living individuals is unintended.

The Cover:

Dancer : Alice Johnston, Moving People

Dancer photo: Paulo T. Photography, Paulo Tavares (copyright 2010)

Tapestry: American Cities: New Orleans, by La Donna Mayer, Studio 17 Weaving (copyright 2010)

Cover created by Rhonda Ward <[e-mail]>

Books by Robert Mayer

Fiction

Superfolks

The Execution

Midge and Decker

The Grace of Shortstops

Sweet Salt

The Search

I, JFK

The Origin of Sorrow

The Ferret’s Tale

Non-Fiction

The Dreams of Ada

Notes of a Baseball Dreamer

(First published as Baseball And Men’s Lives)

Praise for the Books of Robert Mayer

"Fascinating." — John Grisham

"Gripping." — Janet Malcolm, The New York Times

"He writes like an angel." — Newsday

"Exemplary." — Village Voice

"Pure, undiluted magic." — Washington Post

"Quiet brilliance." — Atlanta Journal-Constitution

"Strangely moving." — Cleveland Plain Dealer

"Genuinely compelling storytelling." — Chicago Tribune

"Wonderfully human." — Dallas News

"The poet’s touch." — Detroit News

"A blend of the funny and the poignant." — St. Louis Post Dispatch

"Absorbing." — Sunday Oklahoman

"Heart-stopping" — Albuquerque Journal

"Ranks with the best." — Santa Fe Reporter

"Topnotch." — People Magazine

"Compelling." — Booklist

"Excellent." — Library Journal

"Wonderful, moving." — Publisher’s Weekly

To Slade Nash

I Wish I Was In New Orleans (In The Ninth Ward)

—Tom Waits

(song title)

Wednesday

The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds ... the ghosts race toward the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing — spirits, all determined to get somewhere.

—Bob Dylan,

Chronicles

Rebecca

We’re running through the last section of the last ballet of the last rehearsal of the summer. Two of the guys are onstage with me, wearing white muscle shirts, tight white jeans. They fall to one knee, roll over, leap and fall again, hoping to win my attention, but I am aloof, striding by on pointe and bare-legged in a diaphanous white dress and flesh-colored pointe shoes, Tall and tan and young and lovely. Born to be The Girl From Ipanema, Bobby says of me, though I was born in Breaux Bridge. I’m not all that tall, as a ballerina you can’t be too tall, or on pointe you would tower over the men; not too tan, because under contract you can’t change your appearance in any significant way without permission, and Bobby loves contrast, dark hair against pale face. I don’t like to sunbathe anyway, I’d rather sit in the shade and read a book. I leap about with abandon and grace when the guys are offstage, become solemn and proper when they return. Again I stride across the stage on pointe, immune to the stares of the men — when she passes each one she passes ... The music ends just as I exit stage left, killing them with my apathy. The audience would be standing in wild applause if this were not a run-through, the curtain would be falling, would rise again with a flying whoosh as I take my bow. I’d be permitted to flash my ‘almost famous smile,’ as one critic called it, standing motionless while the guys take their bows, while they each take one of my hands. We bow again, together, the curtain falls, the lights go off, my toes are killing me from all that pointe. My throat feels tight, as if someone invisible is choking me.

—That’s it, Bobby says, rest tomorrow, see you Friday.

Icing my sore feet, changing clothes, I wish the bastard would leave me alone. Stop bothering me. Disappear. Die. I don’t need a creepy electronic pen pal threatening me, making me nervous, there’s too much at stake this weekend. I have to dance well Saturday — my career depends on it. Granddad’s well-being depends on it. But the sicko is slowly worming himself into my brain.

A light mist that is almost warm to the touch is falling as it always seems to be falling this time of year, rising in parabolic arcs from the lake and the river and drifting down again like trouble without need of touching the clouds. Humidity made visible. When Jane and I enter the bar I pull my thin white scarf tighter around my neck. Standing on each leg alternately like an ambidextrous flamingo, I stretch my pink leg warmers lower around my ankles before sitting; hampered by cramping when I was in school, I still wear leg warmers after rehearsals to slow the cooling. I’m a leggy five feet seven, don’t have to starve myself to keep my 125-pound shape. As for my facial features, they’re ‘just right,’ Jimmy says, ‘a sensuous lower lip adding a hint of erotic to the exquisite’ — though in my own eyes I’m cheekbone impaired, making me possibly pretty but never beautiful. ‘The difference being?’ Granddad asked once, and I’d instructed him: ‘Pretty lasts till 39. Beauty lasts till 90.’

