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work….”
    Nessa narrowed her eyes in thought. “Maybe that’s what I should say. He couldn’t get off work….”
    â€œWho couldn’t get off work?” Georgia must be tired. She wasn’t following.
    â€œI don’t know. Some mythical guy.”
    â€œ You’re not bringing a date tonight?”
    With an exasperated glance at the officer on the horse, Nessa asked, “Remember three years ago when I brought Brad Oglesby, he looked around, decided he liked the Dahl House, and moved in? A single date became a yearlong ordeal of me locking my door every night to keep him out.”
    â€œI’d forgotten that one.” Georgia relaxed. “That was great.”
    â€œYeah. Great. Not to mention two years ago when Rafe Cabello got drunk and spent the whole evening throwing up in the bathroom.”
    â€œHe’s still pining after you, you know.” Georgia visibly perked up at Nessa’s recital of the past horrors. “You have to stop rejecting these guys. They take it so badly.”
    â€œAnd last year was the worst ever. The weatherman from Channel 6.” Nessa shuddered in real horror.
    â€œRayburn Pluche brought the TV cameras, and proposed.” Georgia burst into laughter. In between gasps, she asked, “Remember the Elvis costume? And the blue suede shoes? My God, Nessa, the look on your face when you realized…”
    Nessa watched her friend in disgust. “This is what I live for. To entertain you.”
    â€œNo. Really. Sorry.” Georgia wiped at her face and tried to control herself. “I’m just…worn out…and when I remember the sequins on his collar…the sideburns…it was so…” She went off into another gale of laughter.
    â€œIf you’re entirely done”—Nessa gave Goliath a last pat—“I have to get to work.” She started toward the bank.
    â€œHey, Nessa?” Georgia called.
    Nessa turned back.
    â€œAre you bringing a date?”

Four
    Nessa shot Georgia the one-fingered salute, then walked through the French Quarter to the distinguished old bank on Chartres Street. At eight thirty, she climbed the steps and tapped on the glass door.
    Their uniformed guard let her in, and the blast of air-conditioning felt like heaven. “Good morning, Miss Dahl.”
    â€œMorning, Eric.” The old-fashioned lobby gleamed with marble floors and polished wood counters, and glittered with Mardi Gras tinsel hanging from the lights and masks decorating the walls.
    She put her purse away in the locked drawer in her desk, the one that sat against the wall in the lobby—the one she would soon be leaving behind forever—then made her way behind the counter to the vault. She punched her code into the electronic panel, and the round steel door silently opened.
    Last Friday, she had checked the amounts in the tellers’ cash drawers and put the totals into individual bank bags. She placed the bags on the shelves and the drawers on the table. Today, soon, the armored car would come and take most of the cash, the bank would open, and the banking cycle would begin again.
    Now Nessa took the stacks of bills off the shelves, counted them, then filled the drawers for the tellers. Stacking the drawers, she hefted them in her arms and marched out to the counter. One by one, she distributed them, waited until the teller counted and confirmed the amounts, and glanced at the clock.
    Eight fifty a.m. The system of checks and balances took a while, but with that one mistake she’d made seven years ago, she had proven how necessary it was to take the time and do it properly.
    Five women and one man stood waiting at their stations. Each one wore a costume that represented a period in New Orleans history. The older tellers, Julia, Donna, and Mary, had been through this bank promotion the year before. Julia and Donna wore gowns from the roaring twenties. Mary wore a nineteenth-century