The Prodigy

EPILOGUE

PROLOUGE

The front porch swing offers a good early morning view of the new day. Across the street the bright sun shines down on the still green grass and three-hundred-year-old oak trees in Coliseum Park. It’s early November, and I’m already dressed at nine in the morning. People who know me well would find that unusual. It’s not because the weather has turned cold yet, winter comes late here, sometimes not at all. But today is a new beginning of sorts. It’s taken me thirty-six years to come to this day, and I’m still not convinced my decision is the right one, but the gods seem to be giving their blessing from on high. But still, the gods are crazy. I’ve never paid them much mind.

I can hear sound coming from the small kitchen through the eight-foot-tall windows that line this corner of the monstrous two-hundred-year-old Victoria house. From the front section of the wrap around porch, I swing slowly and wait. It won’t be long now.

They’re on their way.

Oh boy.

Come on, you’re the one who wanted to do this.

Maybe I just thought I did.

Well you’re stuck now.

I guess.

How’s the coffee?

It’s good.

I didn’t put too much sugar, did I?

It’s perfect, just like you.

I’m a long way from perfect.

Eye of the beholder girl.

The first van arrives. On the side, it reads, Prodigy Productions. The name makes me grimace. The van parks on the opposite side of Coliseum Street, on the curb near the Park, directly across from the house. No one gets out. A second van arrives, then a third. A small black limo arrives and parks in front of the big Victorian. Three men, one woman, and a teenage girl exit the limo. The woman I know, I’ve known her since I was a kid. The men, I’ve never seen before. The teenage girl, I don’t know her either. But I’ve seen her face before. I saw her face twenty-one years ago, even though she’s all of seventeen years old. Like I always say, the gods, they must be crazy.

The dark-haired woman takes the teenage girl by the hand and leads her toward the wrought iron gate in front of the Victorian. I wave from the porch. They both wave back.

Are you ready for this? a voice asks from behind.

Yeah, did you set the room up like I asked?

Yep.

Are you going to sit with me.

Yep.

For the whole thing?

Wouldn’t miss a word.

Okay, let’s do it.

Okay, Mr. Prodigy.

Bite me.

Ask me later. You’re gonna be busy for a while.

Yep, I answer. It’s going to be quite a day.

CHAPTER 1

When I was in the fifth grade, our teacher asked us to tell the other members of the class about our earliest memory. I still remember listening as the other kids relayed their stories of mom and dad, the family dog, big brother, and whatever else had first made that first impression on their young minds. When it was my turn to speak, I refused to share, and thus deprived my fifth-grade classmates of my earliest memory. Now Miss Hebler she didn’t like that, but I still believe it was the right choice. You see my first memory was fear, pure and simple. Not that I could have told anyone what I was afraid of, I don’t remember any specific beating or trauma that I could relay with any clarity. No, it was something different, more implied then delivered, something that seemed to hang over me in those early years like a storm cloud waiting to pour down on me. Not that it lasted all that long, because even as I sat in that classroom, all those years ago, it had already mostly vanished. I think sometimes the mind can only take so much before it seeks to protect itself. I think that’s what happened to me. By the time I was in fifth grade you could have put a gun to my head and I would have felt nothing. Over the years I’ve often wondered if that was a good thing or not, even though I know the answer to that question and always have. But I am glad most people don’t know what that answer is. And I’m glad I decided not to share that day.

***************

Few promises made in this life are ever kept. I don’t know if that’s an indictment of the human condition, or just a reflection on the reality of life. After all, words are easy, life is hard, and things change.

I suppose that’s as true for me as anyone else.

And so, three months ago, after the boys had left for UCLA in Southern California to start their freshman year, Marcy left me. Of course, she didn’t say it just like that, but she’d never really fit in here in New Orleans. Like me, she was from New Jersey, a stone’s throw from the supposed cultural center of the universe in Manhattan. As my agent, Marcy has spent a lot of time in New York during the last twenty years. I always felt like most of those trips were unnecessary. Still, I know she likes the excitement and glamour of Manhattan, so I never complained. If Marcy had her way we would have lived in a condo on Central Park and hob-knobbed with the literary elites. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Broadway openings, and attending the endless procession of snob gatherings that pass as parties in Manhattan.

