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It was the melting pot of the French Quarter, a watering hole that had been alive almost as long as the city itself. A place where, under water stained ceilings and on stained black and white tiles, everyone from Ghetto Queen to T.V. host could sit, eat a hot Po’ Boy dripping with gravy, and drink on an almost never ending tab. A place in which shrimp and grits served at midnight, and greasy burgers at six in the morning were as common as the cracked plastic tables scattered around on the main floor of the legendary Café pour tous (Café for all). A place from which the smell of frying beignets and boiling crawfish étouffée floated through the chipped wooden door frame of the kitchen to the streets of the slowly thriving French Quarter. At night, as the neon shades of blue, pink, and butter yellow light bathed the early nighters, the Café pour tous remained black. No, no masterly lopped neon bulbs gauded the persistently clean windows of the Café pour tous only a chipping sign with looping black letters painted by the original owner when it first opened that had been repainted by each generation to keep the bold letters of the name visible as a welcome to anyone who dared sit down and order. It was a place in which a young man, toying nervously with the empty salt shakers, sat at the counter waiting to serve whoever would stumble through the open door way. His stick thin fingers wrapped around the fat cylinder of Morton Salt and his feet, which were covered in faded red converses, tapped along to the symphony of weak jazz flowing in from the street corners and the crackling sound of shrimp frying in pans of grease in the kitchen behind him.
The kitchen, oddly enough, was almost as empty as the front of the little restaurant. There weren’t multiple cooks dressed in hairnets and stained aprons as most old cafés were. Instead, there were only two cooks in the back, manning each bubbling pot of gumbo and chili, popping each handmade loaf of thick French bread into the overly-clean oven. One of those two men was an elderly black man named Papa Nazareth, whose thinning white hair curled tight to his scalp, dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up over his wrinkling arms to the bend of his elbow. The other, Jamal Nazareth, who was a carbon copy of his grandfather Papa Nazareth minus seventy years, came up to his grandfather’s shoulder. At only eight years of age, Jamal wasn’t really that much of a help to the elderly gentleman, but he was a pleasant addition to the muggy, drawn out days of the Louisiana summer, and the equally hot nights. At least Julian, the boy at the counter who was still fiddling with the task of refilling the white salt shakers, thought so.
Glancing over his shoulder, Julian, Jude to the workers of the Café pour tous, watched with his almond shaped brown eyes as the old man gave instructions to the drowsy Jamal on the proper technique of chopping potatoes to make the best home fries that they could. A small smirk played on the boy’s lips and he turned back to his salt shaker filling tasks. Finished, he moved out from behind the counter with his bony arm holding a row of filled shakers tight against his lithe form. Once the shakers were sat down on each table the boy moved back to his perch on the stool behind the long counter, his hands pulling at the waist of his raggedy jeans which had been slowly working their way down his razor-sharp hip bones. Again in his perch he toyed with his dread locks that had been pulled behind his head in a ponytail with a stretched out rubber band that had been left in the cash register when he’d arrived earlier that day. His eyes locked on the rusty stain in the back corner of the Café where Papa Nazareth’s father, the previous owner of the Café pour tous, had taken a gun to his head. No matter how they scrubbed, mopped, and cleaned, the rusty stain wouldn’t lift from the tiled floor. He shuddered at the thought of the bone marrow, and remains of brain matter that must’ve splattered over the freshly painted walls when the old man pulled the trigger. Blinking out of this morbid thought he found himself catching the dregs of Papa Nazareth’s words. “I’m gunna take Jamal back to the house, you hold down the fort huh? All the food is ready if anyone comes in. Doubt it though, s’possed to rain…” Jude couldn’t help but take in the accent that coated the words like thick molasses, educated, but a badge of deep southern raising. Nodding dumbly to Papa Nazareth, and giving the yawning Jamal a weak wave of goodnight, he hopped up off his stool and moved to the back kitchen to fetch himself a glass of the overly sweet tea; a signature item of the Café pour tous.