Lily Broussard, hovering over us, glances toward the back.

—Hey, Ernie, turn down the cold air, I can’t have my girls tightenin’ up.

We’re okay, I tell her, your other customers will roast.

—What other customers? You want the usual?

She shuffles away in blue house slippers that accommodate her permanently twisted toes and her varicose veins and the thirty pounds she carries in butt and belly over her former dancing weight. Too many sweetbreads, too many Jax the past ten years. When she returns in her flowing skirt and long-sleeved blouse, the full-figured fashion she always wears — maroon and purple today — she sets a glass of white wine on a cocktail napkin in front of me, and Abitax pale ale in front of Jane. Lily knows about winding down after rehearsal, moves away to let us talk.

—I can’t believe Anastasia Lord herself is coming from New York to watch you, Jane says. Not that you don’t deserve it. But why not just have you send a video?

—Shhh!

I look around, lower my voice.

—I told you that’s confidential! If Bobby finds out he’ll be pissed.

I take a small sip of wine, holding the rim of the glass gently against my bruised lip. Nobody slugged me on purpose, I’d assured Bobby, I took an accidental elbow yesterday on the streetcar. Bobby doesn’t like me to ride my bike much, he says it bunches the leg muscles that he is trying to stretch.

—She’s not coming from New York, she’s on a trip to Mexico, she’ll just stop here to watch me on her way home. People love any excuse to visit NOLA.

I hesitate, feel my face flush. What the hell, Jane is my best friend.

—Besides, I tell her, embarrassed, reddening, I already sent a video.

My eyes roam the old black and white photographs that cover the red walls, pictures, many of them slightly blurred, of the girls of Storyville. They appear so young in the photographs. Now they are either very old, or dead.

Jane rolls the cool bottle on her forehead, lowers it and drinks a long draft. I study the wine glass as if it were a crystal ball, would show me the future. All it shows me is another threatening e-mail I’ll find when I get home, too distorted by the curving glass to decipher.

—While she’s here, maybe Anastasia will recruit you, too.

—Cut the crap, Beck. I’m twenty-nine years old, happy to be where I am. You’re twenty-two and on your way.

—Twenty-three next Tuesday.

—Excuse me, old broad. We’ll sing a dirge to your passing youth.

—Twenty-nine is nothing, Jane. You can dance ten more years if you want.

She pulls again at her ale. I notice a rough pallor on her hands, as if she’s been washing too many dishes or something.

The restaurant door opens and a tall thin man mock-staggers in carrying a bass. He’s followed by two others, laughing, one holding a saxophone case covered in colorful stickers and sparkling with mist. The musicians begin setting up around the piano on a small platform at the far end of the room. A young couple drinking at the bar, the hair of both in neat corn rows, applaud lightly. Tourists rarely find their way to The Black Swan, preferring — or thinking they should prefer — the louder, bawdier sounds on Bourbon Street. They’re also afraid to cross Louis Armstrong Park — with good reason.

—What’s it like? I ask Jane. To be content to be where you are, content with who you are?

—How am I supposed to answer that?

—For me there’s no high like a good performance. Better than wine. Better than sex — well, longer lasting. So why do I need New York? Same music, same dances — the high can’t be that much higher. More money — a lot more, I’d hope — but Jimmy’s here, Granddad’s here, Bobby is a fun choreographer, you’re here. There’ll be all kinds of problems, decisions, if she wants me.

—You know why you dream of New York? Because we’re an oxymoron: New Orleans ballet? Think about it. New Orleans jazz. New Orleans food. New Orleans ...

Jane hesitates, I help her.

—Murders?

—Exactly. But ballet?

I lift my arms, tighten the elastic band on my ponytail. My shoulder blades tell me I could use a massage. Jane lifts her pale ale, drains a slug, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, wipes her hand on her denim overshirt. A ballet dancer from a fishing village, not academia. One reason I admire her so.

