Comanche. Brett Riley

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      Later, they exited onto Royal Street, Raymond and Frost chatting, McDowell and LeBlanc hanging back ten yards or so, dodging map-carrying tourists and street peddlers. Occasionally, their arms touched. They probably looked like a couple in the early stages of infatuation, too nervous to speak much, unaware of each other’s rhythms. By the time LeBlanc found his courage, they had reached the intersection of Royal and St. Phillip. Raymond and Frost had gone ahead.

      McDowell started to turn left toward the office when LeBlanc took her arm. She raised her eyebrows. Around them, pedestrians ebbed and flowed. A tourist in a Cadillac stopped at the intersection and rolled down her window, asking passersby if they knew the quickest way to the Garden District. From somewhere nearby, a trumpet burst into life, a jazz tune LeBlanc had never heard before. His face burned. He had grabbed McDowell like she had stolen something, and now he was acting like a sheepish teenager sliding into second base for the first time. She watched him with curiosity and something like amusement.

      Finally, she took one of his hands in hers and said, Don’t be so nervous. I won’t bite.

      LeBlanc swallowed hard, trying to unstick the words that had lodged in his traitor throat.

      I don’t know why I’m actin like such a doofus, he said. But look. I was wonderin if you’d like to get a drink with me sometime. Or maybe dinner.

      She looked coy. You mean another business meetin, Mr. LeBlanc?

      You know what I mean. Just you and me.

      McDowell smiled and twirled one of her braids. I’d like that. What took you so long, anyway?

      And just like that, LeBlanc fell for her. Not love yet, but not just lust either. A kind of deep affection and a sense of propriety, as if he had made a pact with an honorable personage. She had surmounted his defenses so easily she had not even needed to try—so discomfiting, so glorious.

      I reckon I’m just slow, he said.

      McDowell slipped her arm into his. I’m sweatin through my shirt. How about escortin a lady back to the air-conditioning?

      Yes, ma’am, he said. Maybe by the time we get there, your friend Jake will feel better.

      They set off down St. Phillip, arm in arm.