Again on his chair, and sipping slowly at the glass of liquid diabetes- tea, he slowly edged the volume of the faded red radio up to where it blocked out the sounds of the quickly building crowd of the outside world. Closing his eyes gratefully he let out a slow sigh and began to sway to the plucky sounds of Elvis that was playing on the channel Papa Nazareth refused to change. As “Heartbreak Hotel”, poured from the little speakers to the room he nodded his head in time with the music and began to sweep to the beat. Swaying from side to side, his baggy blue Punchbrothers shirt seemed to swirl out like a dress around him, creating the illusion of happiness until a small group of people wandered into café. Seeing them out of the corner of his eye he cleared his throat and moved to turn down the volume of the radio, all doing so while counting the heads of the group. Five. Gathering five of the laminated menus into his hand he smiled his hostess smile and turned to face them. That smile, however, faded quickly as he was faced with the well built face of a light brown woman surrounded my muscular men. “Hello Julian, “her heavy Creole voice curled as she moved towards him with a dark smile. “Chole,” he stuttered quickly, backing up until his back was firmly pressed against the back wall behind the counter. “I uh, didn’t think you were still hitting up the French Quarter…” He laughed nervously and ran his dry tongue over his upper lip which was quickly growing slick with sweat. Chloe, a tall and lean woman with skin the color of rich Chai tea, and the men behind her pulled amused smirks and Julian only laughed nervously again in response. “No, no I still wander up here every now and again…But you Julian, you. I’d a’ figured you’d be gone from around here. You owing us so much money and everything…You remember that Julian? The five grand you owe us?” She crossed her arms over her chest, cracked, unpainted nails running over the polyester material of the black tank top she wore. Julian gulped visibly and held the broom handle which was still in his hand a little closer to his chest. “Five grand? Yeah, yeah, I remember.” Nodding she gave him a once over with her eyes the color of green swamp water. “You look good Jude, now that you’re off the good stuff.” Julian met her eyes only then with a low glare. He remembered all too well the years he’d spent wandering through urine stinking testament houses and allies with his only purpose in life the next needle and the next line. Chloe smiled a saccharine smile and looked over to one of the men behind her who, with a sudden click, produced a box cutter from his pocket. “But anyways, I see you don’t have my money on you right now so, I tell you what Judey. I’m givin’ you until midnight to get the five grand to me. If you don’t…well, let’s just say that Lafayette over there would be more than happy to do a little facial reconstruction on you.” She smiled slowly and leaned against the counter, her low riding jeans sliding down on her wide hips, and her finely waxed brow arching characteristically. “Oh, and I’d like some crawfish étouffée and four po’ boys to go.” She smiled toothily, one of her front canines a sickeningly yellow gold cap. Grimacing Julian rushed into the stifling kitchen to bag and box their orders before coming out and, with shaking hands, handed them to the still grinning Chloe. “Be seein’ you.” With a last flip of her baby-fine ringlets that hung around her sharp jaw, she and her crowd of men exited as quietly as they’d came.
As the crowd left, Papa Nazareth made his way back inside, giving the girl and her followers a slow look of curiosity. “They give you any trouble Jude?” The boy, still recovering from the encounter with his debtors, looked up at him slowly and shook his head stupidly. “Well, if they come back, you know where we keep Miss Marie.” Jude just kept his mouth a thin line and his worried eyes on the tacky pink lacquer giving the counter a ‘clean’ sheen, as the location of the only gun in the entire establishment was brought back into his mind. “Yeah, I know. Thanks Pop.” The old man nodded, smiled, and then walked off into his back office to the side of the kitchen to count the safe down, and to write out paychecks. Left alone, Julian glanced back over his shoulder and ducked behind the counter, feeling up under it for the old Smith and Wesson that lay tapped in the back. Jerking it and the fading duct tape holding it down, he made sure it was loaded, and then made his way to the office, gun hidden behind his back. Just stepping inside the little office Julian was overwhelmed with the smell of aged clove candy, and spicy aftershave. A long shudder rolled down his spine at the scent that was the very essence of the man who’d been the kindest to him in his life; Papa Nazareth. Hearing