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A shadow in New Orleans
In the celebratory atmosphere of a festive French Quarter moved a restless spirit.
He emerged from the cave-dark of the bar-room door and weaved slowly towards the kerb, one hand held against the sun, the other holding a plastic beaker of beer, his head bowed, his eyes narrowed against the noon glare.
He stopped for a moment, either taking his bearings or selecting a target. The French Quarter tourists slowed and edged around him as he made an erratic path across the street, seeing only the pavement before him, except for the one time he looked up and caught my eye. I knew then he would come to me, as surely as if I’d hooked him and was reeling him in.
He was tall, well-built but unkempt, with straggly, long blond hair, crumpled jeans and a haphazardly buttoned checked shirt. He wore tired and filthy sneakers, the laces of which played dangerously around his feet.
I watched from my position on a park bench. There was no park — just a small square that was humming with people. Christmas 1984 was coming up fast but it was unseasonably warm for December. Even in New York, where I’d just spent a week, I’d been down to a t-shirt some days. New Orleans was warmer still.
I stared at the notepad in my hand, the one I was using as a holiday diary, and held…