—Here’s a change of subject, but not really. Why’d Anastasia the Great, the country’s leading choreographer, let you know she’s coming?

—I read a profile of her on the Net. She’s notorious for letting you know ahead of time, to put pressure on. With the National Ballet there’s always big-shots in the audience. Sometimes even the President — though not Bush. She wants to see if I’ll crack.

—Are you gonna crack?

—Hell no!

—Good for you.

With my left hand I’m squeezing the table. My knuckles turn white. My greatest fear, which I face before every performance, is that I’ll blank out on stage, not remember what move comes next, bring the ballet to a stumbling halt. It’s a fear lots of performers have. Thus far I’ve frozen only in my dreams, awakened each time with my body and the sheet soaked with sweat. But it could happen Saturday.

Or what if I hear nasty voices, as I sometimes do while dancing? Once a woman’s voice said, ‘She’s too fat!’ I’m not anorexic, I like good food, but I work it off — no way am I close to fat. Yet the words made me instantly depressed. I had to rely on muscle memory alone to get me through the performance. Another time I heard a man’s voice say, ‘Is she still on? This is boring!’ Shit, I’m boring the audience, I thought, and I wanted to flee the stage. It took all my will power to keep myself together, to keep dancing until the final note. I don’t know if these voices were real. I didn’t dare ask the other dancers if they’d heard them.

A longer sip of wine tastes good, slightly fruity, Lily knows what I like. Sometimes I feel I’ve had things too easy. Dancing in the CajunDome in Lafayette while still in high school, Bobby inviting me to join the company my sophomore year at LSU. Not that I would change a thing.

Jane lifts her drink. Her fingers definitely look rough, the skin cracked. Did she go home during break and help clean fish?

—When you get plucked to the Big Apple, will Jimmy follow you?

—If I get plucked. He loves his job. We agreed not to worry till it happens.

—You’ll get plucked, I’m sure of it. With that shoulder roll you do — those hip flashes — the neon smile — the switch you seem throw that sets your dark eyes flashing so folks can feel the electricity way up in the balcony — nobody flirts with an audience like Rebecca McBride.

Anger flares in my breast like a firestorm. My hand tightens again.

—Thanks a lot, Jane!

—Hey, that was a compliment. Nothing wrong with wooing the audience. I wish I could. Her Highness is coming to watch you, not me.

Jane puts her hand on top of mine on the small round table, squeezes it. I pull mine away. Lily shuffles near, warns us that she’s got to turn the cold air on for the musicians. Flushed, loosening my scarf, I tell her to go ahead.

—You’re claiming I’m upstaging the company?

—That’s not what I said.

—It’s what you meant.

—Goddammit! Don’t tell me what I meant!

—Girls, girls, behave yourselves.

Lily takes each of our hands in her pulpy ones. A black swan on stage, as the dance critic from the Post-Gazette once called her, she is growing into Earth Mother.

—You’re friends, ladies, so act like it. Life’s a ballet, you’ve got to be in sync. If you take nothin’ else from the stage, take that.

She places our hands in one another’s and shuffles back to the bar. I drop Jane’s fingers. Spurts of sound spit across the room as the sax man loosens his tongue. I tilt my glass high, drain my wine.

—She’s right, Rebecca. And it really was a compliment. I only meant your solos. You have a special appeal. It’s nothing you do on purpose — it’s that innocent face, I guess. It makes everyone in the audience fall in love with you.

Phrases from the conversation have caught in my mind like insects in a web, are struggling frantically for release. Observing you secretly. Wants to see if I’ll crack. Flirts with the audience.

—I’m sorry, Jane. It’s that e-mail stalker. He’s bugging the hell out of me. He’s been in the audience, watching — he let me know that yesterday.

—Have you told the police?

The Walter Jones Trio opens with a soft version of Saint James Infirmary. It’s as if they’ve been eavesdropping, as if that’s where the creep will put me. The aroma of crawfish étouffée, the house specialty, is beginning to drift from the kitchen. Two young couples wearing jeans and Tulane T-shirts enter together and sit at a table across the room. My ponytail still isn’t hanging comfortably; I pull off the elastic band, remove the scarf from my neck, finger-comb my hair down over my shoulders, roll the hair tie onto my wrist like a gold bangle. I can feel the eyes of both Tulane guys cut to me, cut back before their dates begin to smolder. I’m not competing, girls. Honest!

