Chapter 1

Tuesday the 14th of December 

2004 (12 Days to Christmas)

“The Ring of Fire”

Warning sirens rocked me out of a deep sleep. Irritated and groggy, I cursed whoever adjusted the ringer’s volume on the hotel phone for a deafening headache. “Who is this?”

       “Is Zat you, Mr. Frank? It’s Miss Angel,” the night manager said, “Miss Margaret, she’s downstairs. She says, ‘she needs to see you’. She’s cryin, Mr. Frank. She don’t look good.”

       I had left Maggie at her gin mill on Bourbon Street sometime after midnight. I checked my watch on the nightstand: it was 7am. What the hell was she doing here? “Miss Angel, tell her to come on up. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”                             

        I rolled off the bed and into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. The creaking stairs outside my second floor, front-of-the-house room indicated Maggie was just a few seconds from my door. I threw on the hotel robe hanging next to the tub. “Come in, Maggie,” I shouted in anticipation of her knock.

        She rushed me coming out of the bathroom, grabbing the terry-cloth lapels and burying her head into my chest. “I need your help, Frank.” She looked up at me, holding tight. “My friend, Miss Rachel Harley, she called bout an hour ago looking for her daughter, Aerial. She’s the pretty little Creole teenager, with the long curly black hair, who came in and sat near you after you came into my bar last night.”

        “Calm down, you’re rambling. I can remember vaguely,” I said, gently pushing her back.

        Maggie took a long breath and, shaking me, began speaking faster. “Mondays after school, she stops by to see Carson. Then she goes to pick up dinner. After that, Aerial goes home to her Mama. But, she never made it back last night.”

         “Back up a sec,” I said, unlocking her grip. “Why did her mother wait until this morning to call? Why didn’t she call you last night?”

         “I don’t know.”

         “Did you call the police?” I said, putting a palm to my head.

         “Frank, you know the police can’t do anything unless she’s been missing for at least twenty-four hours.” Turning it up an octave, she continued with emphasis, “Sometimes, I think you’re stupid.”

         Maggie tended to raise her voice when angry; prompting my switch to a louder tone and a snarky remark I wanted to forget three seconds after. “Yah, I’m so sorry. Apparently, when we were dating, I didn’t make it perfectly clear: I’m in the business of investigating companies – not, tracking down missing persons.”

        I was fortunate once to be one of a handful of financially oriented people to have uncovered a massive fraud at Enron at the turn of the century. I stumbled across it really, but that’s another story. It put me on the Wall Street map of field analysts coveted by big institutional investors, and required the kind of travel schedule one could easily confuse for touring with a rock band.

        On Monday the 13^th of December, in 2004, I had checked into a charming inn, The Maison de Ville, in New Orleans’ famous French Quarter. I was making the landmark boutique hotel my home-away-from-home for a few days on a planned trip to visit a locally based company. However, as dedicated bachelors often repeat the mistake of dropping in on girlfriends of Christmas Past, my attention became diverted from my business, and the following two weeks resembled a long night at Ebenezer Scrooge’s house.

         In one of those odd long moments of suspended silence, I became temporarily invisible. Maggie was looking at me, but staring past me. Her brain freeze telegraphed a kind of half-scared and half-wandering focus of a mind in panic – struggling with what to say and do next. Her expression suggested that maybe I was – in fact – actually stupid. I squeezed hands over my ears in a hear-no-evil gesture, and stepped into the bathroom to search for the Advil in my Dopp kit.

         “You don’t understand,” she shouted, suddenly snapping out of it. “This girl’s very special. She doesn’t just go disappear, or go missing for no reason. Something’s wrong, Frank…I need your help. I need you to help me right now! I’m terrified something bad has happened to her.”

         I spoke loudly from the bathroom, making another snide and headache induced remark I regretted right after: “Special – as in – stupid, like me?”

         “Noooo–” Maggie started crying.

         I stepped out after swallowing a couple pills I had fumbled and dropped on the floor. “Alright, alright, calm down. Let me get some clothes on, we’ll go for some breakfast, and figure out something sensible to do.”

        A sigh of relief projected from her face. “Do you have a coat? It’s cold outside."

                                                                                                              _____

Putting on my button-down collar white shirt, I grabbed the pilot jacket out of my leather Polo bag and we headed downstairs. I had discovered a convenient diner near the corner towards the river after being kicked out of Maggie’s apartment last Christmas. It reminded me of every neighborhood joint in New York. The sign on the door: ‘DINER’, made it easy to remember the place with this morning’s hangover. 

        It seemed unseasonably cold in the short walk to the Diner – like, New England cold. I noted my over the waist length overcoat was better suited. “So…what’s so ‘special’ about the girl?” I asked, making air quotes to emphasize.

        Maggie paused and, tearing-up intermittently, said, “The child…is gifted. She’s a true mystic. Aerial has a real gift, Frank.”

        “Come again?” I said, trying to shake cobwebs from my head.

        “I know you’re gonna think this is crazy – but, she can conjure up souls…she’s a medium to the dead. Her mother is a Hoodoo Witch.”

        “Com ’on, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Stop messing around with me this early in the morning, Mag.” 

        “Frank…it’s true. People who live in the Quarter, and tourists that are interested in séances, know who they are.”

        “What? You got me outta bed this early on a drunken morning for a shake-up call to look for someone who performs Voodoo parlor tricks?”

         “Why would it matter? They’re my friends…and it’s not Voodoo, it’s Hoodoo,” she said, tearing up again.

         Holding open the Diner door for her, I said, “What’s the fucking difference, Mag?” My hangover’s moody tone sparked a decidedly full-on crying burst – and, realizing what I had done – I put my arms around her. “I’m so sorry Maggie. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It’s the aftereffects of drinking on the plane before getting drunk at your place last night. Sorry…com ’on, please calm down. We’ll find her. She’ll show up.”

         “Voodoo is bullshit, Frank.” Her voice was trembling from the whoosh of a whipping wind that pushed her up against me as we went through door. I wiped a tear from her cheek when we stepped inside. She said, “But…but…Hoodoo, it’s for healing souls.”

         “Okay, okay, try and relax.”

         “I guess expecting you to understand–” she said, trailing off into another thought summoning state.

         “Understand what?” I said, waving a hand in front of her face. Com ’on; let’s sit down.” 

         “You see…Aerial can connect and guide us through time with the immortality of the spirits. She’s a gateway for the dead. Someone has kidnapped her for this reason, don’t you see?”

         “No, I don’t see,” I said a bit louder, attempting to remain calm. “I really don’t. Do you hear yourself, Mag? I know you’re superstitious, but this is ridiculous.” I continued, “Pretty soon you’ll be telling me: ‘The Force is strong in her’.”

         Tears began flowing again, and I sensed arguing common sense in her state would result in the customers thinking this guy beats his girlfriend.

         We had taken a two-top booth in the back next to a nickel-plated door time-stamped from the fifties. The place was like most diners in New York: narrow, about fifteen feet wide, and likely wedged into a spot that was originally built for transferring horse carriages to livery stables before rising rents prompted landlords to enclose the bridle paths. The coral speckled Formica counter and the pleather red fixed stools, reflected way too bright fluorescent lights. A path impassable by more than two separated a row of tight single-seat two top booths running parallel from the counter. A face, like my grandmother’s, on the other side of a port hole in the fifties swinging door, stared at us from the kitchen side.

        I ordered a couple coffees when she came around; recalling when I first found the place the waitress was a bit of a sourpuss. She looked at me with the I-know-it’s-your-fault look my grandmother used to, no doubt assuming I was the cause of upsetting Maggie.

        Leaning across the table, I chose a softer tone: “Maggie, I’m here on a job for just a few days from New York to visit the chairman of a public company. As much as it would indulge my fantasies, I don’t have time to be playing private detective. You’ll have to just wait and tell the police to search for Aerial.”

