As soon as the Superdome became a prominant figure of the New Orleans skyline all the memories of a previous visit came rushing back to me, Proust-like, in a flurry similar to the one in which they were originally committed: support pylons - cool and smooth to the touch, immersed in ethereal echoes as traffic scurries along on cloverleafs stacked one on top of the other; scouting around for noisy places to crash, wondering how safe it was down here; the Greyhound station and the dingy diner attached to it - sitting in a booth with my head propped up in reverent tribute to a lukewarm cup of coffee, trying to study the inside of my eyelids unnoticed for a few brief minutes, but the waitress, no stanger to freeloaders, makes me: "No sleeping in here." So much for your tip, woman, I smile, as if I had coinage for the coffee even; and the empty boxcars out back on a forgotten spur - I crawl into one so bone-numbed exhausted when the yardmen discover me I don't bother, them pouring lantern libations over me and yelling "Hey!" and I twitch ever so slightly, enough that they are satisfied I'm not dead, miracle of miracles they don't rouse me, and in humble appreciation I slither towards the door and watch as they amble off in punch-drunk comeraderie that only 4:00am can induce; the city of many sculpted bird perches - the big one being domiciled at Lee Circle, Robert E. himself maintaining wizened vigilance over the Canal Street vista, where most of the Mardi Gras parades begin and end in unabashed decadence, me lying prostrate at his feet and soaking up the scene, filtering it through Four Roses sipped from my flask; curious kids gravitate toward me, mistakenly perceiving that I am some sort of forgotten amalgam of living history and hippie icon, and ask "what was the Vietnam war really like?"; one produces a guitar and begins strumming chords and I extract a crumpled piece of paper on which are scribbled some hastily conceived words which they sing but of course the melody and rhythm are wrong, and I try to put on a harmony but all that comes out are some lamentable "woo-woo" sounds a quarter tone out of tune, so that soon they are no longer amused and little by little take their leave in pursuit of something more contemporary, but hey you can leave the girl I transmit silently and hopefully she'll pause and look back wistfully but who'm I kidding; junkie pusher swims in and out of my periphery, leaving only the smallest ripple in my consciousness, eyeing me, sizing me up, junkie radar operating at maximum range and peak intensity, little blip on his fluorescent neural net-screen vacillating back and forth "buyer?" "no buyer?" and offers an introductory "hey man" and I a noncommital "hey" right back at him and it's as if I pushed the button on an animated program loaded up ready to run want to buy a dime good shit man I been selling it over on St. Charles like candy last dime I got what do you say so having no pressing itinerary actually no itinerary whatsoever I humor him, as if a junkie can be humored by something other than another dropperful of medicine, and inquire pedantically about potency and point of origin and quickly he realizes I'm no blood brother and becomes impatient, so my last string I spool out: "Okay, so if it's so good you been bangin' away" and by way of visual proof he says well this arm's not too bad but this one- pauses and slides his sleeve up to reveal virtually hundreds of irritated, red-rimmed portals where pharmaceutical nirvana had initiated an orgy with the four cardinal humors; and before me stood the bastard offspring, eyes no longer recognizable as belonging to a deliberately rational being, but to a shackled array of chemically dependent ganglia, broadcasting urgent maydays that can only be all too temporarily relieved of their distress. Junkie curses me for foolishly ticking off moments of precious time he could've spent more profitably elsewhere, and moves off stiffly, threatening man if there weren't so many cops around and leaving the rest up to my imagination. Canal Street beckons and I get up to immerse myself in the sea of mottled flesh closets milling around in purposeless circles below me. Canal Street - sidewalks brimming with tourist types, window shopping eyes darting around to catch glimpses of eagerly anticipated debauchery and soon enough not being disappointed; young acid casualty sits on the curb facing the street with face painted Day-Glo stars and rainbows, short skirt sans underpants, hugging her knees to her chest and "greeting" the delighted pedestrians crossing toward her - she smiles sweetly. Girl walking ahead of me hugs herself to fend against early evening chill and I, drunk with chivalrous spirit, gingerly wrap my tattered jacket around her shoulders as I overtake her and bid good evening, moving past intentionally without pursuing further in a feeble attempt to demonstrate that I just felt like doing something nice for its own sake, only to realize hours later there was a key in the pocket I needed to retrieve my bedroll from the bus station locker, blast it all to hell what was I thinking. Local benefactor overheard unsolicitously cautioning doe-eyed out-of-towners to stay off St. Charles after dark; sounds interesting so I head forthwith in that direction. St. Charles - if only the good saint could see how things have deteriorated since his canonization. For a moment I think I'm back on the Nickel in L.A., somewhere between Center and Wall, walking once again in the land of the living dead. No dearth of material here for Marlon I'll hold the camera while Jim wrestles the alligator Perkins' Wild Kingdom. Wino sleeping in a doorway resembles a crumpled pile of wet cardboard. Man with rheumy eyes and fresh cut on his forehead staggers past in horrific Peter Lorre mimicry. Dog-faced Jimmy Swaggart look-alikes in their fall from grace, shamefully ravenous for young boys, troll the murky grime for a while