But now, “Goddamn,” he said. “Who has the balls to go after the old money cabal?”

“It’s some Jewish guy, I think. I don’t recognize the name. But at least someone is doing something to stop this idiocy. Says he has family ties here, but he’s only been here a couple of months. Says he works at Tulane.”

“Probably should have stated that in the past tense.”

“Fuckin’ tourism,” Gus continued. “That was the stuff that sunk us in the first place. Low cost tourism, plenty of low cost jobs, lots of out of towners, no school system, and no other jobs. That was before Katrina. That’s the same shtick now. Old money cares for old money, no one else. Why else would they have let the city sink into bankruptcy?”

“Yeah, I’ll betchya the developers had a fine Irish wake when the papers were filed. A chance to re-do the city in the developer’s image.”

“I hope the Archbishop is happy,” Gus mumbled as he abruptly left the table in disgust.


The murmur at the Boston Club was unmistakable. The collective voice was rumble regarding the newspaper, a sort of collective, Gregorian in nature.

“Who is this little bastard?” said Keenan.

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