       “It’s not Aerial, Frank…it’s Aureole, ˈôrēˌōlˈ,” she said, mouthing pronunciation phonetically. “It means, ‘a circle of light’, like around a holy person.”

        “Sorry, I hear in a Boston accent sometimes.”

        “I know you’ll find this very hard to believe. But trust me; this is no Ouija Board con. This child does not just go, missing. Someone must have kidnapped her,” she said, and then raised her voice again. “Are you gonna fucking help me, or what?”

        “Shush, quiet please. They’re gonna to think I beat you, Maggie,” I said, lowering my head and pointing to a set of incoming patrons.

         Thankfully, the waitress returned quickly with the coffees. I said, “May I have a scrambled egg, bacon, and cheese on a roll, please?” I looked at Maggie, “Anything?”

          Maggie waived she wasn’t hungry. “No thanks, Anita.”

          “You know her?” I pointed when the waitress walked away.

          “Everybody in the Quarter knows everybody.”

          “What about your barman, Carson? Did you try calling him? He was serving the girl whiskey last night. What’s that about?”

         “It’s not whiskey, you dumb dumb. It’s iced tea, but in a whiskey bottle. She’s sixteen and a minor for God’s sake. You think we would serve her booze?”

          “This is The Big Easy, isn’t it?”

          She gave me the ‘you’re stupid’ look again, sucking in a long deep breath to overtly express her exasperation. “…Aureole, she comes in on Mondays after school, and pretends she’s an adult. She’s a special child, and goes to the famous NOCCA School for gifted children. The school: the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, only takes the most talented kids.”

          “Psychic studies are a creative art down here?”

          “Of course not, she studies music,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “She comes around to visit with Carson. She doesn’t have a father. He treats her like an adult – which, most girls her age like to make believe they are. They talk about her school week, that’s all. She goes to Papa Nik’s restaurant after, where she picks up dinner for her and her Mama. Then she walks home to their house down by the French Market. It’s a regular routine and it doesn’t change…until last night.”

          “Let me ask you again, did you ask Carson to look for her?”

          “He was first on my list. Coincidentally, he lives at the Maison. He gets room and board for cleaning and handyman stuff. He wasn’t in. You didn’t tell me where you were staying when you left last night, but I remembered you had checked-in there after our fight, so I asked Miss Angel if you were there.”

          “It wasn’t our fight. You started it.”

          “Don’t get me going, Frank. You were an asshole.”

          "I was an asshole? I came to your apartment one night, thinking everything was going fantastic, and you randomly initiated throwing hard objects at me.”

         “Let’s not rehash the reasons for that, okay? You’re the one that stopped by my place unannounced yesterday, after almost a year. I’d forgotten all about you.”

         There was no winning any argument going down this rabbit hole. I said, “Alright, go on.”

         She moved on after a mean squint. “Miss Angel told me, Carson hadn’t come back from running this morning. But, she said he’d ‘be back by eight or nine because he has to clean the back of the house’, I guess before coming to work for me at eleven. So basically, you were my back-up.”

          “Let me see if I understand. He works for you until well after midnight, wakes up before dawn, and has the energy to go out for a run? Who is this guy, Superman?”

          “That’s what he likes to do. Whenever I look for him outside the bar, he’s always running.”

          “Why do you suppose?”

          “He may think I’m trying to get him in my bed, and he has the common sense not to sleep with the boss.”

          Sensing she threw that in to see if it would make me jealous, I made the mistake of saying yet another thing I would regret right after: “What’d ya think would give him that impression?”

          She furrowed forehead, wrinkled her nose, and gave me the mean squint again. “Listen Buster, I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

          Carson seemed very fit, and sort of a descent looking guy, if you like the blond stubble for hair and the Bruce-Willis-meets-California-surfer look. He and Maggie would make a decent looking couple, except for the fact he had the verbal engagement skills of a fish out of water. After a stale minute, I made perhaps too sly an innuendo. “It seems to me, you might ask him where the girl is.”

        “Noooo…you might think he’s a perv because he’s quiet, but he’s not. He doesn’t drink, or go out, and keeps to himself. In his free time, he’s generally working out.”

        “Totally normal,” I said with extended sarcasm, “he should be the number one suspect. Has anyone checked under the floor boards in his room?”

        “We’re wasting time, Frank,” she said, looking at the clock on the wall. “It’s eight o’clock. I’ll go find Carson and Miss Rachel. You take a shower and meet me at my place in an hour.”

        She liked to do that: give orders. And, for the most part, because Maggie had cast a spell on me, I tended to follow them. “Alright,” I shrugged. “It’s clear you still like me and won’t leave me alone unless we can find things for us to do together. But, no-can-do at nine, I have a meeting at the Freeport Building. I’ll meet you after that back at your saloon before lunch time. If she hasn’t shown up by then, we’ll go over to the police station and see if we can’t make friends with somebody who might help us.”

        “Thank you, Frank,” she said, and the tension in her face softened to a smile in harmony with relief.

                                                                                                         _____

Back in my hotel room, and disposed to thinking in the shower, I let the steamy water stream over my head. What’s really going on here? Maggie was pretty much on the razor’s edge of hysteria over the missing young girl. The mystic hocus pocus was way over the top – but, the kid was missing. I couldn’t just walk out on her. I wasn’t happy with the break-up. I was dating different women for a few weeks on and off. After a few drinks on the plane coming down, I now reasoned a subconscious desire for reconciliation prompted my detour into Maggie’s Bar last night. 

         After shaving, I threw on a clean shirt, slacks, and a necktie to tie the whole blue blazer analyst uniform together. I took a notebook from my leather duffle for my meeting.

        Stopping at the Maison alcove office, opposite and below the stair-well, I poked my head in to get Miss Angel’s attention. “Hello, I was wondering, has Carson returned from his run yet?”

         “I ain’t seen him, but he’ll be back soon.”

         “Might I ask what kinda work he does around here, and how long he’s been living here?”

         “Mr. Jeff, he’s been here for bout…oh…comin on a year now. We were thinkin he was a drifter when he came askin for work for room and board. The owner’s and I wouldn’t have givin him none, but for Miss Margaret vouchin for him-n-all. He cleans up the back of the kitchen we share with the restaurant, and does some of the fixin things in the hotel. He’s a good boy,” Miss Angel said, conclusively.

         “Just one last question: who’s in charge of inspecting the rooms before the guests check-in? My phone ringer was set loud enough to scare a witch.”

         “That’d be, Mr. Charlie. He inspects all the rooms after the guests check-out and before the new guests check-in.”

                                                                                                        _____

I headed west on Toulouse towards Bourbon Street. I took a left, passing Maggie’s Bar, heading further west on my way to St. Charles Avenue, which transitions and picks-up from Bourbon on the other side of Canal Street. I made my way along St. Charles to Poydras Street in accordance with directions from the Maison provided by the Chairman’s gatekeeper, Miss Lynne. The early smell of daiquiri and beer washed sidewalks began to fade the farther I walked from The French Quarter. Miss Lynne’s route to the Freeport Building marked it directly across the street from the Superdome.

        Approaching, I jumped the front steps two at a time to get out of the Nor’easter-like burst of damp winter chill that seemed bizarre for this deep in the swamps.

        There was a uniformed security guard, packing a forty-five in a military holster behind a honed green granite desk, who looked like a Brinks driver guarding money. Matching stone slabs clad the atrium, and mirrored the polished version of the curtain-wall wrapping the outside of the Building. It must have required an entire mountain of stone. The guard’s eyes tracked my line across the lobby, squinting overtly to make sure I knew he was watching me. Preempting his where-you-headed look, I answered his expected question when I approached the desk. “Hello, I’m here to visit Mr. Jim Bob Moffett. Miss Lynne has made an appointment for me.”

