New Orleans was coming alive. The bells of Saint Louis Cathedral chimed seven o’clock. At Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1, the gates had closed to visitors four hours ago, but the old sexton voiced no objection to the woman creeping past the grave of Homer Plessy. He’d seen her before.
A red-and-white scarf shrouded her face. She paused, allowing the coral pink shades of twilight to silhouette her slender frame before she passed between the graveyard’s whitewashed gateposts. She was leaving this cemetery for the last time, she hoped. The sexton smiled as he closed the squeaky black iron gate behind her.
Once on Basin Street, the woman set down the lidded basket she was carrying and adjusted the belt on her long grey coat. Her mission now was to find and help a certain young man who made his living as a tour guide. At this hour, she was sure she knew where he’d be.
Over on Bourbon Street, Carl and his wife were relishing the street performers and sipping slushy hurricane drinks from plastic go-cups.