Me? I like a party as much as anyone, but I prefer a more raucous environment. Whatever… when she left, I stayed.

Club Caligula sits on Magazine Street near the foot of the Irish Channel. Its reputation draws the infrequent, adventurous tourist. You know this guy, he’s the one with more balls then brains. New Orleans is a dangerous place when one decides to leave the confines of the old French Quarter, and Caligula’s is twenty blocks from the relative safety of the Vieux Carre. But over the years the club has a gained a reputation as one of New Orleans most decadent stops in the underground travel brochures, and that seems to be enough to draw a steady stream of brave, some would say stupid, tourists.

Magazine Street, where Club Caligula sits, divides two worlds. Turn north, away from the river, and you enter a world of two-hundred-year-old mansions called the Garden District. In the old days, this was where the wealthy lived, and not much has changed since those days. Turn south, toward the river, and you enter the Irish Channel, one of the most violent and dangerous neighborhoods in the world. I came of age in that world, I know it well.

I arrived in New Orleans over twenty years ago aboard an Amtrak Train. At the time, I was nothing more than a scared and angry fifteen-year-old kid. Now at thirty-five years of age I know I’ll never leave, and I think I’ve always known that. In some strange way this place became a part of me way back then, and I became a part of it. At some point Marcy realized that would never change. I suppose I don’t really blame her for leaving.

The bright lights outside Caligula’s light up an otherwise dimly lit section of Magazine Street. Inside the crowd is mostly locals. A few nervous looking tourists sit at a table near the bar, looking for an opening to join in the party with the locals. Mostly they’re given the cold shoulder. I’m sitting on a large leather chair near the far wall. This seat offers the best view of the entire club, and there’s a reason for that. The large leather chair is big enough to hold three people, though normally only two will occupy it at any one time. Normally. Some night’s things get really wild.

The regulars call it the ‘Hot Seat’. I have no intention of using it for its intended purpose, but it is a very comfortable chair. A few feet away, the two tables, containing ten or so people, are getting louder. It’s almost twelve o’clock at night, and the party’s in full swing. I know all of them. Hell, I know everyone in the place with the exception of the odd tourists. Marcy never liked me coming here, but she’s a thousand miles away in her new house on the Jersey Coast. She may have a million-dollar view of Manhattan across Raritan bay, but I’d rather be here than anywhere else on earth. After all this is it, the Big Easy, no other place even comes close.

Franky gives me a funny look from one of the crowded tables. He catches my eye and raises his eyebrow. I give him a small shrug in return. He returns the gesture and turns his attention back to the loud voices around the tables. Franky Morales is my best friend in the world and has been for the last twenty years. Back then he was a fifteen-year-old street thug, and now he’s a thirty-five-year-old street thug masquerading as a successful business man. Last count he owned twelve clubs around town, four of them on Bourbon Street. I’m guessing he does pretty well, but I know Franky. At heart, he’s still a street kid.

Hey Kyle, what’s up? I recognize the voice instantly. I answer without looking up.

Hey Bananas. I’ve known Penny Bannano since arriving in New Orleans twenty years ago. Back then she was a smart mouth, olive skinned, beautiful twelve-year-old girl. I think she always had a thing for me, but I was fifteen at the time, and a full three years older than her. As cute as she was back then, nothing ever happened between us. At thirty-two she looks the same to me now as she did then. A kid. Seems like something gets imprinted in your brain it stays there forever, so in my mind she’ll always be a kid. A very attractive one, but still a kid. When I look up I see she’s wearing a short, black, pleated skirt and matching top. She’s smoking hot, but I already know that. Still, I can’t help but smile.

Don’t call me that, she answers.

Hey Penny! I exclaim. I wait a second before asking. That better?

Yes.

Good. See I can be taught.

Out with the guys tonight? she asks.

I guess, I answer with a little shrug. Not much going on at home lately.

I’m sorry. What a bitch, she says, squeezing into the remaining space of the large chair. Instinctively I wrap an arm around her and pull her close. She leans in even closer.

Marcy’s alright, I answer. She just needs to do something else for a while.