the creek as Julian stepped into his office, Papa Nazareth looked up from his pile of counted money, pulled his thick glasses, which he only wore while doing paperwork or reading, down to the tip of his well defined nose and raised a burly brow. “What can I do ya for son? You look kinda’ twitchy tonight, but then again, you always was a nervous one.” He laughed with a low rumble and coughed softly. “Yeah, I remember the day I hired you…You was down on Bourbon Street, drunk as a skunk, strung out on those drugs, and pretty beat up. I watched you go through withdrawal in my bathroom for three days…Bout near gave my missus a heart attack with your groanin’ and carrying on…But, you’re a good man now. Clean, sober, helping me run the café, going to church…you’re a good man Jude, a good man. ” Eying the calculator that Papa Nazareth had been punching numbers into while Nazareth spoke, Julian swallowed dryly and gave the man a regretful smile. There on the little plastic screen was the box shaped 5 and three 0’s that followed .Five grand. Right there in front of him. The exact amount he needed, no more, no less. “No, no, you’re the good man Sir, doing all that for me…” Tightening his grip on the gun he felt hot tears fill his eyes before he swung his arm in a well practiced manor towards the man’s chest, gun pointing straight at him. Nazareth frowned deeply and his brown eyes flashed in anger. “That how you gunna do me boy? After this all the things I’ve done for you I - no. No, I’m not gonna guilt trip you…” The man stood with a confidence he hadn’t felt since he was a young boy in the 50’s and curled his arthritis ridden hands into fists. “Just, just give me the money Pop; I don’t want to hurt you…” Nazareth lowered his head and took his glasses off, sitting them down on the varnished desk slowly. “Son, I hate to tell you this, but you’re not getting my money. I worked hard for this, and you, my boy, aint getting it willy-nilly.” His voice rose in pitch and he slammed his fist down hard on the desk grabbing the money up and slipping it in his pocket calmly. Walking past the stunned Jude he shook his head and sighed. “I better not see you again after this.” Grabbing a penny from his pocket he threw it down with a sneer. “There, you got some of my money, you can leave now.”
Watching as the old man exited without another word, Julian’s bottom lip twitched. Storming out with the slightly rusted gun in hand he fired a shot at the wall near Nazareth’s head. “I said, give me the money Pop!” Julian’s voice echoed through the empty Café and he shook slightly with aggravation. Letting out the yelp as the bullet sent splinters from the wooden walls Papa Nazareth pursed his lips angrily. “You sonofabawd, I done said no! Ennn, Ohh!” He moved from behind the counter to the back corner of the Café with no intention of handing over a dime to the ungrateful boy. “Fine! Pop, fine!” With one swift movement of the boy’s matchstick finger and a loud shot, a sickening splatter of blood, brain, and bone went flying over the wall, staining the wall in the same manner as it had been done years ago by the exact same gun when Nazareth’s father had pulled the trigger.
Sniffing, Julian wiped his nose on his bare arm and shakily made his way over to the old man’s corpse. Bending down stiffly he dug through the man’s pocket while extracting the thick roll of money and an old watch that had died sometime during the day. Glancing one last time at the body he shook his head slowly and exited the Café and walked into the empty streets of the French Quarter, not bothering to shut the booming radio off, or to lock up. As he leaned against the brick outside of the Café pour tous, he dug a limp cigarette from his pocket and a stolen flap of matches. Lighting the stick of paper and tobacco he inhaled slowly. Exhaling with a curling cloud of pale smoke he shook his head again and flicked the burning cigarette into a gutter near him. Looking up as he heard footsteps approaching him from a distance he was met face on with a bullet from a glock so similar to the one he held in his hand still. Falling without a noise emitted from his throat, his dead eyes stared out at the neon signs that still lit the way through the labyrinth of streets. Blood seeped from his open skull as the droning sounds of Muddy Waters and later Mississippi Fred McDowell bleed out from the red radio inside the Café pour tous. And as the rasping words of “Jim Steam Killed Lula” snaked their way out of the from the bare door frame, the sounds of heeled sandals echoed the gunshot that had rasped more than any aching Blues artist could manage. And as the darkness of the thick summer night darkened to its peak a woman, Chloe, bent down to gather the thick bulge of money from his limp hands. “Sorry, Judey, 12:01.”