        Speaking the names ‘Jim Bob Moffett’, and ‘Miss Lynne’, triggered an immediate look at the Guest List on his desk. His facial expression transitioned from suspicious to accommodating, and he said, “May I have your name, please?” 

        “Corso…Frank Corso,” I said, with a James Bond cadence.

        He called upstairs and, after announcing me, said, "Mr. Corso, the office is on the top floor…the elevators are to your right.”

         Elevator doors opened into a warmly lit penthouse lobby, well-appointed with pendant shaped bronze wall sconces, mounted below dark mahogany crown molding that matched the wainscot. Between the sconces, three original oil paintings of cowboys roping steers on horses at full gallop were showcased over damask wall coverings of green and gold. The style proposed a rugged elegance, and reminded me of the Ralph Lauren flagship store on Madison Avenue.

        There was only one hall off the elevator lobby, and it led directly to Miss Lynne’s desk standing guard outside the boss’s office door. She was a trim blond and fading to gray haired woman with delicate features in her 60’s – and who, were it not for her light skin and hair, reminded me of my mother.

        In my super-nice well-practiced delivery, which can sometimes be construed as straight-up servile flattery, I introduced myself. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Miss Lynne. Thank you so much for arranging this meeting with Jim Bob. I’m a great fan of his wildcatter history, and his remarkable achievements as skipper of the F–C–X ship.”

        FCX was the stock symbol of Freeport Copper & Gold. Under the stewardship of Jim Bob Moffett, it owned the second largest copper mine in the world, Grasberg, which is located, of all places, in Papua, New Guinea, on the other side of the world in Indonesia.

       As the legend goes, Jim Bob, a geologist by training, went up into the mountains searching for gold along what miners call, ‘The Ring of Fire’. The view from space marks the perimeter of thousands of years of volcanic eruptions, and earthquakes in conflict with tectonic plates smashing along the coastal edges of the Pacific. The colliding forces have pushed-up a mountain range ring that has given birth to high concentrations of rare ores man has coveted and fought over for centuries.

        Jim Bob was exploring around a nearby depleted Dutch mine, abandoned in the 1980’s. Chipping away on rocks a few kilometers away, he discovered a copper mother lode. In another stroke of luck, Grasberg Mountain produced enough gold as a byproduct of copper; it became the single largest mining producer of gold in the world. In my Initiation Report, I pitched FCX as the Powerball Winner of mining.

         Large mahogany double doors opened to the boss’s office with a push of a gold button Miss Lynne fingered on her desk. A tall trim John-Wayne-of-a-man, en route to his mark on set, was in-step to the doorway reaching to shake my hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again so soon, Frank.”

        “Thank you Jim Bob. The pleasure’s all mine,” I said, shaking his hand. “Your kind invitation to visit is appreciated by my clients.”

        “Com’n in, Frank,” he said with a cowboy’s camaraderie, and the folksy wave of a seasoned bronc buster inviting young cowboys into the breaking corral.

         I followed into his office. His desktop alone must have been five by ten feet, and it occupied a section in the room that was larger than my entire office in Manhattan. It was situated next to large fishbowl curved windows overlooking the Superdome. His full floor executive office was exceptionally well furnished: gold leaf taffeta curtains, saddle leather club chairs, and three original Remington sculptures showcased on credenzas behind two large gold silk couches. The top floor, no-expense-spared, chief executive’s sanctuary like this would, in most instances, raise questions about how shareholders money is being spent. But here, the king of the gold mountain had free reign.

         Mooring another corner of the office was a rectangular lacquer conference table, inlaid with rare woods in a Marcus Aurelius pattern I had seen in a piazza at the Vatican once. The ambiance, mood, and design of Jim Bob’s plush office conveyed wealth and, ‘this is what the gold buys’. “Nice office…I like it,” I said.

         "Times are very good, son. We’re fillin our bellies right now, and gettin fat,” he said, illustrating by rubbing his stomach – which, is Jim Bob lingo for: ‘we’re gonna be richer than we already are’.

         “Let’s have a seat at the conference table over here. I have one of my boys comin up to give us a little brief of where we’re takin this thing. Where’re you stayin while you’re here, son?”

          “I’m at The Maison de Ville Hotel in the Quarter.”

          I could tell he was a pro schmoozer. Convincing investors to put-up a billion dollars to dig up a mountain on an island on the other side of the world makes pro schmoozer a prerequisite.

          Jim Bob continued: “Your first time down here?”

          “No, I visited many times last year, travelling almost every other weekend. I’m getting to know my way around.”

          “A woman?”

          “Yes sir, I met her in New York while she was visiting.”

          We were interrupted by one of his executives entering the room. “Hello, I’m Robert Di Stefano,” he said, reaching to shake my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

          Jim Bob cut in, “Rob here is a very talented engineer, and he’s our chief technical man at Grasberg. I thought we’d take the opportunity to visit with him since he’s just arrived back from the mine.”

          “I’m all ears,” I said.

           “Rob–” Jim Bob motioned to him to start.

           “We greatly appreciate your taking the time to visit with us. I’ve taken the opportunity to update some developments Jim Bob may have touched on at last week’s New York mining conference. He’s shared your reputation with institutional investors with me, and we look to your input to help shape our presentation for Wall Street as required.”

          Well-rehearsed, I thought.

          Robert handed me a PowerPoint presentation. “We have three initiatives we think will drive the growth in our business, and create value for our shareholders. The last two are in support of the main thrust of our plan to mine the deep core of the mountain. This will require the expansion of our processing, and port facilities, to export higher volumes once we’re deep into the heart of the sweet spot underground – which, we hope can be sometime next year.”

          He went through the slides, explaining how mining underground would result in significantly higher yields of copper and gold per ton mined. After which, I asked, “How much of this proposed plan have you shared with analysts at investment banks?” 

          Jim Bob interjected, “I spoke with several sell-side analysts at the conference. Your investment house colleagues provide their research free of charge, unfortunately, which can dilute its value to investors. We’ve found institutional shareholders prefer independent analysis someone like you performs.”

          True and he was playing me for sure, I thought. “I appreciate your confidence,” I said, “and I’d like to hear more about the underground initiative. But, for now, could you please enlighten me as to how you manage this Grasberg asset from so far away? Also, what is the glue insuring your concession with the Indonesian Government doesn’t change? There is concern on the ‘Street’ that a change in government may dilute FCX’s prospective value if you’re forced to take a lower revenue share?”

          “Frank, Rob here is one of three technical managers – who, along with hundreds of geologists, engineers and executives, travel every two weeks on our seven-fifty-seven to our camps in Grasberg. On site, we manage thousands of indigenous workers on a two-week on, and two-week off basis. I myself am there every month as well. My boys have been with me for years, and know what they’re doing. And, you can trust me when I tell you that we have a very strong relationship with the powers in and behind the government. No matter who’s in power, they need us more than we need them.”

          His response to my second question required unadulterated trust and, while I’m inherently wired to be skeptical, I believed him and felt satisfied with knowing he was personally hands-on, despite the distance between the New Orleans corporate headquarters and the mining operations in Indonesia. Jim Bob went on: “Let’s go down to the War Room, where we’d like to show you how we’re designing this new underground initiative.” Standing on Jim Bob’s lead, he led us to a private elevator next to an alcove bar in his office. He made conversation on the ride down. “Do you plan to stay awhile with this girlfriend you got down here?” 

          “No sir, I don’t go out with her any longer. Her dad passed away and left her a saloon she’s busy running. At some point last year, she freaked out a little on me.”

          “That must be Big Sal Greco’s daughter,” Robert said. “The place is named after her. It’s been in the Quarter since I was a teenager.”