She’s stupid is what she is, Penny replies. She stares at me with those big dark eyes, almost daring me to dispute her claim.

I just shake my head and shrug. I shrug a lot these days, but I see Penny’s point. To the outside world, it looks like Marcy’s a spoiled little rich bitch, taking my money and running. But it’s not that way. If people think she’s a famous literary agent because I made her one, they’d be wrong. It was her that made me famous, not the other way around. It would be more accurate to say that I’m a world renown writer of books and screenplays because of her. After all, the book that started my fame, I titled it, ‘The Nomads’, was nothing more than four handwritten spiral notebooks when I left New Jersey. It was never meant to be a book. Hell, it was never meant to be read by anyone other than myself. In those days, I carried a lot of resentment and anger, and writing was just an outlet. I never went off the deep end so I guess it worked.

I merely grin in response to her assertion. Marcy may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. What’s up in Penny world? I ask, keeping my grin in place.

You know me and Gino split up, right?

Yeah, I heard. You okay with that? I ask.

Yeah, he’s an asshole.

I thought you liked that in a guy?

I guess I must. Otherwise I wouldn’t keep hooking up with losers, huh? Penny answers, and I see her smile fade a bit. It was tough for young girls growing up in the Channel years ago. The kids here grew up quick, and there wasn’t much time for childhood innocence. I’ve known some that never seemed to find a way past that, but Pennies just fine. So, why are you in the Hot Seat? she asks.

Her question amuses me. Waiting on you, I answer.

Her face shows mock surprise. Really? You’re serious? she asks.

The purpose of the Hot Seat at Club Caligula is for couples to perform public sex. It’s part of the culture here. If New York is ground zero for pompous sophistication, then New Orleans is the universal center of primal human decadence. Over the years I’ve seen maybe a hundred performances in this chair, or at least one of its predecessors. It’s what makes the place infamous.

Sure, I answer. She looks at me suspiciously, like I’m messing with her. I’ve never actually been one of the performers in the Hot Seat, but a few years ago I heard little Miss Penny put on quite a performance. She never was a shy girl.

Really? You want to do this? she asks.

I laugh. I don’t know, it might be interesting. The guys at the tables are watching us now. These guys are like a pack of wolves, instinctively tuned in to things about to happen. I don’t know if it comes from growing up on the streets or what, but we have their attention.

Okay, she grins, and swings a leg around so that she’s straddling me. She rests her hands on my shoulders and smiles. Don’t pay any attention to them, she whispers into my ear softly, it’s easy, you’ll see.

Those words bring me back twenty years in the blink of an eye. It was in a crappy basement apartment, in Union City New Jersey, where Annie Tee Raider and I first made love. It was my first time and that’s exactly what she said peeking out from under the covers. It’s easy, you’ll see. Of all the things in life I regret losing, I guess she might be number one. Twenty years later I still wonder what happened to her. Her memory follows me to this day.

What’s a matter? Penny whispers in my ear.

Just isn’t right, I say, starting to lift her to her feet. She pushes me back into the chair. Twenty years we’ve known each other, and she’s not gonna let this moment go easily.

Yes, it is, she says quickly, it’ll be fun.

The sound of her voice almost makes me laugh. Penny’s playing the bad girl tonight, but I know exactly what she needs, and I’m drunk enough to do it. I pick her up easily and lay her across the chair upside down. She settles in, with her arms resting on the arm of the chair supporting her chin. She glances up at me with that mischievous look she’s always been able to conjure up. The guys are cheering us on now. I lift her short dress, exposing her black underwear. I got to give it to the girl, she’s got a nice ass. My hand massages the back of her thighs, and I slowly slide it over her butt. I know what’s coming, and I can’t help but grin.

I know exactly what you need Bananas, I tell her.

Don’t call me that.

I’m sorry, I answer.

Okay, she says, her voice sounds breathless.