—The police aren't interested. When I called, a sergeant told me, and I quote, ‘Lady, we get murders, rapes and robberies every day. We don’t have time to chase down electronic pen pals. Let us know if he makes a direct threat.’

—I can’t believe he said that!

—Not ‘he.’ The sergeant was a woman.

—That’s worse! There’s a serial killer out there!

—Isn’t there always? I guess they can’t worry about lovesick wimps.

—The cops wouldn’t even trace the e-mails?

I pick up the wine glass, spear a remaining drop with the tip of my tongue.

—I showed them to Jim. They’re being sent from Internet cafés in the Quarter. Jim says the bastard could even be routing them through the cafés while sitting at his computer at home.

—If that’s true the guy could be in Montana. Or Katmandu. Why is Jim scaring you?

—He just wants me to be careful.

—By moving in with him?

I look at Jane with amazement.

—How do you know that?

—The one advantage of being almost thirty — the only damn advantage — is that you’ve been around. And around. You see things coming. A guy will use every weapon he can. Just as a gal will.

—Like come-hither hips?

—You said it this time, not me.

—You’re right, though. I do that sometimes.

—Well, if it’s wrong, Ms. Anastasia Lord will set you straight. And if it’s right, she’ll ask you to throw those hips a tiny bit more. The balconies in New York are twice as big.

—My smile isn’t planned, though. It comes from the high of being onstage, of riveting the audience — you know about that. Beyond that it’s hard to put into words. It’s as if when I’m on stage, the spot washes away the grimy outside world. And in my inner world every muscle and tendon is under my command. Like, I’m a general of the army and the music is the battlefield. My body is filled with victorious troops who dare not disobey. I take pleasure in their obedience — so I grin through every leap. I can’t help it.

—You’re fighting a war at the same time you’re dancing?

I feel my grin breaking out, unrequested, like the sun.

—Jeez, that sounded sappy. It must be the wine. One glass, whoosh!

—Seriously, Beck. Watching you on stage confirms something I’ve always felt — even way back, watching Papa on his fishing boat in Florida, hauling up the nets. Artists used to come and draw him. I decided back then that God put us on earth to be graceful in all things. The rest is superfluous.

—That’s why you won all those scholarships.

—Yeah, most promising redheaded dancer with a pointy nose who smelled of mackerel. I think the money was in somebody’s will.

I can’t help smiling again; Jane’s self-deprecating mechanism is in high gear. I lift my shoulder bag from the checkerboard floor, from a black tile. I’ve been wary of the color red ever since Rudy dropped me during a lift last year and I nearly broke my back, while I was rehearsing in a red leotard. Never wore it again. Threw it in the trash. I pull a folded sheet of paper from beneath my worn shoes and hand it to Jane, tell her it came this morning. Jane unfolds the paper, an e-mail printout, and reads it. I have it memorized.

I will be watching you again Saturday night. Your last performance. Do not be afraid.

Jane throws the paper onto the table as if it’s something gross — a snake, a rat.

—You’ve got to go back to the cops. Higher than that stupid sergeant! He says it will be your last performance! That’s a direct threat!

I fold the paper twice, stuff it back beneath the shoes. There’s spots of dried blood on them, strings of fabric hanging off; time I autographed them, put them in the collection box. Pairs of worn out shoes are sold for five bucks during intermission; the money goes to a charity for old and injured dancers.

—The note says I shouldn’t to be afraid.

—That’s to make you afraid!

—I know. And it’s working, dammit. Sometimes I feel panicky — as if the guy is right behind me with a knife. But he’s cagey, none of it could be proved to be threats. He says it’s my last performance. Well, it’s the company’s last performance of the summer. If New York wants me, it’s my last performance here. As for The Preacher, he only kills prostitutes.

—All of them on Saturday nights! Sickos can have strange ideas about dancers. My uncle in Omaha once asked me how I could prance around in public in my underwear.

—Shit. And here I thought we were being celestial.

I like my retort, but Jane is too wound up to get it.