          Jim Bob, a few inches taller than me, pitched his head down and said, “You best be careful now. These crazy Eye-talian Creole girls that grew up in the Quarter, they get a man on their mind…they get that man, and wrastle him down to livin down here.”

          “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, as the elevator door opened into a large conference room.

          Below crown molding in the War Room, walls were clad in cork and white boards on rollers were positioned all around for on-the-fly demos and spit balling. Dozens of engineering plans and renderings, side-by-side with aerial photographs of the Grasberg operation, were pinned up on walls and spread on tables. Robert proceeded to draw a picture on one of the white boards of what he termed, ‘the block caving method’.

          “Underneath this mountain, Frank, is the core of the sweet spot in The Ring of Fire,” Jim Bob said, pointing at Robert’s drawing with a steady conviction. “For us geologists, this is The Holy Grail. Mining it, I believe, will reveal The Mother Lode of the mother lode.”

          Back in his office, I offered to circle back with Robert after doing a little homework. Jim Bob said, “Rob can take as much time with you as necessary now, Frank.” 

          “I’m so sorry; I have to run, Jim Bob. I promised my ex, I’d meet her for lunch and help her with a lost friend.”

          “Ha!” Jim Bob laughed out loud. “She’s playin you, boy.”

          “Yah, you’re probably right.”

          Robert said, “I’ll call the driver to take you where you need to go, Mr. Corso.”

          “Thanks so much,” I said.

  A random switch suddenly changed Jim Bob’s mood, as if a darkness was moving him in a different direction. I felt the conversation shift to a language unrelated. He turned deadly serious, and his raised in the bayous patois took over. “You watch yah’self in the Qua’tah now. It’s a Ring of Fi’ah.”

          Shaking his hand, I said. “Yes sir, I will.” 

          I greeted Miss Lynne with a courteous wave, thanking her again before heading down the hall with Robert Di Stefano. In the elevator I asked, “What’s your elevator pitch on mining the underground?”

          “Jim Bob’s looking to supersize Grasberg’s production. Samples we’ve taken from the core we indicated we’re targeting, suggest that uncovering what’s deep down under the mountain is the proverbial El Dorado.”

          “If it plays out as you two described, you’ll be making enough to buy out your competitors,” I said, half-joking.

          “Yeah, Jim Bob’s a man with big ideas.”

          Trying to find a common ground to support developing a direct relationship with him for the future, I asked, “You’re Italian, no?” 

          “Yes sir, my grandparents came over on the boat from Sicily to Ellis Island in nineteen hundred. They were just kids – some didn’t make it through the journey, I’m afraid. I don’t know what caused so many Italians to board trains for Louisiana, but a hell of a lot of ’em did. More than any place but New York, in fact. We’ve been here now for three generations.”

          “Yah, Big Sal Greco told me his parents came over at the turn of last century too, and that the most common language in the Quarter at the time was Sicilian Italian.”

          “True, according to my grandfather as well.”

          “Can I call you for lunch before I leave? There may be additional engineering questions I have after studying your presentation. I’d like to be able to tap you to help me understand, if necessary.”

           “Certainly, it’ll be my pleasure.”   

           As we stepped outside under an overcast sky, I said, “I’ll give you a call tomorrow after studying the presentation tonight.”

          He waved to an executive size black Mercedes idling in the fire lane by the parking garage. A tinted passenger-side window scrolled down as it pulled up to the front steps. He leaned in to speak to the driver. “Tom, would you please take our guest, Mr. Corso, where he needs to go?”

          Tom answered with a nod.

                                                                                                               _____

In the back seat, I asked Jim Bob’s driver to drop me at Maggie’s Bar on Bourbon Street. Prompting conversation from a dead silence, I inquired, “How long have you been Mr. Moffett’s driver?”

         Perhaps slighted at my presumption, he reacted with a bit of blunt contempt I took as a sign his status was of greater purpose. “I’m the Director of Security for Mr. Moffett and the companies, and a former Special Agent for the F–B–I in the Bureau’s New Orleans office. Jim Bob hired me a few years ago.”

        Adapting to validate his position, I said, “I hear Jim Bob hires a lot of great local people.”

        “That’s right, he’s a poor boy from South Louisiana that’s made good and hasn’t forgotten his roots.”

         On a whim, I said, “As a former F–B–I agent, may I ask you some professional advice?”

         “I’ll do what I can to be of service.” 

         “My ex-girlfriend, Maggie, she’s the owner of the saloon where you’re dropping me, has a friend who didn’t come home last night. I understand she has to wait twenty-four hours before filing a Missing Person’s Report. She’s persuaded me to assist her, and I’d like to say I have a good idea or two. You have any suggestions?”

          Thinking a minute, he said, “Well…the first question is: ‘Who’ is lost? Once you understand ‘who’, their background, and disposition, figuring out the ‘why’, and ‘what’ happened to the person becomes an easier task.”

          “Good point. The thing is, best I can tell, the ‘who’ is an actor in a clairvoyant side-hustle operation with her mother. You ever heard of the ‘Hoodoo Witch’ and her daughter?”

          “Yes.”

           I grabbed the headrest and pulled myself-up in anticipation. “You know her?”

          “I recall a recent rumor that their séances were something really supernatural. There’s no shortage of Halloween merchants and locals who make a living promoting the occult here. There are obviously a few grifter types: Voodoo hustlers, con artists promoting paranormal activities, and scoundrels preying on tourists. The famous novelist, Anne Rice, lives here in the Garden District, and her fans believe this place is a Mecca for Vampires. Tour guides have even put graveyards on their itineraries as a result of interest in her books. There seems to be a magnetic attraction to the supernatural down here.”

           “Like moths to a flame,” I concurred.

           “Yes, but I want to say, the Hoodoo Witch is taken seriously by some locals. I’m not sure why? It’s just what I’ve heard.”

          “So where would you start if you were me?”

          He slowed the car, made the turn on Bourbon Street, and looked over his shoulder briefly. “If I was you, I’d be asking who was at the last séance.” Stopping in front of Maggie’s, he handed me his card. “My mobile number is on the back. Feel free to give me a call if I can be of any further assistance…and, good luck.”

          “Thanks for the help,” I said, reaching to shake his hand. 

                                                                                                              _____

Stepping inside Maggie’s, Carson was wiping down the far end of the bar. It was before noon, and there were a few morning alcoholics nursing the hair of the dog by a standing table near the bandstand.

          Maggie’s was a late nineteenth-century barroom her father had scraped together the money to buy in the seventies. The original zinc top cypress bar ran parallel to two rows of bottles, which lined the front of high arching mirrors, set back from thin-fluted columns stained by years of tobacco smoke. Its unique French meets Spanish and Creole American style is emblematic of the building architecture in The French Quarter – which, relative to any other city in America, underpins the melting pot character of the place.

          Taking a stool down across from Carson, I stared at the chipped round wooden pulls, mounted on beaten-up distressed drawers, below the bottles on the top shelf. I recalled fondly Maggie’s father telling me this was his family’s ‘Hope Chest’. Lost in reminiscence, the place provided a feeling of being on perpetual vacation. Carson was staring at me and broke into my mojo. “What’ll you have?”

          “Medium-dry Beefeater Martini with olives, please.”

          Stopping at a bar for a Martini at eleven-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday was no surprise to bartenders supported by The Big Easy’s booze culture. He said flatly, “I remember your preference.”

          “Much appreciated. You see Maggie here yet today?”

          “Not yet, I just opened up a little while ago.”

          “She was looking for you this morning at the Maison, and found me. Funny…we’re both staying there, huh?”

          “Unusual, yes,” he said bluntly.

          “You hear that the young girl who came in yesterday evening, Aureole, didn’t make it back home last night? You know: the one you serve ice tea pretending its whiskey.”

          “Yes, Miss Angel at the front desk told me.”