I raise my hand and bring it down on her ass hard enough that the loud crack of flesh on flesh can be heard throughout the club. I land two more quick, sharp, whacks sound before she screams, "Ouch! Now Penny may be a small girl, but she’s really pretty strong. She struggles to a seated position facing me, and I grab her wrists. I don’t know if she intends to pummel me, or scratch my eyes out, but I have no intention of finding out. She ends up sitting on my lap, glaring at me with evil intent. When she settles down I relax the pressure on her wrists. That’s a mistake, and she attempts to bite some unknown part of my face off. I spin her around and wrap my arms around her tight enough to immobilize her. The guys at the table are falling out laughing, the tourists are looking on confused, and Penny’s steady talking. Asshole!" she fumes.

Don’t be a baby, I whisper in her ear. She finally gives up and relaxes into my arms.

Asshole, she repeats, but this time she’s grinning. It may be an evil grin, but I turn her head and kiss her softly. She returns the kiss. I guess we’re friends again.

If you can’t handle her buddy I’ll take over for you, says an unknown voice. I look up and see one of the tourists from the table near the bar standing in front of us. I don’t know if he’s drunk, or just stupid, or both, but he’s playing with fire.

It’s Penny who answers him. Fuck off, she says dryly, not bothering to make eye contact with her would be suitor. The man doesn’t take the opportunity to walk away quietly.

Screw you too bitch, he spits out.

Oh, shit.

Paul stands up immediately. Him and Penny have been close since we were kids. Franky eggs him on. Slap the piss out that punk, Franky says.

John Nixon and his brother Harold stand up next. I look up at the tourist and see he’s nervous now, unsure what to do. Like I say, you have to tread lightly in this town. As a tourist, things can go to hell quickly. Just shut up and walk away I think to myself, but he’s froze up.

Franky gets up slowly from the table. He’s tall, with a bone and muscle build. The guy that no one in his right mind would mess with. It makes it worse when he grins, sort of evil, in a friendly kind of way. Franky has always seemed to thrive on violence, and this stupid tourist has given him an excuse to play. What did you call her friend? he asks. The calmness in his voice makes the question sound ominous.

I’m just messing around. I didn’t mean anything, the tourist answers.

Sure you did, Franky answers. The tourist shakes his head no and looks at the small army of locals. He turns back to Franky.

I’m sorry mister, he says.

Franky grins, and shakes his head slowly. No you’re not, but you’re gonna be, he says, with that evil grin of his. It’s gone too far. The tourist is making all the wrong moves. The wolf pack is closing in.

Leave him alone, he’s just a stupid ass, I say to no one in particular. I keep my eyes on Penny, just in case she’s still looking for pay backs. Franky looks at me and shrugs. He reaches out and pushes the tourist playfully. Watch your mouth, he says, nodding to the other side of the bar. His meaning is clear, walk away while you still can. The man walks unsteadily back to his table. I’m not surprised his friends didn’t come to his rescue. They probably warned him about getting involved in the first place. Not that they could have done a damn thing other than get themselves hurt also, but still, I think as friends they must really suck.

It doesn’t take long for things to settle back down. Someone cranks up the music. Harold Nixon shows up with two drinks and hands them to me. I give one to Penny, but she’s still looking at me funny.

You missed out, she says, eye balling me.

Yeah I know. Just not here, not like this. Okay?

She nods her head and finally smiles. Okay.

You know I love you, right? I ask.

I know, she answers, smiling for real now. So how come you never made a move on me?

Well, I been kind of married for the last twenty years.

How about when we were kids? she asks.

You were too young, I answer.

Didn’t bother the rest of the guys, she says.

I’m not them, I answer. She smirks at me, and slowly shakes her head. I’m holding her loosely now, no longer worried about my eyes being scratched out of my head.

You’re no better than them. Just because they call you, ‘The Prodigy’, she says, dragging the last two words derisively. I’ve always hated that name. The Prodigy. It’s a nickname my publisher tagged me with on my first novel, The Nomads. If I’d been there to stop them I would have.

Assholes.

A tall man with dark thinning hair, mostly gray now, is looking at me from the entry door across the room. Despite his dark horn rimmed glasses, and fish out of water mannerism, you can tell he belongs here. An Irish Channel local.

I know him. His name is Jack Black, former FBI agent, and for the last twenty or so years, a private investigator. From all accounts, I hear he’s one of the best. All I know for sure is that he was good enough to find me.