—Listen, if your creep’s gonna be in the audience Saturday, all the cops have to do is lock the exits. He’ll be trapped.

—Lock the exits and do what? Who do they look for? What does he look like?

Jane takes both my hands. This time I don’t withdraw. Sometimes I wonder why we’re friends. Sometimes I wonder why I keep coming back to this company hangout with its blood-red walls. I tell myself I’m too intelligent to be superstitious, but that doesn’t help.

For a time we sit quietly, listening to jazz as gentle as the mist outside, till a number ends and Jane speaks again.

—I don’t know what you should do, Beck. But you can’t just ignore this creep.

—Believe me, I’m not ignoring it. Between him and Anastasia ...

I hold my right arm flat and rigid above the table. It’s trembling. The longer I hold it there, the shakier it becomes.

—You’ve got a hell of a Saturday coming up.

—Yeah.

—At least change your e-mail address.

—I did, two days ago. The notes keep coming.

—How is that possible?

—I don’t know.

—Someone who works for nolacyber?

—Or hacked in and got my address.

A draft from the air conditioner is making me uneasy. I rewrap my scarf under my hair, want to lighten the conversation, recall the Bob Seger number I love to dance to in my room.

—Do they really have broadband in Katmandu?

—How the hell should I know? I don’t even know where it is.

—Near Baton Rouge, I think.

—Very funny, Rebecca. So tell me, is Bobby Legree going soft? We get off the day before a performance?

—Some state arts conference reserved the whole building for tomorrow. Boy, was Bobby pissed when he found out. He was screaming at the walls. ‘They couldn’t wait till next week, when our season is over?’ I think they could hear him in Slidell.

—His pissed is our gain. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. We’ve been drawing great for the off-season, but I’m ready for a break. My energy is gone. I’ve tried every herb in the book.

She glances at the slim gold watch on her wrist, gift from a mystery admirer she does not discuss, and says she has to leave.

—I’m getting my aura read, she says. Talk about crazy.

—I didn’t know you were into that stuff.

—When nothing else works, I’ll try anything.

—That’s what all the guys say about you.

—Rebecca!

But she grins, as if my joke might not be far off. My battalion of barbs, we both understand, are weapons in my battle against fear.

—I don’t want to sound paranoid, but you haven’t told anyone about Anastasia, right? Only you and Jimmy know.

Jane looks over my head, not making eye contact.

—Have you?

—Trust me Beck, okay? I get the picture

She fetches a loose ten dollar bill from her purse and drops it on the table. I add a three dollar tip.

—My turn next time. I’ve got to go, too. Granddad will be getting hungry.

—How’s he doing?

—He’s not twenty-nine anymore.

I don’t like to talk about his encroaching illness. It feels disloyal.

The mist outside is heavier than before. The faint of heart might call it drizzle. We open pink umbrellas that flaunt in black the company logo, and say we will see each other Friday.

—Barring the hurricane.

—That’s not due till Monday.

—Let’s hope.

Crossing into the wet-smelling grass of Louis Armstrong Park, each with a green ballet bag slung easily over a shoulder, we stride our separate ways. My breast beats rapidly, like the heart of my pet rabbit beats at a stranger’s clutch. My wary expression is half hidden by the umbrella. I glance neither left nor right, but look straight ahead as I walk, in case the bastard is watching me.

Jimmy

A hurricane wouldn’t be bad, he thinks, peering at the map on the monitor — it’s been upgraded to a category four. Powerful stuff. He feels guilt about feeling this way, the knowledge that part of him wants the hurricane to hit, but there it is, it comes with the territory. You need good things to write about — by which definition disasters can be good. Not to sell papers, only the publisher cares about that, but to do what he does best — make people weep with his words. He’d never admit that to anyone, not even Rebecca, but it’s in his newsman’s blood. He wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt or killed, nothing like that, just some frightening wind and rain, damage to buildings, roofs flying through the air, parked cars overturned and burning — the insurance companies can afford it. Knowing he is trying to deceive himself, to acquit himself of a thought crime, every hurricane a few people die. But there’s not a newsman in the world who doesn’t get an adrenaline high at word of a disaster.