          “I didn’t tell her. And as far as I know, Maggie didn’t tell her. How would she know?”

          “Miss Angel can hear through walls,” Carson said.

          “Noted,” I said.

         A minute later, a large tackle size black man, with a barrel chest, looking like a bald Mean Joe Green, walked in and checked his head our way. Removing his overcoat revealed a badge clipped to his blazer’s breast pocket. On approaching, he spoke with a soft monotone that put me at ease from his giant physical presence. “Good day, gentlemen. I’m looking for the proprietor?”

          “Is she in trouble?” I asked.

         He held out a hand. “No…I’m a friend of a friend, who asked me to drop by for a visit. I’m Detective Odysseus Smith, N–O–P–D, my friends call me, ‘Odie’.”

  Shaking his football size hand, I said, “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Frank Corso. Is your visit concerning the missing girl?”

          “Yes it is.”

         Maggie entered a moment later, out of breath. “…Carson, I’ve been looking all over for you,” she managed to whisper loudly.

        The Detective introduced himself. “Ma’am, I’m doing a favor for a friend of Miss Rachel’s by stopping to visit regard-ing her daughter.”

          “Did you call the police?” Maggie looked at me.

          “No,” I said, and quickly added, “somebody else must have called. Perhaps you can enlighten us, Detective?”

          “Are you the proprietor, Miss Maggie?” Detective Smith asked.

           “Yes, I am,” she said, and pointed to us separately. “This is my ex-boyfriend, Frank, and that’s Carson.”

          The Detective made an effort to answer my question. “I suppose Miss Rachel called just about everybody she knew. But that doesn’t matter. How can I be of service?”

         Maggie explained Aureole had come in yesterday afternoon for her usual Monday after school visit. “She sat down here at the end,” Maggie pointed at my seat and across the bar to Carson. “She took her usual glass of iced tea, which she pretends is whiskey, and spoke with Carson.”

         Maggie went on to inform Detective Smith of Miss Rachel’s six o’clock in the morning call. She described walking Aureole outside to Bourbon Street the previous night, and watching her walk towards Canal and the turn at Iberville Street on her way to her next stop at Nik’s Greek Islands Restaurant to pick-up dinner. Maggie confirmed this was her routine for the better part of the last year.

          “So,” the Detective said, “presumably then, you were not the last to see her?”

          “I don’t know. I’ve been meaning to call Nik, but was busy looking for Carson and Miss Rachel. Let’s call him now,” Maggie said.

          “No need, I’ll walk over there after we visit here for a few more minutes,” the Detective said. “I’m wondering, if this was part of her routine, why her mother didn’t call you last night.”

            Maggie exchanged a look with me, and I injected: “That was my first thought.”

            The Detective moved on, “Mr. Carson, what do you recall?”

           Carson communicated she came in every Monday for the better part of the last year or so. He had stowed a bottle of Wild Turkey converted to chilled ice tea in the beer cooler, because the first time Aureole came in she ordered ‘whiskey’. He explained they would talk about her week at school, and that she left after thanking him.

          “Mr. Carson, I assume you know it’s illegal for a minor to sit and be served anything where the principle commodity is alcohol.”

          “Yes sir, I do,” Carson answered.

          “Alright, let’s move on,” the Detective said, while jotting notes in a hand size pad taken from his breast pocket. “Miss Maggie, could you find Miss Rachel and get me the most recent photo of the girl? I’d like to circulate her picture this afternoon. My office is on Royal Street, at the Eighth District Police Station. I’ll be back there shortly after lunch. Perhaps, if you can locate Miss Rachel, you could bring her along.”

        “What happens after that?” Maggie asked. “Do you put out an A–P–B, or a bulletin…or, whatever you call it…so the police can start looking for her?”

          “Not exactly, but rest assured, I will give it my personal attention …as if it was my own daughter.”

          Turning to Maggie, I said, “Maybe you should give the Detective some background on Aureole’s disposition and sensibilities…ahh her unique nature…as you described to me this morning.”

          “I know all about that,” the Detective said.

          “You believe in this supernatural stuff, Detective?”

          “I believe every child is a miracle, Mr. Corso.” 

          “May I suggest then, Maggie also ask Miss Rachel for a list of who attended the last séance.”

          “That’s a good idea. Are you in law enforcement, Mr. Corso?”

          “No sir. I’m in the business of performing due diligence on public companies,” I said, putting out my hand as he shifted to leave. “It’s nice meeting you. By the way, do you guys use surveillance video in the French Quarter? We should check–”

          He held up a hand to cut me off. “–No, Mayor Nagin authorized installing of video surveillance system in the French Quarter a few months ago, but it’s not functioning yet. There have been issues with the contractor, I understand.”

          I still had half of a Martini left. It was past noon, and I needed a nap. I turned to Carson, and asked for a to-go cup. You can do that in the Quarter, ask to take your booze and roam the streets. He put the balance of my drink in a plastic cup. Excusing myself, I took my remaining to-go Martini, and told Maggie my headache hadn’t gone away with the hair of the dog. 

          “Thanks, Frank…truly,” she said, sporting a tinge of a smile.

          “See you around Happy Hour?” I said, in greeting. “We may have heard something by then.”

                                                                                                            _____

Outside it was still unusually cold. The midday sun was angling to clear the overcast sky, and warm the afternoon. Staring out across Bourbon Street perspectives, crisscrossed with holiday decorations, chains of Christmas lights were interwoven with green garland and colorful wreath centerpieces between intersections. The lampposts were dressed in candy cane themed feathered boas, and the balconies above were decorated to each occupant’s individual festive fancy. The scene fanned flames for a welcome holiday season, and provided a sense of relief from the morning’s stresses. The inner calming effect lasted five seconds, though, as a bolt of lightning exited spacetime in my brain and zapped me with an epiphany. I chucked my remaining Martini into the gutter, and broke into a run.

­­­­                                                                                                           _____

Back at the hotel, the day manager was at the helm of the small alcove front office. Charlie, a tall, well-groomed, handsome young man of mixed race, referred to himself as a true New Orleanian. An always neatly suited and engaging sort of fellow, he had told me on my first stay, after being thrown out of Maggie’s apartment, he was the son of a Frenchman and a Haitian mother. I asked him for a Ziploc bag, which given his hospitality DNA for guest service, and amiable nature, suggested he would be quick to procure for me.

       He emerged from The Bistro’s shared kitchen with the hotel some minutes later with a large freezer bag. I thanked him with a twenty dollar tip and ran up the stairs.

         In my room, I set down the plastic cup, which I had carried back in the sprint down Bourbon Street, careful to only pinch by the rim. Opening the plastic bag, I sealed it inside. I wasn’t really thinking – but, I was thinking – if, you know what I mean.

         From my new Nokia cell phone, I placed a call to my friend Joe, who owns a car booting service in Houston. He had told me, back in the Enron days, as part of a parking enforcement contract, he was hooked-up to a data base which contained every valid driver’s license in the country. “Hello, Joe…it’s Frank, long-time no talk. How have you been?”

         Following a back and forth catch-up exchange, I explained I was in New Orleans and needed a favor. “It’s probably nothing. I’m here for just a couple days. My ex-girlfriend, Maggie – you met her at the Jazz Fest last year–”

          “–Yeah,” he cut in, “she’s the good looking Italian girl with the big hair that owns the bar on Bourbon, right? I would of thought you’d still be going out with her.”

          “Yah, me too…anyway…I’ll update you on that later. Listen Joe, she has a young friend who’s gone missing. On a hunch, I’d like you to check this guy out for me. Can you run all drivers’ licenses under the name Jeff or Jeffrey – last name – Carson, through your system?”     

