Dead and Alive

CHAPTER 20

Carson and Michael sat in the Honda, near Audubon Park, engine running, headlights on, air conditioner blowing. They were eating the crispy-fried-redfish poor boy and side dishes, their chins greasy, fingers slippery with tartar sauce and cole-slaw dressing, so content with the Acadiana food that the incessant drumming of the rain on the roof began to seem soothing, when Michael said, “Here’s something.”

Carson looked up from her sandwich and saw him squinting through the sheet of water that shimmered down the windshield and blurred the view. She switched on the wipers.

Sprinting toward them along the middle of the street — deserted at this hour, in this weather — was a German shepherd, and in pursuit of the dog were a man and a woman, both nude.

The shepherd raced past the Honda faster than Carson had ever seen a dog run. Even barefoot, the man and woman were faster than Olympians, as if they were in training to compete in NASCAR without a vehicle. The man’s genitals flapped, the woman’s breasts bounced exuberantly, and their facial expressions were equally ecstatic, as if the dog had promised to lead them to Jesus.

The dog didn’t bark, but as the two-legged runners passed the Honda, Carson heard them shouting. With the windows closed and rain pummeling the roof, she couldn’t discern what the woman was saying, but the man excitedly shouted something about pizza.

“Any of our business?” Michael asked.

“No,” Carson said.

She raised her poor boy to her mouth, but instead of taking a bite, she returned it to the bag with the side dishes, rolled the top of the bag shut, and handed it to Michael.

“Damn,” she said, as she put the Honda in gear and hung a U-turn in the street.

“What were they shouting?” Michael asked.

“Her, I don’t know. Him, I couldn’t catch anything except the word pizza.”

“You think the dog ate their pizza?”

“They don’t seem angry.”

“If they aren’t angry, why is the dog running from them?”

“You’ll have to ask the dog.”

Ahead, the trio with eight legs turned left off the street and onto the Audubon Park entrance lane.

“Did the guy look familiar to you?” Michael asked, as he put their bags of takeout on the floor between his feet.

Accelerating out of the turn, Carson said, “I didn’t get a look at his face.”

“I think it was the district attorney.”

“Bucky Guitreau?”

“And his wife.”

“Good for him.”

“Good for him?”

“He’s not chasing naked after a dog with some hooker.”

“Not your ordinary New Orleans politician.”

“A family-values guy.”

“Can people run that fast?”

“Not our kind of people,” Carson said, turning left toward the park.

“That’s what I think. And barefoot.”

The park had closed at ten o’clock. The dog might have slipped around the gate. The naked runners had gone through the barrier, demolishing it in the process.

As Carson drove across the rattling ruins, Michael said, “What are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on what they do.”