Perfect Fifths Read Online Free

elbow-to-elbow with tourists in the French
    Quarter, the kind who consider it a hoot to order an arm's-length cocktail called the Hurricane Katrina (citrus vodka, blue curagao, spiced rum, Plymouth Gin, tequila, and apple vinegar, garnished with lime) dreamed up by the more mercenary—or wickedly funny, depending on your point of view—bartenders in town. And he never matched Natty's enthusiasm for slipping dollar bills to the tittytassel-twirling pros at the sex palace promising more "N'awlins Bounce to the Ounce" (which, in turn, prompted their carnal rivals across the street to promote "more N'awlins Booty Meat by the Pound").

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    Even the novelty of the jazz clubs had worn off when Marcus noticed that he was nodding along with the lazy behind-the-beat rhythms of the city's take on the blues, just like everyone else in the crowd. To him, it felt less like collective pleasure than passive conformity.
    Marcus wanted to feel something real. He wanted to be taxi-driven away from the city's most famous streets, through the swampy morass of the outlining parishes, to the temple of a voodoo priestess known only as The Queen. As Marcus had been told by those who know, The Queen was blessed (or cursed) with unrivaled gifts in the necromantic arts, as well as widely considered to be the best of all such practitioners of black magic in a city that boasted more licensed shamans than
    schoolteachers. He was told that The Queen wasn't much of a show-woman, having dispensed with the ornamental masks, orgiastic dances, and other tropes of the trade that were attractive to tourists. She didn't even advertise her talents, relying solely on word-of-mouth recommendation. Her demeanor was brisk and no-nonsense, so much so that she never let customers inside her home, and she always made it very clear that she wanted nothing other than to get them off her porch as soon as possible. A true artist, The Queen refused to take money from just anyone, only from those who were approved by the Loa, or spirits who watch over earth. Her
    services—divination, mostly, with some faith healing and spell-casting on the side when the spirits moved her—could not be validated by any on-or offline guidebook.
    But if the Loa vouched for Marcus, The Queen would give him the most profound spiritual reading he would ever receive ..Just by holding his hands.
    It was this last bit that really sucked Marcus in. It was preposterous. He was in on her shtick, and he knew that this out-of-the-way place was as much of a tourist trap as any jazz bar or strip club in the French Quarter, just one that required slightly more effort than a less adventurous visitor would give. In fact, for that reason alone, his feeble quest for authenticity was a cliche far worse than the French Quarter frat boys, because at least the brothers of Sigma Chi weren't puking in the alleys under the pretense of keepin' it real. And yet for someone who had spent countless hours seeking enlightenment through silent meditation, even a false promise of instantaneous truth was too much for Marcus to resist.
    It should be noted that he had been drinking the night of his visit to The Queen. After years of post-teen-in-rehab teetotaling, he had reacquainted himself with alcohol in his freshman year of college at the age of twenty-three. He didn't indulge very often, and he never set out to get drunk, but his years of abstinence had affected his body's ability to metabolize booze, making him a lightweight, a cheap date. The disorienting buzz Marcus felt after one or two beers was similar to that which would be expected from someone a foot shorter, fifty pounds lighter, and female.
    So it was in such a delicately soused state that Marcus paid audience to The Queen. Even in retrospect, he couldn't decide whether a response to the alcohol or a
    genuine spiritual crisis had brought him to this neighborhood of off-the-map shotgun