          “I’m not supposed to do that for anyone that doesn’t work for the City of Houston’s Parking Enforcement, but I’ll do it for you, Frank. Can you give me a description? I can tell you what I see, but I can’t email you anything. Hold on a sec…I’ll go to my desk.”

         “He looks about forty years old – if not a little older, and is around six feet tall, maybe a bit taller. He has the kinda blond or light brown stubble shaved head that a guy typically cuts short to mask a receding hairline. His eyes are blue, and he’s lean and stoic with a rounded but rough-chiseled face, if that makes any sense. Think: Bruce Willis, if that’s any help.”

         Some time passed, and I could hear Joe scrolling with taps on his keyboard. “I got something,” he said, pausing to read for a moment. “…I can see here a, Carson, Jefferson J., born July third, nineteen-seventy-one, in Alexandria, Virginia. Looks like he’s only thirty-three years old, Frank. He has very short light brown hair in this picture, blue eyes, six feet one inches tall, according to his license. This’s the closest match.”

           “Huh, he seems much closer to forty than thirty-three. The face, I guess. What state?”

           “California.”

           “Does California require fingerprints on the I–D?”

           “Yeah, there’s a thumb print on his license.”

          “Great, listen Joe, I’m going to Fedex you a plastic cup with his prints and mine on it. Can you procure the right powder, or tape, or whatever’s needed to cross-reference the fingerprint on a license and tell me if it’s a match?”

          “You gotta be kidding me, Frank. What are you, Columbo now?” Joe mocked me, “I guess…since we’re playing in the next spin-off of C–S–I in New Orleans, I could talk to one of my drivers, who’s moonlighting as a tech on weekends at police forensics and see what he can do. I’ll ask if he can find anyone who does this sort of thing – if, this is really important to you.”

          “It is, and I really appreciate it. My ex, Maggie, will appreciate it too. I’ll make sure you have a loose tab at her bar next time you come to town.”

          “Sweet,” Joe said.

         “Thanks man, I wanna make sure it’s the same guy. There’s just something about him I can’t put my finger on. He’s emotionless, like an automaton – doesn’t speak and doesn’t drink. I don’t trust people that don’t drink, Joe.”

         “I hear ya…me neither. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll make a copy of his license and Fedex it to you if we get a match on the prints. But hey, Frank, you didn’t get it from me? Where’re you staying?”

         I gave Joe the address to The Maison de Ville Hotel, grabbed my coat, and rushed down the stairs to ask Charlie where the nearest cab stand was. Directing me to the Hotel Monteleone, he said, “All the bigger fancy hotels have Taxi Stands.”     

                                                                                                               _____

Waking to an alarm set for 4:00pm after an afternoon catch-up nap, I stretched in bed comforted by a hangover now finally gone. I learned early on as a teenager, one summer when my parents had taken us to meet our grandparents in Italy, taking a nap after lunch turns out to have a physiological purpose other than sleeping off the wine after a long Neapolitan lunch. An hour or two of sleep every afternoon, as it turns out, is what my grandparents – on both sides – attributed to having more energy in the evenings, a booster in their ability to remember things, and most likely to improve their chances for joining their local Centenarian club. That, and, of course, the two hour lunches washed down with wine made them sleepy.

        I called downstairs and asked Charlie if he could whip me up an espresso, and rolled into the bathroom for my second shower of the day. The grittiness hangs heavy in the air here, likely supported by a relaxed discipline for loosening restraints on sin. The Big Easy’s in close competition with New York in this respect, and is a two shower per day town.

        Recharged, I cracked a window, threw on my black pair of jeans and a sweater, and sat at the desk to study the FCX presentation Robert had provided me. I pulled out my research notebook to high-light any comments. 

        A knock confirmed Charlie’s arrival with my espresso. A perfect espresso is defined by the layer of thick brown sch-iuma foam resting blissfully across the surface of the black liquid. This one was perfect. I complimented Charlie, and gave him a twenty dollar tip.

        I recorded my observations and thoughts regarding block caving, cross-referenced from my meeting with Jim Bob and Rob Di Stefano, and roughed-out the outline of what my Update to clients on the company should include. Setting FCX aside about a half hour later, I took out a spare spiral notebook from my bag and made one entry for a title: AUREOLE.

                                                                                                              _____

I looked at my watch: 5:00pm sharp. Grabbing my coat, I found Charlie at attention in front of the office to greet me on my way out. “Charlie, great espresso, thanks again.”

          “My pleasure, Mr. Frank,” he said.

          I paused for a second, “…Hey Charlie, quick question: Do you know Mr. Jeff who lives here?”

          “Yes sir, Mr. Frank.”

          “I know he works until quite late at Maggie’s Bar, and I’d like to slip a note under his door on something before I go to bed tonight. What room’s he in?”

          “He’s in Room 3, across the hall from you, Mr. Frank. You share the Tennessee Williams’ balcony.”

          Surprised, I questioned: “The Tennessee Williams balcony?”

          “Yes sir, Mr. Tennessee Williams lived in one of our cottages over on Dauphine Street where we have a swimming pool. But, we like to tell the guests he liked the balcony for writing when he would come to the main hotel.”

          “I’m guessing it helps support the room rate for the front suites,” I added with quick wink. “Question Charlie: did he write, ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’, when he lived in your cottages?”

          “No sir, he wrote that earlier when he was living down a ways on St. Peter Street.”

          I checked east on Toulouse Street, towards the river, when I took a step off the sidewalk. Daylight was rapidly transitioning to night, and forewarned of the winter’s solstice: December’s shortest days. I speculated as I walked towards Bourbon Street. When Aureole left Maggie’s place last night, it must have already been dark. The early turn to darkness of winter, suggested Aureole wasn’t just going to pop-up with a story like, ‘I was visiting a friend and forgot to call’.

         On Bourbon, en route to Maggie’s Bar, random questions invaded my thoughts. What is the range of possibilities surrounding Aureole’s disappearance? And, why would the Maison give up the revenue for a premium room facing Toulouse for the handyman? The front-of-the-house suite had been carefully cultivated by the hotel’s owners to have a balcony blessed with celebrity status. Is Carson paying for it? My room’s costing me $250 a day, plus state, city, and God only knows what other resort, hotel, and whatever taxes politicians can think up to fill their deficit spending. It was very strange to say the least. Drifter comes into town a year ago, gets job at Maggie’s, and resides in one of the most expensive suites in the house. I concluded this was worthy of noting in my Aureole Journal.

         Christmas red and white lights supercharged rockets of traditional green, gold, and purple colors of Mardi Gras, blasting out from storefronts. The warm holiday feeling was coaxing to comeback and transport me into the nightly parade of tourists unsuspecting of anything afoul. But, like the calm stare of a cobra hissing its prey into hypnotic submission before spitting venom in its eyes, the turn to a black sky  came with an analogous linkage: a psychic putting the sting on the wrong person could result in, Vendetta.

          By the time I reached Maggie’s place, I was convinced the séance business required well-practiced and well-orchestrated magician-like illusions. There was also the possibility Miss Rachel had arranged the disappearance to generate a little publicity. This would explain why she doesn’t call until early the next morning.

          Maggie’s had a few dozen customers, which didn’t seem bad for a Tuesday night. Minding her station at the entry side of the barroom, I took a stool in front of her and nodded down to the end of the bar at Carson who looked my way.

          She reached in the back pocket of her jeans, and pulled out two folded pieces of copy paper. Sliding the copies across the zinc, she said, “Here ya go; it’s a color copy of Aureole’s latest photo, and Miss Rachel’s Guest Book from Sunday.”

          Unfolding it, I asked, “Did you give these to the Detective?”

          “Yeah, I took Miss Rachel to his office and dropped her too. He’d already seen Papa Nik, who told him Aureole didn’t show-up to get dinner last night either. I stayed for the first few minutes, and came over to get the place prepped. My cook called in sick, but I think he’s off filling in somewhere else where they’re paying him more money. So I had to juggle some back-a-the-house schedules.”

