Kemp packed his things—all of one backpack worth of clothes and assorted personal items—and moved from the
rattrap hotel to what turned out to be a small bed-and-breakfast not too far
from the Quarter. The owner’s wife was very friendly, hovering over him like a
mother hen with a chick. She insisted he join the other guests for supper once
he’d unpacked. The room itself was small but homey, with multi-colored throw
rugs on the hardwood floor and a cheerful comforter on the single bed. After
putting away his meager belongings and talking a quick shower, he made his way
back downstairs to the dining room. An older couple looked up from one table
and smiled before returning to eating. At another table a family of four, the
parents plus two young children, were chattering away as they waited for their
meal to arrive. Shyly Kemp took a seat at a table in the corner and opened his
book.
An hour later he was halfway
through the book and finished with his meal, which he deemed one of the best
he’d had in forever. Feeling at loose ends and not particularly tired, he
decided to go to the Quarter to see if he could make contact with the people
on the list his ‘guardian’ had given him.
The evening was young, the
sidewalks still damp from a late afternoon rain shower. Kemp strolled slowly down
the street from the B&B towards Bourbon
Street. As he got closer he could hear music, and
soon he melded in with the tourists who were headed in the same direction.
He found the first club
easily enough, as soon as he turned onto Bourbon. While he checked it out from
across the street he found himself amused at the tourists who would step inside
and almost immediately leave again. "Guess not everyone who comes here is
a liberal as the locals," he murmured as he crossed and entered.
It looked like any bar in
any city from his rather limited perspective, except for one thing, there were
almost no women there, just a few at tables at one side of the room. A couple
of them were with male companions, the others sat in groups of two or three
eyeing the men in the room. Kemp wondered how long it would take them to
realize that those men were not available, at least to them. As he watched from
the doorway he saw one pair finally figure it out amidst giggles and rolled
eyes before they got up and left.
Silly twits,
he thought as he walked hesitantly towards the bar.
“Well aren’t you a pretty
one,” one of the men sitting there said, looking Kemp over thoroughly, his eyes
lingering at his crotch.
“Eyes front,” his companion
growled, but he too checked Kemp out before wrapping an arm around his friend’s
waist possessively.
“Can I help you kid?” the
bartender asked when Kemp took a stool well away from the pair.
“A beer please.”
The bartender snorted. “You
sure you’re old enough?” he said, holding out his hand for Kemp’s ID. After
checking it he handed it back, muttering, “Barely,” before asking, “Draft or
bottle?”
“Bottle of, umm, Bud?”
The bartender nodded,
handing it to him a moment later. Before he could take off Kemp asked, “Is Mr.
Sinclair here?”
“Yeah, he’s around
somewhere. Why?”
“I was told to talk to him
about a job,” Kemp said, sitting straight, trying to look as if he knew what he
was doing.
The bartender looked him
over and nodded. “You’re talking to him. Know anything about waiting tables or
bussing them?”
“No sir, but I’m willing to
learn. I really need a job.”
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