After having coffee with my one friend with the cat and her lawyer friend, she went back to her house to do some work, and I stayed at the roofed Starbucks patio to read and pass out a storm that was going to blow through for an hour or two.
A few other people were out there, and we all started chatting, and it turns out one (white) guy was a cop who was originally from Connecticut, but had been in New Orleans for a few years.
He occasionally worked the French Quarter, and he said the worst source of trouble was this black leather bar with a clientele of rough men in their 40s.
Like every other week, he said, the cops would be called in, and some white businessman would be knocked out cold in the bathroom with his nose caved in and all his pockets turned out, and no one in the bar would have seen anything.
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