“Hey, Chop. How’re they hangin‘?”

The elderly bandleader finished placing his trumpet case in his trunk and turned around. “Jules? Seems like I’m seein‘ you all the time nowadays. How’s that new lady friend of yours? The big curvy blonde I seen you with?”

Porkchop Chambonne made an exaggerated hourglass shape with his hands that described Veronika pretty accurately. Jules grimaced. “Don’t ask. That one’s poison.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. She looked… interesting, that one did.” He shrugged his stooped shoulders. “ ‘Fraid you got here too late to catch the band. You’ll have one more chance, though. Me and the big band play one more gig, night after next. Then I’ve got to let most of the boys go. Cuttin’ back to a trio.”

“That’s what I came to see you about. Here. I got something for you.”

Jules handed a check to his friend. The bandleader’s eyes popped big as soup bowls when he read the amount. “Five thousand dollars? Where’d you get this kind of money? And why are you givin‘ it tome?”

“My ticket hit big on the Pick-Four Lotto,” Jules said. “I already got most of everything I need. So I wanna help you keep the band together. Five thou won’t keep you goin‘ forever, but maybe it’ll help you hang in there until better gigs come calling.”

Porkchop Chambonne leaned against the trunk of his car, still staring at the check. “I, well, I don’t rightly know what to say, Jules. Nobody’s ever given me this kinda dough for nuthin‘ before. I’m not sure I can accept this kinda gift from you.”

“Don’t think of it as a gift. There’s somethin‘ I want you and the band to do for me.”

“Oh?” The bandleader raised an eyebrow and glanced slyly at his benefactor. “Now the other shoe drops. What’s the pitch?”

“It’s nothin‘ bad, Chop,” Jules said quickly. “You and the band have done jazz funerals before, haven’t you?”

“Well, sure. Practically every traditional jazz group in the city has, at one time or another. Sure.”

“I’ve got this friend, see… Ihad this friend. A real special friend. She, uh, she died last night.”

“Oh. I’m real sorry, Jules,” Porkchop Chambonne said quietly.

Jules waited a second before continuing, waiting for his friend to ask how it had happened. But the bandleader maintained a respectful silence, and Jules was profoundly grateful that he didn’t have to make up any stories about how Maureen had died.

“Maureen, my, uh, my friend, she lived her whole life in the Quarter. Worked here, too. All her pals are French Quarter people. I think she’d really appreciate a New Orleans jazz send-off. She always liked music. She was a dancer.”

“When’s the funeral? Will the holy service be at St. Louis Cathedral or up at St. Patrick’s?”

“She, umm, she wanted to be cremated. There won’t be a funeral; not really. And she wasn’t much of a churchgoer, so she didn’t want no holy service. To tell the truth, she worked at Jezebel’s Joy Room most of the last twenty years. And that’s where most of her buddies work. So what I’d like-what I think she’d like-is if you and the band could parade past the club, and then go past her house on Bienville, between Dauphine and Rampart. Tomorrow night, around midnight or so, after any gigs you guys might have. It’s kinda weird, I know. But she was always a night person. Like me. Do it in the daytime, I’m not sure she’d hear it.”

“She have any favorite songs or spirituals we oughtta play?”

“She liked show tunes. The old ones, from forty or fifty years back.”

“I’m sure we can whip somethin‘ up. And if it’s all right, there’s an original number I’d like to play, too. Somethin’ I been foolin‘ around with for a little whiles now. Actually, you were kinda my inspiration for it.”

“Sure. I trust your judgment, Chop. Whatever you think’s appropriate. You think we should be worrying about permits for that late at night?”

The bandleader made a dismissive gesture. “Naww. Maybe if we was paradin‘ in front of the Pontalba Apartments. But those blocks you want us to circle, them’s mostly music clubs, bars, strip joints, or warehouses. Nobody’s gonna mind us none.”

“So you’ll take the check?”

Porkchop Chambonne glanced at the check again, shaking his head with disbelief as he read the amount one more time. “Sure, Jules. I’ll take this check. If that’s how you wanna spread your money around, who amI to argue?”

“Great. Hey, just one more favor. I’ve gotta make a call, and I don’t have any change on me. Can I maybe borrow thirty-five cents?”

The old man made a mock-stern face. “I don’t know! Are you good for it?” He dug into his pocket and retrieved two quarters and a pair of dimes. “Here. Make yourselftwo phone calls.”

Jules shook his friend’s hand and took the change. “Thanks. That jazz funeral tomorrow night, I know it’ll be somethin‘ to hear. Chop… you may have a hard time believing this, but ever since you started playin’ music, well… I’ve been your biggest fan.”

Porkchop Chambonne rubbed his mocha-colored chin, speckled with white stubble. Then he smiled slyly and gave Jules a deeply knowing look. “Yeah. I believe you. You and your ‘daddy,’ youboth been my biggest fans. I’m mighty sorry for your loss, man. I surely am. But me and my students, we’ll make a heavenly noise to guide your friend to her final reward.”

Jules hadn’t thought seeing the little diner again would affect him this much. The place had only been in business for the past four years, a tiny blip in his life. And Jules had groused heartily when his nightly coffee crew of cabbies and cops had decided to pull up stakes and move from the St. Charles Tavern to its new rival up the street. But the Trolley Stop Cafй really had become a home away from home for him. Anyway, it wasn’t the physical particulars of a place that made it a home. It was the people inside that did.

People like Erato.

“Hey, pal. Thanks for coming out,” Jules said.

“No problem,” Erato said. He leaned across the table and pushed a chair out for Jules to sit in. “Slow night, anyway. And I been a little concerned about you, ever since you ran off from that rally earlier. You doin‘ all right?”

Jules sat down heavily and placed his vase on the table. “I’ve had better nights.”

“What’s with the vase? Somebody send you flowers?”

“It’s…” Jules considered the wide range of possible lies he could tell his friend. He decided now wasn’t the time for lies. “It’s Maureen, Erato. It’s-it’s herashes.”

Erato didn’t say anything for a minute. His eyes turned harshly on his friend. “That’sevil, man. That ain’t no kinda joke to be makin‘. It ain’t funny.”

Jules’s expression didn’t change one iota. “It’s not a joke. I’d give anything in the world for it tobe a joke. Look at me, Erato. Tell me if I’m pullin‘ a gag.”

His friend looked at him long and hard. Slowly, reluctantly, Erato’s expression shifted from indignant anger to shock. “Jesus… You ain’t shittin‘ me. How-when-how the fuck did thishappen, man?”

“I…shit. I can’t give you no details. You’re the best friend I got in this world, and if there’s anybody I’d wanna tell, it’s you. But Maureen wouldn’t want me to tell you. And I’ve gotta honor what I figure her wishes would be.”

Erato stared at his hands. Jules watched the man’s face turn a deeper shade of brown and his large, callused hands clench into fists. “Why the hell are you layin‘ this on me if you won’t trust me-if you don’t think enough of me to tell me what happened? Maureen wasmy friend, too. Don’t you think I got a right to know?”

Jules swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. You got a right to know. I just don’t got a right to tell you. And if you don’t think that’s tearing my guts to pieces right now, then you don’t know me.”

Erato’s fists slowly unclenched. Jules saw grief, hurt, anger, and resignation carve themselves into his friend’s face in turn. “Okay,” Erato said at last. “What can I do?”