***TRIGGER *WARNING***TRIGGER(((WARNING** 

This story was written prior to my car accident and concussion. Then 7 years after and still healing, while sequestered during Covid, I saw The Untamed and began writing Wuxian Fantasy stories. It began a new chapter in my life.

 HOWEVER, THIS STORY IS PURE CRIME NOIR.... Modern. Relentless. Physical, sexual and emotional violence. Firearms. Drinking Drugs, Very dark. And it was well received in the Noir world of writing. 

Do not expect a real hero, just a thug who does what he is driven to do. Not a hero to be found. Just a hurricane and the seamy underbelly of humanity revealed in its gritty reality. You have been warned.

                            WHEN KATY CAME CALLING 

                                                    by

                                      D.A.Davenport

Nobody could resist her; she was a real force of nature that left nothing standing in her wake. She rolled into town on wheels, leaving everyone reeling from her impact. Broken hearts, empty pockets, lives destroyed without a single glance backward. Beautiful in her awesome ruthlessness, you had to bow to her, a Goddess of Darkness who held men in the palm of her hands.

Her name was Katrina and she nearly left New Orleans for dead

You saw the pictures afterward, as you sat safely at home, looking at us like a made-for-TV movie. No hard feelings... I wished like hell I had chosen Topeka as a place to land. You only have the occasional tornado blowing through Kansas. But the lure of deep southern heat and the jazz on Bourbon Street was hard to resist. The ache in my hands after years in the ring, the idea of baking off the sickly pallor that screamed gym-rat and ex-con to anybody I met, caused me to make the stupidest mistake of my life. So, I found myself in the Big Easy, sparring in Destry's Boxing Emporium, doing odd jobs around the joint, and waiting for the sky to fall in on all of our heads.

We had plenty of warning, so I stocked up on a few necessities. First, I swiped an inflatable raft from a garage near the gym and hid it behind one of Crying's dilapidated storage units round back. If I didn't use it myself, I was sure I could sell it to somebody for a pretty penny. I hauled groceries up four flights to my narrow room in the Crying Hotel; I'd been calling the fleabag home since I blew into town myself a couple of months before. I got a weeks' worth of cheap meals I could warm up on my hot plate; strictly against Roi-Boi's rules but fuck him, considering the circumstances.

I shoved some even cheaper Scotch on the top shelf of my closet. Three 1.75 liters of Highlands Mist, my best guess at what would get me through. If she hit like they said she would there'd be no way to get to the gym, so the job there could wait. A few day days away from swapping sweat and blood with other low-level boxers doggedly chasing pipe dreams of glory, would do me good. I sacrificed my nose to those dreams, at least three times in the past. That didn't include the first time it got busted. One of the many "Uncles" Ma dragged home to entice into paying the bills and buying the food held that honor. Of course, that led to my first stint in Juvie, after I set about returning his attention one day. Even at 12, I packed a decent right.

*****

The night before Katrina changed New Orleans forever, I had a knock on my door. Not used to callers, I waited for a second rap before answering. Roy Thibodaux stood there, a short fat Cajun with shoe-black, bouffant hair and dark glasses. A decade ago he had made a very minor name for himself as a Roy Orbison impersonator in shithole casinos in forgotten towns in Nevada. His reasoning was that Elvis had been done to death and Roy O. had been a better singer anyway. He called himself "Little Roy" Thibodaux. In my opinion, Orbison deserved one hell of a better monument. At any rate, Thibodaux made a few bucks and, unlike yours truly, actually saved it. That's when he bought this flophouse on top of one of New Orleans' few hills, added the bar, and began serenading the barflies with Pretty Woman every Saturday night. He was just Roy-Boy to me.

"Thibodaux. To what do I owe this honor?"

"Wanna talk to you, Mason. Got a proposal for you, my man."

"I ain't your man and I ain't that desperate. Get your ass to the French Quarter for that kind of action."

"Christ, Mason! You're too fuckin' ugly for me. I ain't never seen a nose lean that bad in my life."

"Yeah. It's a God damn work of art. Come on in."

He looked around. I try to keep my places neat. I was fairly successful at Roy-Boy's, despite the occasional roach the size of my dick scurrying across the walls. Trust me, those bastards grow huge in Louisiana.

He paused in front of my collection of books and shot me a surprised glance.

"Shakespeare? You gotta be shittin' me!"