          “Did he ask Miss Rachel, why she waited until this morning to call anyone looking for her daughter?”

          “Yeah, she said she’d fallen asleep. When she woke up to go to the bathroom this morning, she found Aureole hadn’t come home.”

          “I guess that makes sense.”

           I looked at the photo: Aureole had corkscrew black hair that fell a little past her shoulders, and surrounded a round face still a few years away from shedding the last vestiges of baby fat. Plump lips below a pretty nose, that turned up a bit, were framed by large oval light brown eyes.

           The names of the séance attendees read: Chef Paul; Sal Greco, Jr.; Mengual Villa Lobo; Harland Harwell, Esq.; and, Mr. & Mrs. Steve and Rita Braithwaite, from Minneapolis, staying at the Monteleone Hotel. The names were neatly printed by the same hand, and signed to the right illegibly. I asked Maggie: “Sal Greco, Jr. is your brother, no?”

          “Yeah, Little Sal’s my brother.”

          “Have you spoken with him?”

          “Yeah, I called. He was there, but he didn’t have any idea about the others, except for Chef Paul, who’s an old friend of my father’s. I told Little Sal we’d visit with him tomorrow, okay?”

          “Yah,” I said, squeezing one of her hands for assurance. “Does it seem odd to you, that the couple, the Braithwaite’s, listed where they were from and where they were staying?”

          Pondering, she said, “…I think they probably wanted Miss Rachel to know they had travelled from far away and were expecting special attention.”

          “What about the others. Do you know any of them?”

          “Chef Paul, is Paul Prudhomme: owns K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen down on Chartres Street. It’s just a couple blocks from the Cathedral. Menny owns the Villa Lobo Antiques store in Exchange Alley opposite the Monteleone parking lot garage. Harland’s the leader of the get-the-buck-or-your-outta-luck Mafiosi of plaintiffs’ lawyers getting rich preying on accident victims down here. It’s a really big business in Louisiana.”

          “How do ya know the ambulance chasers?”

          “They come in on Friday locals’ Society Day before Fat Tuesday. We serve them free booze. My old Daddy, Big Sal, used to tell me, ‘anything that happens in this bar that anyone slips and falls or, God forbid, gets shot, it’s good to have these boys in our corner’.”

          “And your brother, Sal: Why do you suppose he was at a show to contact the dead?”

          “I don’t know. He hadn’t told me he went to any séances. I know Little Sal knows Miss Rachel from the plaza in Jackson Square, and from church services at the Cathedral. But, it’s not like him to go to a séance. I don’t think priests are allowed.”

“Have you been to one?”

          “Yeah, a couple times,” she said. “I’d like to go to more, but Miss Rachel and Aureole only started doing these ceremonies earlier this year on Sundays. By Sunday night, after running my bar all week, I’m beat and ready for bed when I’m done cleaning-up around here.”

          “What did you do when you went?”

          “I spoke to my Daddy.”

           I wasn’t going to go there. Maggie had already made it clear she was a believer. “Can you tell me about your brother, Sal? I’ve met him multiple times, but he doesn’t seem the type who would attend a ceremony to contact the dead.”

          “He went to the Notre Dame Seminary on Carrollton. My parents pushed him, of course. They wanted one of their four boys to be a priest. He went on to get a P–h.–D in the History of Christianity from Notre Dame in Indiana, then to a Vatican College in Rome, and now he’s next in line to the Sunday throne at St. Louis.”

          “If you’re right, it seems a risky gambit going outside the church guidelines.” 

          “Awe…I don’t know…I run a bar. I haven’t seen him much lately, except on Sundays briefly, or for a brunch after church.”

          “Okay, bar lady. One Martini, please.”

          “Com’n up,” she said.

          The up-and-down motions of the steel cocktail shaker rocked her breasts, and got me to thinking and fixated in the moment. She was an olive-skinned beauty with chiseled cheekbones, full lips, and an hourglass figure – bubbled in all the right places from growing-up on pizza and lasagna with spaghetti and meatballs on top.

          Watching her opalescent dark brown eyes, as she transferred the synthesized blend of gin and vermouth to the Martini glass, a cosmic faculty, by which all senses crashed to freeze me into a wax state in one of Madame Tussauds’ museums, had me fixated on Maggie. She noticed, reached across to shake my arm, and winked. “Hey…I’m so glad you’re here.”

          “Yah,” I said, stretching my arms and neck, and failing to project I was focused on something other than what I was focused on. “I was scheduled to leave tomorrow, but I have to circle back around with Freeport anyway. So I’m gonna push back leaving for a couple days. It’ll give me some time to maybe be of a little help.”

          We struck up a bar conversation about Christmas in New Orleans with a few visitors from Austin. They had asked if there was a band set to play anytime soon. They seemed keen to know the schedule, and Maggie explained: “We have a band this time of year only on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturday’s. Friday and Saturday next week, though, they’re off for Christmas Eve and Christmas.” Sensing they were likely to visit again, she went on to inform the Austinites that for Mardi Gras, French Quarter Fest, and Jazz Fest, they could expect bands every night at all the bars along Bourbon Street.

         By eight o’clock I had devoured a bacon blue cheese burger from the menu that was pretty good, considering Maggie’s dishwasher was masquerading as the cook. Feeling full, and requiring a good night’s sleep, I leaned over the bar to Maggie and said, “I’m kinda tired, and I have to study a presentation from my meeting today at Freeport. I think I’m gonna hit the road and turn-in early tonight.”       

          She ducked underneath the pass-thru of the bar to walk me out. “Hey,” I said, “I wanna make some mental notes. I came in yesterday around five o’clock. My flight had arrived from New York around three. I then took a cab to the Maison, unpacked, and after a shower I made the mistake of choosing your watering hole for what was sup-posed to be a three day trip.” I laughed during the ‘mistake’ part for a little levity, but her raised eyebrows and a crooked smile suggested she didn’t share the sentiment. I moved on, “But for some reason, I wanna say, it was dark when I arrived here yesterday. The sun went down minutes after five today. You think I could have arrived later? Say around half past five or so?”

          “Maybe,” she said. “Why’s that important?”

          “Well, you said that Aureole came in and sat a stool over from me. I’d already had a Martini when she sat down, because I recall ordering another one when she ordered her ‘whiskey’. You said, she comes here on Monday afternoons after school and then goes to the Greek guy’s place to pick-up dinner. Presumably, that would suggest she came in later than usual last night, well after dark, and her typical routine had been deferred for an unknown reason. Was it dark when she came last night?”

          “Yes, it was…hmm,” Maggie mused.

          “Was it dark the week before, and the week before that, when she came in?”

          “You know…I don’t know,” Maggie said, looking confused.

          “It’s probably nothing,” I said. “I get too obsessed sometimes with details for my own good. I’ll call you later, if I think of anything else.”

          “Yeah, keep thinkin, Frank. That’s one thing I like about you.”

          “Yah, what’s the other thing?”

          She just smiled and looked away.

                                                                                                                 _____

I was walking north to the Maison, but was compelled to cut in an easterly direction over to Royal Street. A sometimes uncontrollable autopilot redirected me to visit with Mr. and Mrs. Braithwaite at the Hotel Monteleone.

        Standing on the elegant floor of two-tone framed Italian marble, I surveyed the lobby’s classic Nouvelle-Orléans style of Beaux-Arts design. Spotting what I was looking for, I approached the oddly positioned concierge desk at the center of all the guest traffic. I guessed the tuxedoed woman in charge of the Louis XV antique desk was part of the pageantry of the historic property.

