byAngelique leaned against the bar and watched Sara, the club owner, and a man she didn’t know place the upright acoustic piano next to the slim black case housing her protoplasmic synthesizer. The Funky Piranha club looked forlorn with its empty tables, and strings of tiny red and green lights blinking on the ceiling. The slight scent of beer wafted into the air from the wood floor. Later that night the club would be filled with people who were in New Orleans for the music festival.
She tapped the small silver derm phone disk attached behind her right earlobe. “Phone on. Dial Brenda.”
Her cousin’s phone rang. “Damn,” Angelique said as the message played. “Brenda, it’s me again. I’ve been calling for days. Where are you? I just got in town and planning to stay at your place. If you’re ho
