After several hours, multiple bottles of whiskey, bourbon and by the end of things, tequila, we had gone through about twenty-five hundred dollars worth of booze, and Emily and Myra were looking a little the worse for wear. Cain and I may have had a slight edge on them in the tolerance department, and let’s face it, once you’ve drank mead with real Vikings, there’s not a whole lot of impressive rolling out of Milwaukee. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, just a lot of liquid group therapy and some gentle dancing around the big topics. Cain and I talked through Emily a lot, asking her what she was interested in, what she wanted to be when she grew up, that kind of stuff. We very studiously didn’t discuss any abandonment issues, empty feelings because of being an only child or anything else that might have ripped off scabs that were just starting to form.

I figure we sat in that bar for the better part of a day and a half digesting a steady diet of Emmylou Harris, Reckless Kelly and Townes Van Zant before Michael finally came strolling in, looking for all the world like he was on a pleasure cruise rather than rolling cross-country with a couple of immortals who’d broken his nose twice in twenty-four hours and their indefinable mortal relations.

“Well, look what the cat regurgitated onto the rug.” I said sweetly as he pulled up a chair and materialized a white wine spritzer. Lucinda Williams was on the jukebox singing Return of the Grievous Angel and I was pretty sure that he had either timed his entrance to fit the song, or more likely that he had changed the jukebox to make a better entrance.

“Really, Michael? That has to be the only wine glass within a hundred miles. Do you want to get punched in the face again that badly? I’m sure if you just asked, one of the boys here would be willing to oblige you. It’s not necessary to show all of Texas exactly what a fairy you angels can be.” Myra cracked herself up and went into a fit of drunken giggles at the whole fairy angels bit.

“I presume we have gotten all of our childishness out of our systems and are ready to proceed with the world-saving portion of our program?” Michael ignored Myra. Probably a good idea given her level of inebriation. I wouldn’t put it past her to knock the angel on his ass herself.

“Well, in the words of Jaws, we’re gonna need a bigger boat.” I said.

“Excuse me?” responded the confused angel. Pop culture references, even ones dated enough for me to follow, were apparently no good with the seraphim. All that harp music interfered with their television reception, I guessed.

“We came her in a Civic. I don’t think five of us are leaving that way.” I explained.

“Don’t sweat it, Dad. I didn’t exactly fly here, you know?” Oh yeah. Cain had to have some type of transportation. “My bike’s right outside.” I felt a little twinge when he said that. Like father, like son, I suppose. Maybe I could have a relationship with this son even after all the water under (and over) that bridge.

“Well, then, we should go. Cain, I believe you should take the lead on this leg. After all, you know where we’re going.” Michael said.

“Well, I don’t know exactly where we’re going, just a general idea.” Cain said, and he suddenly became very interested in the tops of his shoes.

“And where, roughly, does that general idea lead?” I started to have a really bad feeling about the answer as my thoughts flashed back to Cain’s initial re-entry into my life a couple of days back.

“Well, it’s kinda tough to say. You know how Mom is, she doesn’t like to stay in one place too long, and sometimes I get mixed signals when I’m trying to track her down, and…”

“Cain. Where. Is. Eve?” I used the Daddy Voice. It’s different from The Voice, but has a similar effect, if the audience is a little more limited. I was happy and more than a little surprised to see that it still worked even if your kid is a few thousand years old.

“Bourbon Street.”

“And what is she doing on Bourbon Street? As I recall, Eve is an excellent musician, so I have some slight hope that she’s playing music.”

“Not exactly, Michael.” Cain replied. I knew that whatever the answer was, I was not going to like it.

“So what, exactly, is she doing, son?” I asked as gently as I could muster.

“Dancing.”

“Where is she dancing, Cain?” I tried to keep my voice level.

“Well, she moves around a lot.”

“Cain. Talk.” I said. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but it had been a long time since I’d been on Bourbon Street and had a modicum of hope that it had changed since the hurricane.

“Big Daddy’s.” Apparently neither Bourbon Street nor Eve had changed since the last time I saw them. Bourbon Street still housed as many strip clubs as jazz clubs, and Eve still worked hard to surround herself with as much of humanity’s filth as possible. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against strip clubs, and some of my favorite conversations throughout the years have been with strippers and prostitutes. I’ve always appreciated their unvarnished view of the world. They have a level of honesty that you just don’t find in “legitimate” society, and every once in a while I’ve needed that type of honesty. But I knew instantly that Eve wouldn’t be working in the top-notch strip club, she’d be working the seediest dive on the street, and that at some point before we left New Orleans, I was going to end up hitting somebody again. And there was only about a 50/50 shot that it wouldn’t be Eve.

So I knocked back one last shot of Patron, looked over at the Jason (after a certain number of bottles, you move into a first-name relationship with your bartenders) and asked if we had any cash left. He looked over at the tab and brought me four twenties. I handed them back to him with a couple of unflattering pictures of Ben Franklin and headed toward the door into the sunlight just as Robert Earl Keen started to sing “Sherry was a waitress, at the only joint in town.” I chuckled to myself and thought about the truth is Keen’s song. The road really does go on forever, but I thought this party might be just getting started.

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