"Fuck you. I learned a few things along the way. Reading was one of them.

"You are full of surprises, my man."

"Like I said before, I ain't your man, Thibodaux."

"Just listen. The storm ain't gonna be like the last one, Mason. This one is special. Katrina is gonna put Little Roy's on the map if we live through it. And I'm gonna need muscle to help me."

"You want me to be that muscle."

"One look at your face, Mason, and that's all the backup I'll need."

"You're a real sweet talker, Thibodaux."

"Call me little Roy."

"Now that's somethin' I would never do to Orbison. Got too much respect for the man. Get to the point."

"How'd you like to live here, room and board free from now on? Little extra spending money. Chivis on the House?"

A free ride anywhere was not to be ignored. Not with what Destrey's paid me on the side to swab tobacco off those God-damn floors. The upgrade in Scotch sounded sweet too.

"Plant yourself for a while. I'm listening."

What Ro-Boy proposed was nothing short of amazing. The little bastard had been thinking about this ever since Ivan raped the Gulf Coast the year before. He just had a gut feeling a bigger, badder storm would hit and he hadn't waited long. He was betting Katrina was going to be his Sugar Mama and that he would be sitting pretty on his molehill Kingdom when it was through. And I reluctantly had to admit he had a chance. If she dumped like they said, then we were gonna be asked deep in water, cottonmouths, and alligators before she was finished and the few places on higher ground would be prime real estate when it was over. But little Roy saw even more potential; he wanted to rule an empire and saw himself becoming little Caesar overnight. Crying's was going to be his Chicago.

I hired on. Surprised the fuck out of me, too. But a free place to live. just for hanging at the bar looking dangerous while he blackmailed the desperate into doing things his way, seemed like a walk in the park. Especially when I did't have to do anything but sit, sip on a classier brand of hooch and look my meanest and ugliest the entire time. All Roy-Boy needed to do was wait and see what Mother Nature was gonna flush out from under the Mississippi mud and deposit on his doorstep. Once the water began to rise, he'd be on his way.

For once, the predictions by the talking heads on TWC were right. Katrina was a knockout. She hit the Big Easy with an uppercut that sent the town spinning into the ropes and Crying's stayed dry.

Early that morning Monday morning after the 17th St levee was reached, we began to see our first supplicants drifting in, looking for high ground and an illusion of safety. I grabbed a battered copy of The Continental Op and took my place at the end of the bar. It was easiest money I made in my life and Katrina was doing most of the work for me.

The first to arrive was a toney couple from the Garden District. They negotiated quietly for Roy-Boy's only "suite". It had a bedroom, a sitting room, and the only private bathroom in the joint. As the husband handed over an emerald necklace and a wad of cash to clinch the deal, I saw his well-tended wife grow pale when a large silverfish scurried across the bar in full view. I smashed it to a slimy pulp curtsy of Dashiel hammett,and left it, legs twitching, as I carefully wiped the spine of my book clean with a cheap napkin embossed with a picture of Little Roy's fat face, She turned stricken eyes towards her husband, who squelched any protest by squeezing her hand until the flesh grew white with the pressure. I guess my look carried a bit more weight than hers. They carried their own bags to their rooms in strained silence.

The only time I actually moved from the end of my bar happened when a mid-level Colombian drug dealer objected to handing over the contents of a briefcase he had carried in with him. I could understand that reluctance; packed to the brim with bags of fine white powder, it was worth a small fortune. He let loose with a string of invectives in fluent Spanish and Roy Roy took a step backward to make room for me. I reached over the bar, grabbed him by the collar of his black leather jacket with both fists, and hoisted him off the floor a good 8 inches. Let him squirm there a minute or two as his face went purple from lack of oxygen. When I let him down, he handed the briefcase, and his weapons, over without a whimper

Two more levees breached later that day and I watched from my vantage point in my bedroom as the water churned below and the first bodies passed by like driftwood. Roy-Boy's generators kept the electricity going and those that could find boats and life rafts were drawn like June bugs to the lights of the hotel and they shelled out whatever Roy-Boy demanded of them. All were equal under the eye of the storm. People, connected legitimately or not, traded favors when they couldn't meet his price and Roy-Boy suddenly found himself gathering the beginnings of his long dreamed for empire. All he needed was a crown of laurel.

And then the women walked in.