I recalled studying Katrina. Suddenly, hearing the information come from a man who was here and who loved this city, what had been only statistics took on new meaning.
“As a point of reference,” Rett said, “New Orleans has flooded six times. Before Katrina the most recent was 1969. The average elevation is about six feet and much of the city is below sea level. The levees along the river were strong. It was the ones built to hold back Lake Ponchartrain, Lake Borgne, and the bayous to the east and west that failed. Before the storm hit, our fathers encouraged the mayor to send an evacuation order. It was the first ever. Not all the residents had the ability to evacuate. It was your father’s idea to utilize the Superdome. Times of mutual peril can bring about common goals.
“The entire greater New Orleans parishes were affected. Some of the most horrific flooding and loss of life occurred in St. Bernard Parish and the Ninth Ward. Even today in these areas you can see the Katrina crosses left by FEMA.”
“What are they?” I asked.
“FEMA went house by house. They painted a big X. In each of the four quadrants they left a code: time FEMA arrived, and then clockwise, what hazards were found, victims, and last, what team entered or didn’t enter.”
“What happened to your house?”
“No one escaped damage. Mother Nature doesn’t care how much money you have. However, for the most part the Garden District and French Quarter are above sea level. It spared us from the aftermath of the flooding.”
Rett tilted his head to the side of the street. “We’re now in the Third Ward. While I appreciate my father’s knowledge as well as knowing the history I just told you or that of that church over there, it doesn’t prepare you to understand the current dangers such as the Byrd Gang.”
“What is that?”
“They are a who. As my grandfather aged and your grandfather passed, my father and yours established their divide of the city, the wards. Generally speaking, it was the mid-1980s. The city was growing in popularity as not only a tourist destination but a location for long-term business. The Central Business District was booming with construction of tall office buildings. There were numerous avenues for revenue. The two of them were smart and took on all businesses, not only the ones building the skyscrapers.”
“What do you mean?”
“While there’s much to be gained in construction and establishing fees, the biggest business endeavors that I oversee are the dangerous ones that don’t hang a shingle. The Byrd Gang is one of the larger organizations in New Orleans. The New Orleans police gang unit has labeled them one of the most murderous gangs in town.”
“And you work with them?” I asked.
“They serve a purpose. We have an understanding. My father began the partnership when the gang originated in a housing development north of the Business District called Magnolia Projects. I’ve maintained most of my father’s contracts. The issues came when your father passed without a successor. For example, in the Ninth Ward, the prominent power is the 39ers Gang. They’re a hybrid of sorts. The Upper Ninth Ward’s G-Strip and the 3-N-G, a drug clan, joined forces. Your father worked hard to keep their turf from turning into a site of continual mass casualties. He was a significant force in orchestrating their current amalgamation. However, since their allegiance was to Isaiah Boudreau, there was resistance when I took over. We’ve since come to an agreement, but Kyle has been working to undermine that.”
I sat back against the seat. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because your presence with me reinforces my hold. I want you to rule with me. I’m not asking you to barter deals in the Lower Ninth or even be in the presence of dangerous people. Simply an address or a ward number doesn’t label the entire population. New Orleans is also comprised of hardworking people who simply want to survive.” He gently squeezed my hand. “You, my dear, are not ready for the danger that coexists. However, it’s important that you know that organizations such as the 39ers and Byrd gangs are here.”
From the architecture, I believed that we’d made a circle and were now back in the French Quarter.
“For you to fully understand how important your presence is, you need to realize the razor’s edge that we walk daily to keep this tourism” —he pointed to the filled sidewalks— “as a revenue for our city, as well as the offices full of workers who call the greater New Orleans parishes home. It’s a balancing act that I’ve managed to maintain. In the last year, your brother has been working behind the scenes to undo what I’ve done.”
“And I can help? How?”
“By being you, claiming your lineage and standing with me. You can do more than help; you can solidify our hold on New Orleans.”
It was a lot to process. The imagery my husband described was as he’d said, dangerous, gritty, and unnerving.
Gangs and deaths.
Drugs and racketeering.
Legitimate businesses and homeowners.
And yet what I also heard was Rett’s desire was to keep all the different worlds balanced. The world that tourists and some residents didn’t see as well as the world they did.
Peering out the window, the street looked familiar. “I recognize this place.” I pointed to an open gate to a courtyard. “That’s where Ross and I went. We’re near where you and I met.”
Rett nodded. “We are. Tonight, we’re dining in the Central Business District across Canal Street at Restaurant August. Along with Broussard’s, where we dined” —his dark stare shimmered with lust, twisting my core— “or I dined on an exceptional delicacy, Restaurant August is one of my favorites. I know the owner and was granted a special treat as this is my honeymoon.”
I supposed it was mine too.
How long did that last?
Rett and I had spent the last three nights of our marriage apart. I’d accepted his gift of the key and he mine of the blindfold, yet neither had been put to use. It seemed that we had two speeds when it came to intimacy—slow and full-throttle.