         I had no plan. I figured I would just wing-it if I could engage the couple to speak with me. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “I was hoping you might help me. I have some friends that are guests staying here from Minnesota: Steve and Rita Braithwaite. Do you mind calling the room for me, please?”

         She immediately countered with: “They’re not in the room. I just made a reservation for them for eight-thirty across the street at Mr. B’s Restaurant. You’ll find they’re having a drink before dinner in our Carousel Bar.”

          I thanked her, and walked back towards the front entrance. The hotel’s Carousel Bar was up a few steps, adjacent to the main entry’s revolving brass framed glass doors.

         The Carousel Bar is basically what it sounds like: a round carousel that slowly rotates around and around a fixed service bar, fashioned in an amusement park motif from a mid-eighteen hundreds era when the hotel was originally built. Part of the time, a patron seated at the revolving bar can angle views outside on Royal Street from the bay window. But, most of the revolution provides arcing views of action in the lounge areas.

         I stood outside the rotating edge of the bar and seated barstools, containing my excitement, and waved to order a drink. I ordered the second of my day’s Martinis – if you don’t count the half of one I had before tossing the balance of it in the street before lunchtime.

          Without a clue of what the Braithwaite’s looked like, my instantly conceived plan was to eavesdrop on the fully seated carousel until I heard the name ‘Steve’, or ‘Rita’, as it spun around and around. I didn’t have to wait long, when an attractive older woman passing in front of me said, “Steve, I’ll have a second one of these Margaritas.”

          To which Steve replied, “Darling, it’s your eighty-fourth birthday. I’m twenty-years younger darling, and it still amazes me how you can handle tequila better than any of the younger men I know at my club back home.”

          As they rotated away from me, and the conversation faded, a man sitting next to Rita’s right stood up to leave. Cued to stage, I moved in with my Martini to sit down next to her. Lucky for me, they were the chit-chatty type, and I didn’t have to think of anything to spark a connection. Her second Margarita was placed by the barman a little closer to my side of the bar space. Reaching for her drink, she paused and looked at me looking at her. “…What brings you here, young man?”

          “You mean New Orleans, or the Carousel Bar?”

          “Both,” Rita said.

          “It’s my birthday,” I lied. “I’m supposed to meet my girl here after she finishes work and then go out to hear some jazz.”

          “That’s a coincidence. My birthday was Saturday,” she said.

 I complimented her. “Wait! Let me guess, you’re forty-nine and just turned fifty?”

          “Ha-ha! You’re too kind,” Rita said. “What’s your name?”

          “Frank.”

          “I’m Rita, and this is my second husband, Steve–”

          Steve cut in: “My wife is eighty-four. Can you believe it?”

          It was hard to believe, she really did look great and younger than her husband who was 20-years her junior. In close proximity, and un- der the soft lighting of amber filaments in the carousel’s bulbs framed overhead, I could see fine healed lines of expert plastic surgery in and around the edges. “No,” I said sincerely, “truly, you have the best genes I’ve ever seen. You look like you’re not even fifty years of age. Where’re y’all visiting from?”

          Steve replied, “We’re from Minneapolis. We came down here last year before Christmas for a week. We loved it so much; we came back again this year.”

          “What’d ya do for your birthday, anything special?” I said, trying to sound a little more like a local.

          Smiling and staring at each other, they spoke in unison: “We went to a séance.”

          “Jinx,” I said.

          “No, it’s not a jinx,” Steve said.

          “Jinx, is something they say when two people say the exact same thing simultaneously. I don’t mean you guys or your show are jinxed in any way.” 

          “Oh no…it wasn’t a ‘show’,” Rita made air quotes and shook her head. “No…it was a…real séance,” she said with real enthusiasm.

          Since they were eager to have someone to talk to, I was eager to encourage. “That’s crazy…tell me, how so?” 

          Rita said, “Some friends of ours had told us about a friend of theirs who lives down here, and knew of a true medium.”

          “Com ’on, Rita, you’ve been around almost a century. You didn’t believe you would actually talk to a spirit, did you?”

          “Of course not, but as long as we were coming down anyway, we thought, why not, let’s make a night of it. A séance, dinner, maybe some dancing, and some after dinner rumpy bumpy,” she said.

          I looked at Steve. He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

          She went on, “I was very surprised though. It wasn’t anything like I had thought it would be.”

          The clock was ticking: it was passed the time for them to leave for their reservation. Steve told me they decided to go as an amusing lark; but they left most certain the girl had a true mystical connection to the hereafter. Rita had spoken with her mother, who told her: ‘No rush, forever together was forever together, whenever she’d come. There is no pain, crying or suffering, in the everlasting and unending skies of the spirits’. They didn’t know the others there, except that all seemed nice and to be believers. Rita explained the girl was put on the table, face-up, and it shook as her mother chanted her into what appeared to be some type of hypnotic trance. The girl spoke with a child’s voice, but Rita was certain it was her mother who was doing the speaking.

          Sensing my time was running out, I asked, “How long you guys going to be here? I’d like my girlfriend to meet you.”

          Steve checked his watch. “Actually darling, we have to be going. Our reservation was for ten minutes ago.”

          “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said, and I stood up to shake hands and greet them goodbye.

          “Nice meeting you too,” Rita said.

          “By the way, can I ask how much they charged you?

          “You give a donation after the ceremony for what you think the experience is worth. We donated a hundred dollars each, and it was worth every penny,” Steve said.

      Having left for their dinner reservation, I hung back – ostensibly waiting for my girlfriend, and chatted with the barman for a bit.

                                                                                                              _____

Making my way down Royal Street towards the Maison, I walked by the 8^th District Station thinking about the exchange with Steve and Rita. I noted, though, in passing the Station to grab a cab for FedEx earlier, and walking by coming over tonight, it had no police cars in front and I thought it was a hotel.

         I stripped down into a robe, and poured myself a glass of water from the bathroom sink. Taking another few minutes to write down the day’s related highlights, I took my Aureole Journal into bed. I thought about how Miss Rachel and her daughter might pull it off. Avoiding the appearance of a magic trick would require researching the subjects at the séance table beforehand. They must know locals who attend, and have a repertoire of their family information. One or more at the table are likely shills and in on the gag. There must be levers under the table manipulating for effect…”

Author’s Note

         This is a work of fiction. Certain main persons, who appear as: Maggie, Father Sal, Tom O’Hara, and Archangelo Francesco Corso, A/K/A, Frank Corso (my alter ego’s alter ego), perhaps have a basis in reality – as do some of the events and places during the timeline that supports the internal logic of the story. There are also actors like, Jim Bob Moffett, Chef Paul, Caveman, Major Nagin, Judge Feldman, and Joanne of Faulkner House Books, who populate pieces in the book, which are actual individuals. All other characters that make-up the raw material in this story are invented – although, perhaps to an unusual extent, it may appear they don’t realize it.   

         Similarly, some locations, establishments, and events which move the story are historically factual, and necessary to provide a reference structure for readers looking forward to experiencing New Orleans. I have done my best to make that clear. Writers of fiction, however, often use a mix of fact, fiction, and history to immerse their readers and to make their stories ‘work’ in what is sometimes referred to as, ‘faction’. As you may learn from a reference to dreams in reading the story, ‘faction’, like a wake-like dream state, does not – in fact – actually exist. It is, in reality, fiction. Accordingly, many of the places, businesses, and incidents, are the product of my imagination, and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, locales and/or episodes, may be purely coincidental. 

         Lastly, the quality of this writing is not Faulkner, despite the very interesting fact that between 1925 and 1927 he made the French Quarter home. He spent most of his time, when not writing, whiling away the hours drinking in cafes and observing characters who, no doubt, like me, supplied him with raw materials for his work. Thus, any expectation that this work is intended for the critics of literature would be misplaced. Rather than an attempt at high art, this book is a Journal based on contemporaneous notes made for the story at the time.