before taking refuge in the corner peep show feeding quarters into the boxes in booths with curtains closed, scratchy snippets of 8mm celluloid taboo garnering only half-hearted Pavlovian responses. They mark their territory with onanistic stains on the floor. Smooth-skinned adolescent boys in skin-tight jeans make lewd, suggestive remarks to passersby. Opiate molecules find their specific receptor sites in stoner's brain, lighting up pleasure grids like a pinball machine; he chooses the moment of my passing to respond with an enthusiastic "Whoo!" and I damn near have to change my underwear. I try talking a little trash to some local parajos de la noche and they coo seductively, "back up that trash with some cold, hard cash" - gee I wonder what gave me away: the unwashed, familiar way I wear a thin layer of dirt and grit like a favorite pair of pajamas? One sympathetic social worker takes pity and teaches me the way to say New Orleans before dispensing with me: "Not 'New or-LEENS,'" she says beseechingly, "but 'New AW-lins.' New Awlins." Then she cocks her head and reconsiders. "Look, honey," she begins, "I do lots of sex therapy night after night and I see all types of customers. My company don't come cheap, 'cause contrary to popular belief," she says sarcastically, "I ain't the department of social services - I'm only in it for the money. But you-" and for a moment I saw a trace of compassion begin to soften her cynical, cobblestoned features, "you look like you've been dancing on the knife edge a little too long. This town'll do that to you. Something in that crooked grin of yours says you're all right." She looks around apprehensively. "Don't you ever tell no one I did this, especially not to Rico, but you take this - quickly pulling a double sawski from a little beaded purse - "and don't turn around and give it right back to me!" she admonishes good-naturedly. "You couldn't buy ten minutes with this. You go down to Pancho's and get something to eat. Make sure you try the quesadillos with honey. After you've stuffed yourself proper, go down to the Camp Baths, just off St. Charles. They're the only one's got rooms this time of night. Jimmy works the window. Tell him Cleo sent you. He'll fix you up. You can sleep your meal off there. That'll put a little spring in your step!" She turns her eye away from me and resumes her patrol for paying johns. I take a sip of Four Roses from my flask as I watch her walk away. Jesus, just when I thought I'd seen it all. A hooker pays me to get lost. What wonders that'll do for your ego. This one I keep under my hat when I get back to L.A. After all, I've got my rep to maintain. Camp Baths - I double-check the street address. I'm where I'm supposed to be but this is just a door in a wall, no sign, nothing to indicate the place is inhabited. I open the door and cross the little foyer to the shuttered window and ring the bell. Quasimoto's younger brother pulls back the shutters, takes one look at me and barks, "We're full!" "Cleo sends her regards," I say, before he shuts the window completely. He eyes me suspiciously through the crack. "You a friend of hers?" "Sort of. I met her doing a little PR work over on St. Charles. She said you got a flop for me." "You a cop?" Fur above his bloodshot eyes comes to life as he tries to get a make on me. "Do I look like one?" "You look like trouble," he concludes. I was getting impatient. "I just want to sleep one off." He considers, then says, "Six bucks for four hours," and buzzes me in. From his side of the window the weather is markedly different. Stale, uncirculated air so humid it feels like I've been hit in the face with a steam iron. "Number four," he says, not looking up from the money he's counting. "Down the hall on the left." I wait. "Ain't no bell hop here to show you to your room," he laughs. "And," he checks his watch in mock regret, "curse your luck. Room service closed a half hour ago." Everyone's a comedian. "So what're you waiting for?" "Key?" "No key," he deadpans. "Door's open. Use the latch on the inside of the door." Number four is an eight by eight stall, indistinguishable from its neighbor with whom it shares a wall, constructed of flimsy plywood nailed a foot and a half off the floor to equally flimsy posts. Makes Motel 6 look like the luxury suite at the Beverly Hilton by comparison. Army surplus cot what passes for a bed, with a mattress so thin if there'd been a dime underneath I could've told you heads or tails. Stains, too, ominous and of unknown origin, and I not particularly keen on identifying them. Sheet so worn in places when I hold it up I can read the graffiti on the walls through it. I'm thinking parasite city: scabies, lice, crabs, and probably a few species yet to be named. Air so thick and heavy with humidity it has the consistency of fetid syrup, punctuated with the sounds of homosexual sex that I sense as if they were running headlong into me from the other side of a soft pillow. I sleep, if you can call it that, on my back with one eye open. Between dreamless fits of semi-consciousness I realize from whence came Dickens' "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" pronouncement.

But that was then, this is now, as they say. A long, long time ago. Thank the Powers That Be I had moved beyond all that, would never (ahem) have to face times like those again, now that I was a bona fide and respected private dick, whose services were in tepid demand by domestic engineers in flowery housecoats and fuzzy slippers, with hair permanently done up in curlers, willing to pay minimum wage (when I could collect) for me to stake out the local watering hole in hopes of catching their beer-bellied husbands with the floozy du jour. We were blasting through the center of the city, the mystery of who killed Three Hands looming on the horizon next to the Superdome. If this gig fell through, maybe I could update travel guides for the Tourism department.