What did he fill his column with today? He can hardly remember. Oh, yeah, the kids in Jackson Square ripping off the tourists with their tired old routine. Betcha twenty bucks I can tell ya where you got yo shoes. You think so? You’re on. This woman’s from New Jersey, that guy’s from Montana. Both thinking, No way the kid’s gonna know. Lessee the twenty! Out comes the twenty. And the answer to the question:

—You got yo shoes on yo feet.

The kid grabs the money. The Montana guy becomes enraged as the kid dances away. There oughta be a law! Welcome to New Orleans.

Not a terrible piece, but it’s been done before. Jimmy likes to be original. To surprise.

It’s been a damn slow summer except for The Preacher. He’d called the bastard that in his column — leaving corpses on church steps, why not? — Jim knowing that following his first inclination, calling the killer The Priest, would have brought the wrath of the Catholic church down on his head. The Preacher had stuck. But how often can you write about him without scaring the hell out of people? Dumping naked hookers on church steps early Sunday mornings with Voodoo dolls between their legs —a fine sight to welcome the faithful as they come to pray. What kind of sewer breeds these guys? But what more is there to say? The victims are dead, the killer unknown, the police baffled. End of story — until he strikes again. It’s been two months, the usual period between his murders. The police superintendent announced he’s flooding the red light districts with cops this week — uniforms and under-covers, men and women. Has that induced the freak to start stalking nice girls like Rebecca?

From his corner cubicle he sees the sun that has baked the air to a moist 98 degrees today going down beyond the city, like a commuter heading home to Metairie. The others who work near him, the arts people, have gone for the day as well. He’d rather work in the middle of the news room where he’d be more in touch with the reporters and the bustle of deadlines, but columnists get perks, and this private space has its advantages when you’re talking on the phone. Has its own little fridge as well. He drops to a knee, pulls out a plastic pint of chocolate milk. He has a residual ulcer. Never liked to drink much anyway, the best get high from their work — what he and Rebecca have most in common. What had that guy in Louisiana Dance Journal written last month? ‘It pains me to say it, but Rebecca McBride is making people in ballet circles forget the great Lily Broussard, the incomparable Black Swan.’

If the hurricane — I pity all little girls named Katrina, he’d written — if it would hurry up and arrive, perhaps the ballet doyenne from New York would cancel. That would at least buy him time. No way he’s gonna give up his job and move north. He’s doing fine here. He’s necessary. Featured column three days a week on the state page, sometimes on the front page. Regional syndication. Never mind TV or the Internet, everybody in New Orleans with a smidgen of taste reads Jim Akins. He’s good. Damn good.

But is he New York good?

No way he’s going to give up Rebecca. It’s a choice they won’t have to make if she screws up on Saturday. Which is another unwanted thought, as bad as wanting the hurricane to strike. Sometimes, Akins, you’re a six-foot turd. Let the New York broad swoon over Rebecca, offer her the Big Apple on a platter. Make Rebecca happy. Then me and her Granddad can find a way to keep her here.

He tosses the empty milk container into the waste basket, the milk perhaps igniting a subconscious connection, the source of all good writing. The milk makes him think of his grandmother, Betty Shugrue, first female linotype operator in Louisiana, maybe in the entire country. Started back during World War II when the men shipped out, back when the Post-Gazette was just the Post. Long afterward she used to tell him how the smell of the ink when she went to work every night was better than the smell of coffee in the morning, the clattering sound of the machines more welcome than birds chirping, the white orange glare of the molten lead when she opened the machine to feed more metal in as pretty as sunset in a box. She showed Jimmy, later left to him, metal lines of type she had saved, lines from the biggest stories she had set. Japan Surrenders. Ike Will Go to Korea. Kennedy Shot Dead in Dallas. Relics of newspapering long gone. By the time he went to LSU and became campus correspondent, the computer revolution had arrived, newsrooms were carpeted and smelled like law firms. But Grandma Shugrue in all innocence had injected the excitement of disaster into his veins; he is still addicted, he knows of no 12-step plan for that, and knows too that if he did he surely would not attend.

Drifting down the pale green corridor to the newsroom he passes dozens of the paper’s front pages framed behind glass like a history museum. Like Grandma Betty’s lead type. The latest dramatic local story was ... he can’t find a recent local story on the wall, not a single front page with his Easy Street column on it. That fact