Twenty years ago, Jack Black found me, a battered and bloodied fifteen-year-old boy, hiding out in a flop house on Camp Street, in the heart of skid row. Not that I was impressed at the time. The last thing in the world I wanted was to be found, but New Orleans is a small city, and I wasn’t really trying to hide all that hard.

I still remember what I did that day he found me, all alone in that dingy second floor room overlooking Camp Street. My final gesture of defiance. I do the same thing now. I set Penny down beside me in the leather chair, and rise slowly to me feet. I raise my arms to my sides and let my hands and head hang limply. The meaning of the gesture is clear.

Crucify me.

Mr. Black doesn’t appear amused, but then again, he always was way too serious. I watch him approach from across the room until he stops a few feet in front of me. He glances at Franky and nods silently. Franky blows a derisive sound in return and looks away. Jack Black turns his attention back to me, still in my crucifixion pose.

It’s still not funny Mr. Ambrose, he says calmly, like he’s talking to a child.

I glance at Penny and wink. I think it is, she says. I look back at Jack and raise my eyebrows.

For a moment, he loses his legendary calm, and lets out an exasperated sigh. Remember you’re the one paying me to be here, so don’t mess with me…kid, he says.

Jeez Jack, learn to take a joke. Seems like a guy that grows up looking like Mr. Magoo shouldn’t take things so serious, I answer, dropping my arms and grinning. Besides, I ain’t been a kid in a long time.

Just like the first time we met, twenty years ago, Jack Black has his own entourage. Two thickly built younger men flank him on either side. Like I said, New Orleans is a dangerous place, and the locals know you don’t run around the Channel alone at night. Whatever else he is or ain’t, Mr. Black is a smart guy.

I nod at the two bodyguards and return my attention to Jack. He’s holding a small brown envelope and extends it toward me. I take the envelope and give him a questioning look. Are you sure? I ask.

Ninety-nine percent sure, he answers.

I give him a hard look.

You didn’t give me much to go on Mr. Ambrose, he says, matching my look.

I open the envelope. Inside is a single piece of paper with an address. Eight thirty-two Delano Street, Trenton New Jersey. Somehow it feels right. I nod. Thanks Mr. Magoo.

You don’t have to thank me Mr. Ambrose. You just need to pay me, he responds sharply.

I don’t know why I’m giving Jack a hard time. He’s just doing what I asked him to do, and he’s right, I didn’t give him much to go on. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot, trying to figure out which way to go. That’s not always an easy question to answer, but it’s not his fault. A few weeks ago, I finished my latest novel, I plan to call it, The Corner. It’s a little different than anything I’ve written so far. Maybe because of Marcy leaving, but I don’t know. It’s about a group of eight kids spending their summer hanging around a corner in a small coastal Jersey town. It’s a funny story. Mostly. I had to throw in some violence and drama. I just can’t help myself.

People say that I popularized the young adult genre, made it one of the leading genres in the literary world. I don’t think that’s true though. I read plenty of books about teens while growing up in Jersey. Mine were just different. Darker, more like the world I saw around me. That world was never rainbows and unicorns.

Anyway, like I said, it’s a little different, and I’ve been shopping it around for the last couple of weeks. Already I have a good offer for the novel with an option on the screen play and future movie rights included. Marcy doesn’t know this yet. That would normally be her job, but she’s gone, and my contract with Goldman Publishing will expire in a few months. Of course, as my agent, she would simply re-new the Goldman contract, and we would continue on as we have for the last twenty years. But as a married couple, Marcy and I have never actually had a contract, other than a hand drawn scrap of paper I drew up as a kid. She’s always taken care of the business end of things, but I’m re-thinking that now. As of yet I haven’t made up my mind.

I hear myself let out a long sigh. Hey look Jack, I appreciate it, thanks. And I do appreciate it. For the first time in a while I can see a break in the clouds, a small ray of sun breaking through. I realize that I’m beginning to feel a certain anticipation. It’s been a while since I felt that. It feels good.

Who is she? he asks.

You ain’t figured that out? I ask in return. I can’t help but grin. Some kind of private investigator you are.

Mr. Black gives me an eat-shit grin in return. He’s not forgetting the Mr. Magoo comment. "Let’s see if you thank me after