"Nothing strange by me," Boo-Boo said, looking up at them with a hurt expression. "Most folks who come to town want to see the Quarter, and all. Plenty of interesting night life. Finest music in the world. Any bar you go into probably has at least one live musician. Usually a band."

Elizabeth felt herself swaying slightly with exhaustion. "But it's past twelve," she said. "The bars will be closing."

Boo-Boo shook his head. "Ma'am, bars around here don't close until at least dawn. Some of 'em don't open until midnight."

"We've got to catch up with them!" Elizabeth had a vision of Ringwall's ruddy face turning more purple than usual. "Right now!"

Boo-Boo rose slowly to his feet, shaking his head at the haste with which out-of-towners seemed to move.

"Well, all right, ma'am. Whatever you want."

Elizabeth had barely taken three steps outside before she was drenched in sweat. The heat and humidity of New Orleans wrapped itself around her like a hot, wet blanket, all prevailing and merciless.

Pausing in an attempt to orient herself while fighting off a sudden wave of dizziness, she turned to her companion, only to find him chatting with the doorman she had passed without really noticing.

"Hey, Boo!" the uniformed man said. "How ya doin', man? Ah didn't see you come in."

"Came in off Conti," Beauray was saying, all the while exchanging a bewildering series of handshakes and palm slappings with him. "No sense fightin' the crowds if you can walk inside."

"You got that right!" the doorman responded, throwing his head back in an exaggerated laugh.

"How's that pretty lady of yours these days?"

"Mean as a snake, and that's a fact!"

"Umm. Mr. Boudreau?" Elizabeth began. "I hate to interrupt, but..."

"Be right with you, darlin'," Boo said, holding up one finger in restraint. "Say, Willie. Did you see a cute little thing come out of here a while back? Green hair?"

"Hard to miss her," the doorman said, nodding. "She and the folks she was with headed up Bourbon towards St. Anne. Lookin' to party would be my guess."

He made an offhand gesture to indicate the direction.

"'Preciate it, man," Boo said, holding up his hand for a parting palm slap. "Got to roll, now. You tell your lady that Boo said, `Hey,' hear?"

"Later, Boo!" the man said, waving, then returned to his duties with an aloof, deadpan expression.

"Sorry 'bout the delay," Beauray said, putting a hand lightly on Elizabeth's back and steering her into the street. "I figured it would be worth the time to be sure we was lookin' in the right direction."

Thus began one of the strangest, most memorable walks of Elizabeth's life.

The world-famous Bourbon Street was closed to vehicular traffic at this hour, but was nonetheless choked with pedestrians. At first, Elizabeth was overwhelmed by a kaleidoscope of apparently random noise, music and lights.

"NO cover charge! NO minimum drinks!"

"... feelin' tomorrow, just like I feel today!"

"Spare change?"

"Oooh, Darlin'! Lookin' GOOD!"

"... Can't touch this!"

"Lucky Dogs! Get your Lucky Dogs! Right here!"

Within the first block or so, however, a certain order became apparent to her in the seeming chaos.

Most of the crowd were tourists or sightseers. They traveled in groups or pairs, lugging their cameras or hand-cams with them like identifying badges. While some of them wore three-piece suits that marked them as conventioneers, the majority were decked out casually in shorts, new T-shirts sporting New Orleans designs ranging from the silly to the obscene, and some of the most ridiculous hats it had ever been her misfortune to see. They moved at a leisurely pace, stopping often to look in windows, listen to the music radiating forth from various bars, or to take pictures of each other standing next to street signs, the little tap dancing kids, or even trash cans.

"Table dances! World famous love acts! NO cover charge!"

"Crawfish! Best eating in the Quarter!"

"... Hey now. Jump in the river now..."

"ICE cold. Get your ICE cold Coca-Cola here!"

In the space of a few blocks they had walked from Conti, Bourbon Street featured at least eight bars with live bands and/or singers, eight more with recorded music blaring from speakers, six shops featuring exotic dancing or other delights ("wash the girl of your choice!"), more than twelve souvenir shops selling masks and feather boas, coffee and beignet mixes in yellow cans, hot sauce with health warnings printed on the labels, metallic-covered plastic beads in a rainbow of colors, and the ubiquitous tasteless T-shirts. Every one of the shops overflowed with tourists.

Overhead on the first- and second-floor balconies (second and third floors here in the U.S.; Elizabeth realized they counted things differently here), stood crowds of men and women brandishing plastic cups full of beer. People in the dense crowd below shouted up to them, and threw bead necklaces up to the women on the balconies. When one flushed girl in her twenties had collected an armful of necklaces, she hiked her shirt up to her neck. She wasn't wearing anything underneath it. The crowd erupted in cheers of joy. New Orleans was more wide open than Elizabeth had ever dreamed.

This part of the city resembled an undermaintained amusement park. Worn, broken pavement, cracking paint, wrought iron twisted like lace and painted in muted colors. Men held up signs that advertised psychic readings, draft beers for $1.00, or that the end was near. Walls sported unexpectedly bright colors, yellow, purple, moss green, Venetian red. Buildings proudly displayed brass or ceramic plaques describing their origins, name, function, and first owners often dating back two hundred years or more. London could take a cue from the Big Easy's excellence of labelling. World War II had been over for more than half a century, yet the city seemed still to be trying to misdirect invading Nazis.

There were others in the crowd besides tourists. Some, like the shills outside the restaurants and topless bars or the couples selling roses from pushcarts, were obviously workers, not unlike the mounted, uniformed police who sat at each intersection like watchtowers in the flow of humanity. More subtle were the gaudily-dressed individuals who strutted stylishly up and down the street, stopping occasionally to pose for pictures with the tourists in exchange for tips. Also workers, but self-employed, not salaried. Then, there were what could only be thought of as "locals," making their way through the crowds with bags of groceries or baskets of laundry, obviously running household errands even at this late hour. It was an interesting reminder that the French Quarter of New Orleans was a functioning community where people lived and worked, rather than a planned, constructed amusement park.

Even more noticeable to Elizabeth, however, was that of this latter, non-tourist population, it seemed that at least two out of every three knew her escort.

"BOO-RAY! What's happenin', man?"

"Hey, Boo! Where y'at, bro?"

"Boo, darlin'! When you comin' by again?"

Every five or six steps, Boudreau was pausing to wave at someone or to exchange handshakes or greetings. Despite her impatience to be on their mission, Elizabeth could not help but be impressed with how well-known Beauray was, though she was a bit taken aback by the volume of the hailings... by both meanings. That is, they were not only numerous, they were loud!

People down here seemed to do all their conversing, not to mention their casual greetings, at the top of their lungs. If they happened to be across the street, on one of the everpresent wrought-iron balconies, or half a block away, it didn't really matter. They just reared back and shouted a little louder, neither minding nor caring that dozens of total strangers were forced to listen in to every word. It was completely different than anything in England, even in weekend street markets. Elizabeth put the fault down to the French influence that had founded New Orleans in the first place.