Ghost Walk. Heather Graham

play where you work, that’s what Mom always said,” Andy told them with a sad shake of her head.

      “Well, you could just sleep with me,” Mitch said. “We wouldn’t have to play at all.”

      “Hey! Go back to torturing Nikki, will you?” Andy demanded.

      “If you all don’t quit, tomorrow night’s off,” Nikki said.

      “The tour is off?” Julian asked, puzzled.

      “Of course not,” Nikki said patiently. “If you’d all just behave like adults and listen… We had a record month. Max is going to pay for a celebration at Pat O’Brien’s. Dinner and drinks on him, tomorrow, after the night tour.”

      “All right!” Mitch cried happily.

      At that moment Madame D’Orso made one of her sweeping appearances, bearing her elegant coffeepot, chatting with her guests.

      And they were special guests. Their tours met in front of her place, bringing her lots of business.

      “It’s calmed down out here some, huh?” Nikki asked her.

      “Yes. Not that I complain about business, but we had a busy late lunch crowd today,” she told them, pouring them more coffee. At her place, it was premixed. Café au lait meant café au lait.

      “Hey,” Mitch said to her, setting a friendly hand on her back, just above her waist. The gesture wasn’t flirtatious, just affectionate. Mitch was in his late twenties. Madame was in her late…well, hard to tell, but she was a few decades older. “Should Nikki date the bum who was in your place?”

      “What bum?”

      “You didn’t see him?” Andy asked.

      “Honey, I wouldn’t have noticed if Robert E. Lee stopped in. It was busy in there today. As if this parish isn’t nutty enough, it’s election time. Campaigners, do-gooders and politicians everywhere, thick as flies. There’s those trying to clean up the place, make New Orleans a ‘family’ destination. And then there’s those trying to keep her wild, wicked and free.” She removed Mitch’s hand, grinned and moved on.

      “Damn. Wish I’d seen the bum. Then I’d know if we could clean him up enough or not,” Mitch said with a wink.

      “Drop it. Or there will be no free meal for you tomorrow night,” Nikki warned him.

      “It’s dropped,” he assured her.

      Nikki rose. She could see a tour group gathering out front. “Julian, it’s showtime. Andy, you’re following along. Patricia, Nathan, don’t forget you’re on tonight.”

      With a last long swallow of her café au lait, Nikki started off with a smile to meet the growing crowd. Twenty minutes later, she was standing in front of the Bourbon Street bar, once a blacksmith’s shop, that the pirate turned patriot Jean Lafitte was said to haunt. She found the story of the man a fascinating puzzle, and focused her speech on his enigmatic history, along with a mention that there were definitely “spirits” of all sorts to be found there—many of them behind the bar.

      Her smile was as enigmatic as her story. She was certain that Jean Lafitte’s ghost loved to have his story told. She could feel the mischief in the air, something a little wicked, and yet benign.

      She always told the story of the man with affection, and she knew that she always gave her audience a few delightful chills.

      Ghosts filled the streets here, between the neon lights that advertised Girls! Girls! Girls! and the shop fronts offering voodoo charms, the ever-present music, the mimes on the street, the antique shops, the boutiques and the T-shirt shops that also sold pralines and potions.

      It was New Orleans, and she loved it.

      

      Tom Garfield fought to retain his senses, fought because that was what a man did. It was simple instinct. And so many times before, it had served him well. But this time?

      The girl. Had he gotten to the girl? He didn’t know. No matter how he struggled, his mind was deeply fogged.

      There had been a chance.

      But he hadn’t been able to talk.

      And then…

      Then it had been too late. He had been followed.

      Well, it had been a good fight. And he had done as much good as he could. Maybe someone would come after him, someone who knew the truth. He had tried so damn hard to talk…

      He felt a jostling, and he knew. He was being “taken care of.” It no longer mattered, even to him. Dreams were taking over reality. And he could see…

      The woman. Like a fairy-tale princess. Long blond hair, eyes both blue and green…And that face, porcelain, and the look of pity…

      The…money.

      More money than anyone ever gave a bum.

      Not a bum. Once…

      In his mind’s eye, in dreams, all that remained, he could see himself in a suit. No, in a tux. Clean. Walking across a room. And there, the woman…

      He was jostled again, the dream broken. It was her kindness, he thought, that had most moved him.

      He felt the needle.

      Dreams…

      Dreams were good.

      He was dying. And as he died, one regret tore at him.

      They would never know the truth.

      Unless she realized just what she had, what she had received, what he had slipped to her in that instant when they touched…

      It was over. Had he lost? No, he had to die for a reason! God help him, he had to have counted. She had to realize…

      Fading. Fading, fading, and then…

      Death.

      2

      The afternoon French Quarter tour wound up being a long one. They always allowed for questions after the tour, and it turned out they had a lot of people with questions. When they finished, Julian decided to head home, but Nikki wanted to do some shopping, so she and Andy headed off.

      In addition to suggesting the party, Max had given Nikki a bonus. There was a corset shop on Royal Street and a certain piece of clothing she had been coveting for quite a while. On the way they stopped by Andy’s place to check on an old woman, Mrs. Montobello, Andy seemed to have adopted. The woman was full of tales about her younger years in New Orleans. She was an Italian immigrant who’d come to marry a fellow Italian, sight unseen, but now her husband was long gone, her one son had also passed away, and her grandchildren were sweet but living their own lives in New York City.

      That day, she was on a kick about the many voodoo queens, and tarot and palm readers in the French Quarter.

      “All shysters,” she said, shaking her old gray head with animation. “Once upon a time voodoo was a way for the slaves to have something of their own—and to get back at their masters, eh? But I can tell you this—there were women once who really had a special gift.”

      “Mrs. Montobello,” Nikki said, “Marie Laveau supported her ‘powers’ by eavesdropping.”

      “Dear child,” Mrs. Montobello protested. “Don’t you go doubting things just because they can’t be seen. I hear that you give the best ghost tour out there. That people believe they’ve seen ghosts when they get back from a walk with you. That’s because you see them, don’t you?”

      Nikki shook her head. “I think it’s just a matter of seeing history, feeling the emotions that must have played out. But I’m a girl who sees the real picture. We lead tours, we make money. I don’t fall for the shyster palm readers. Oh, I believe there are people who give ‘good’ readings, but I think that’s because they