Launched by the summer '04 award-winning, best-seller Brooklyn Noir, Akashic Books continues its groundbreaking series of original noir anthologies. Each book is comprised of all-new stories, each one set in a distinct neighborhood or location within the city of the book.
Brand new stories by: Ace Atkins, Laura Lippman, Patty Friedmann, Barbara Hambly, Tim McLoughlin, Olympia Vernon, David Fulmer, Jervey Tervalon, James Nolan, Kalamu ya Salaam, Maureen Tan, Thomas Adcock, Jeri Cain Rossi, Christine Wiltz, Greg Herren, Julie Smith, Eric Overmyer, and Ted O'Brien.
[A portion of the profits from New Orleans Noir will be donated to Katrina KARES, a hurricane relief program sponsored by the New Orleans Institute that awards grants to writers affected by the hurricane.]
Beneath the glitter of Mardi Gras lies the sleaze of Bourbon Street; under the celestial sounds of JazzFest, the nightmare screams of a city once at war within its neighborhoods, but after Hurricane Katrina, seemingly at war with nature and the rest of the country as well.
New Orleans is a Third World country in itself, a Latin, African, European (and often amoral) culture trapped in a Puritan nation. It's everyone's seamy underside, the city where respectable citizens go to get drunk, puke in the gutter, dance on tabletops, and go home with strangers, all without guilt. It's the metropolitan equivalent of eating standing up--if it happened in New Orleans, it doesn't count.
The city was always the home of the lovable rogue, the poison magnolia, the bent politico, the sociopathic street thug, and, especially, the heartless con artist--but in post-Katrina times it struggles against . . . well, the same old problems, just writ large and with a new breed of carpetbagger thrown in. Combine all that with a brilliant literary tradition and you have New Orleans Noir, a sparkling collection of tales exploring the city's wasted, gutted neighborhoods, its outwardly gleaming "sliver by the river," its still-raunchy French Quarter, and other hoods so far from the Quarter they might as well be on another continent. It also looks back into the past, from that recent innocent time known in contemporary New Orleans as "pre-K," to the mid-19th century, the other time the city was mostly swampland.
The excellent 12th entry in Akashic's city-specific noir series illustrates the diversity of the chosen locale with 18 previously unpublished short stories from authors both well known (Laura Lippman, Barbara Hambly) and emerging (Kalamu Ya Salaam, Jeri Cain Rossi). Appropriately, Smith divides the book into pre- and post-Katrina sections, and many of the more powerful tales describe the disaster's hellish aftermath. Standouts in the first section, "Before the Levees Broke," include Laura Lippman's short, twisted tale of victims and victimizers, "Pony Girl," and Tim McLoughlin's "Scared Rabbit," a tight, punchy account of a police shooting. Among the contributions to the post-Katrina "Life in Atlantis" section, Thomas Adcock's gritty crime tale, "Lawyers' Tongues," captures the chaos of the hurricane's wake with notable skill. (Apr.)
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March 31, 2007
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Excerpt from New Orleans Noir by Julie Smith
Mathilde's in North Carolina with her husband when she hears about the hurricane--the one that's finally going to fulfill the prophecy about filling the bowl New Orleans is built in. Uh-huh, sure. She's been there a thousand times. She all but yawns.
Aren't they all? goes through her mind.
"A storm like no one's ever seen," the weather guy says, "a storm that will leave the city devastated . . . a storm that . . ."
Blah blah and blah.
But finally, after ten more minutes of media hysteria, she catches on that this time it might be for real. Her first thought is for her home in the Garden District, the one that's been in Tony's family for three generations. Yet she knows there's nothing she can do about that--if the storm takes it, so be it.
Her second thought is for her maid, Cherice Wardell, and Cherice's husband, Charles.
Mathilde and Cherice have been together for twenty-two years. They're like an old married couple. They've spent more time with each other than they have with their husbands. They've taken care of each other when one of them was ill. They've cooked for each other (though Cherice has cooked a good deal more for Mathilde). They've shopped together, they've argued, they've shared more secrets than either of them would be comfortable with if they thought about it. They simply chat, the way women do, and things come out, some things that probably shouldn't. Cherice knows intimate facts about Mathilde's sex life, for instance, things she likes to do with Tony, that Mathilde would never tell her white friends.
So Mathilde knows the Wardells plenty well enough to know they aren't about to obey the evacuation order. They never leave when a storm's on the way. They have two big dogs and nowhere to take them. Except for their two children, one of whom is in school in Alabama, and the other in California, the rest of their family lives in New Orleans. So there are no nearby relatives to shelter them. They either can't afford hotels or think they can't (though twice in the past Mathilde has offered to pay for their lodging if they'd only go). Only twice because only twice have Mathilde and Tony heeded the warnings themselves. In past years, before everyone worried so much about the disappearing wetlands and the weakened infrastructure, it was a point of honor for people in New Orleans to ride out hurricanes.
But Mathilde is well aware that this is not the case with the Wardells. This is no challenge to them. They simply don't see the point of leaving. They prefer to play what Mathilde thinks of as Louisiana roulette. Having played it a few times herself, she knows all about it. The Wardells think the traffic will be terrible, that they'll be in the car for seventeen, eighteen hours and still not find a hotel because everything from here to kingdom come's going to be taken even if they could afford it.
"That storm's not gon' come," Cherice always says, "you know it never does. Why I'm gon' pack up these dogs and Charles and go God knows where? You know Mississippi gives me a headache. And I ain't even gon' mention Texas."
To which Mathilde replied gravely one time, "This is your life you're gambling with, Cherice."
And Cherice said, "I think I'm just gon' pray."
