When the sun beats down on New Orleans, it’s easy for outsiders to think it’s just another frenetic city with the requisite old buildings and a swamp for contrast. But with the creeping dusk comes, not a cooling down, but a heating up of the other New Orleans as the night-lifers heed the siren call to pleasure. For the street cops, it’s the siren call to pissed off as they struggle to keep the peace against increasing odds. Night, and the strange allure of the yellow moon, makes their job harder, enhancing what is worst in the violent, the dishonest, and the insane.
Mickey was thinking about the insane as they once more pulled to a stop in front of the Seymour house, which was dark and quiet, except for bits of light that crept past the heavily curtained windows.
The frat house was quiet