But Mathilde will have to try harder this time, especially since she's not there.
Cherice is not surprised to see Mathilde's North Carolina number on her caller ID. "Hey, Mathilde," she says. "How's the weather in Highlands?"
"Cherice, listen. This is the Big One. This time, I mean it, I swear to God, you could be--"
"Uh-huh. Gamblin' with my life and Charles's. Listen, if it's the Big One, I want to be here to see it. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Cherice, listen to me. I know I'm not going to convince you--you're the pig-headedest woman I've ever seen. Just promise me something. Go to my house. Take the dogs. Ride it out at my house."
"Take the dogs?" Cherice can't believe what she's hearing. Mathilde never lets her bring the dogs over, won't let them inside her house. Hates dogs, has allergies, thinks they'll pee on her furniture. She loves Mathilde, but Mathilde is a pain in the butt, and Cherice mentions this every chance she gets to anyone who'll listen. Mathilde is picky and spoiled and needy. She's good-hearted, sure, but she hates her precious routine disturbed.
Yet this same Mathilde Berteau has just told her to promise to take the dogs to her immaculate house. This so sobering Cherice can hardly think what to say. "Well, I know you're worried now."
"Cherice. Promise me."
Cherice hears panic in Mathilde's voice. What can it hurt? she thinks. The bed in Mathilde's guest room is a lot more comfortable than hers. Also, if the power goes out--and Cherice has no doubt that it will--she'll have to go to Mathilde's the day after the storm anyhow, to clean out the refrigerator.
Mathilde is ahead of her. "Listen, Cherice, I need you to go. I need you to clean out the refrigerator when the power goes. Also, we have a gas stove and you don't. You can cook at my house. We still have those fish Tony caught a couple of weeks ago--they're going to go to waste if you're not there."
Cherice is humbled. Not about the fish offer--that's just like Mathilde, to offer something little when she wants something bigger. That's small potatoes. What gets to her is the refrigerator thing--if Mathilde tells her she needs her for something, she's bringing out the big guns. Mathilde's a master manipulator, and Cherice has seen her pull this one a million times--but not usually on her. Mathilde does it when all else fails, and her instincts are damn good--it's a lot easier to turn down a favor than to refuse to grant one. Cherice knows her employer like she knows Charles--better, maybe--but she still feels the pull of Mathilde's flimsy ruse.
"I'll clean your refrigerator, baby," Cherice says carefully. "Don't you worry about a thing."
"Cherice, goddamnit, I'm worried about you!"
And Cherice gives in. "I know you are, baby. And Charles and I appreciate it, we really do. Tell you what--we gon' do it. We gon' go over there. I promise." But she doesn't know if she can actually talk Charles into it.
He surprises her by agreeing readily as soon as she mentions the part about the dogs. "Why not?" he says. "We can sleep in Mathilde and Tony's big ol' bed and watch television till the power goes out. Drink a beer and have the dogs with us. Ain't like we have to drive to Mississippi or somethin'. And if the roof blows off, maybe we can save some of their stuff. That refrigerator ain't all she's got to worry about."
"We're not sleepin' in their bed, Charles. The damn guest room's like a palace, anyway--who you think you is?"
He laughs at her. "I know it, baby. Jus' tryin' to see how far I can push ya."
So that Sunday they pack two changes of clothes, plenty for two days, and put the mutts in their crates. The only other things they take are dog food and beer. They don't grab food for themselves because there's plenty over at Mathilde's, which they have to eat or it'll go bad.
The first bands of the storm come late that night, and Charles does what he said he was going to--goes to bed with a beer and his dogs. But after he's asleep, Cherice watches the storm from the window of the second-floor living room. The power won't go off until early morning, and when the rain swirls now, the lights glint on it. The wind howls like a hound. Big as it is, the house shakes. Looking out, Cherice sees a building collapse, a little coffee shop across the street, and realizes how well built the Berteaus' house is. Her own is not. She prays that it will make it. But she knows she will be all right, and so will Charles and the dogs. She is not afraid because she is a Christian woman and she trusts that she will not be harmed.
But she does see the power of God in this. For the first time, she understands why people talk about being God-fearing instead of God-loving, something that's always puzzled her. You better have God on your side, she thinks. You just better.
She watches the transformers blow one by one, up and down the street, and goes to bed when the power goes out, finding her way by flashlight, wondering what she's going to wake up to.
The storm is still raging when she stirs, awakened by the smell of bacon. Charles has cooked breakfast, but he's nowhere to be found. She prowls the house, looking for him, and the dogs bark to tell her: third floor.
"Cherice," he calls down. "Bring pots."
She knows what's happened: leaks. The Berteaus must have lost some shingles.
So she and Charles work for the next few hours, putting pots out, pushing furniture from the path of inrushing water, gathering up wet linens, trying to salvage and dry out papers and books, emptying the pots, replacing them. All morning the wind is dying, though. The thing is blowing through.
By 2 o'clock it's a beautiful day. "Still a lot of work to do," Charles says, sighing. "But I better go home first, see how our house is. I'll come back and help you. We should sleep here again tonight."
Cherice knows that their house has probably lost its roof, that they might have much worse damage than the Berteaus, maybe even flooding. He's trying to spare her by offering to go alone.
"Let's make some phone calls first," she says.
They try to reach neighbors who rode out the storm at home, but no one answers, probably having not remembered, like Cherice and Charles, to buy car chargers. Indeed, they have only a little power left on their own cell phone, which Cherice uses to call Mathilde. The two women have the dodged-the-bullet talk that everyone in the dry neighborhoods has that day, the day before they find out the levees have breached.