chandlerlockhart

[chandlerlockhart]

About Chandler Lockhart

Under the pen name Chandler Lockhart, I will occasionally post short and flash fiction about New Orleans and Louisiana. The fiction focuses on the Armstrong family of New Orleans. They are a wealthy family that owns the NORCO Oil Company, one of the world's largest privately owned companies. Chandler is a relative and avid chronicler of this family, along with their extended family, friends, and associates. Chandler is also a character in some of the stories. Chandler Lockhart is a pseudonym for the actual author of the work, who will remain anonymous. The image of Chandler Lockhart is, in fact, one of Ralph McGill (February 5, 1898 – February 3, 1969), a noted journalist, editor, and newspaper publisher of the Atlanta Constitution from the 1930s to the 1960s, who was a staunch opponent of segregation. The image is a portrait of McGill by Robert Templeton, painted in 1984. My use of this public domain portrait is an homage. The character of Chandler Lockhart, however, has very different personal characteristics from Ralph McGill. The image, nevertheless, suited my imagined image of Chandler well.

[chandlerlockhart]

Late Night on Conti Street

Armstrong Family Flash Fiction

The late-night French Quarter pulsated with a life of its own. Music spilled from open doorways, laughter echoed off the brick walls, and the scent of boiling crawfish hung near the corner of Conti and Burgundy Streets. Amidst this nocturnal symphony, an aspiring musician, Jake Sprint, walked up Conti Street toward Rampart, headed for his apartment, his black boots clicking against the sidewalk's concrete. He had been scouting some clubs where local musicians had been playing. He was looking for musicians for the band he had started called Pirate's Alley Squared.

Jake was a native of New Orleans who functioned best at night. His senses were attuned to the rhythms of the city that worked late. He navigated the streets quickly and familiarly, scanning the shadows for any hint of danger without conscious thought. But tonight, danger surprised him.

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Two figures emerged from the darkness, their faces obscured by masks. They menacingly blocked Jake's path. His heart quickened, but he maintained his composure. His eyes locked with the larger of the two men.

"Wallet," the man demanded, his voice a low growl.

Jake hesitated and instinctively started to back away. But then, he saw the shiny metal surface in the other man's hand. A knife, its blade gleamed menacingly in the street's low light. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced Jake's usual bravado. He knew better than to resist. He stopped and slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and tossing it at the men's feet. One snatched up the wallet, his eyes gleaming with greed.

But before the men could turn and flee, a voice without emotion spoke out of the darkness. "Don't move, or I'll shoot."

The muggers froze, their eyes darting around in the darkness, searching for the source of the voice. Jake's heart pounded with a mixture of fear and relief. From the shadows emerged a figure, his silhouette backlit by the glow of a street lamp behind him. He moved toward the muggers, his hand extended, holding a pistol. The muggers looked at each other nervously. The wallet fell to the ground. Then, with a muttered "Fuck you, asshole," they turned and trotted off into the darkness, their footsteps fading into the night.

Jake stood frozen for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, he turned to see his rescuer, and a wave of gratitude and recognition hit him.

"Are you Rob Armstrong?"

"Do we know each other?"

"No, but I know who you are - the only son of the richest oil man in Louisiana, the CEO of NORCO. Thanks. Do you often pull a pistol on people?"

"Only if I have to. I have seen you singing on stage before. It was good." Now, putting the gun away in his jacket pocket, Rob asked, "Want to join me for a beer? I was about to walk into the Three-Legged Dog at the next corner when I saw you. I'm meeting my cousin, Rachel, for beer and crawfish. You are welcome to join us."

"Ah. Sure," he said, his voice sputtering and still shaken. "You saved me."

Rob nodded, a glint of a smile on his lips. "Just doing my thing," he replied, "This city's gotta look after its musicians."

"How are you so calm?"

"Don't know. Rachel would say it's Asperger's. She says I overfocus."

They turned and walked toward the Dog. Jake was still shaking and fumbling about, trying to put his wallet back into his pocket as he recovered.

"Shouldn't we call the police? Should you be carrying a gun if you have Asperger's?"

Still wholly calm but oversharing, "I didn't say I had Asperger's. Rachel said it. Dad says she's wrong. It's only a pistol, and most people around here have assault rifles. I'm under-armed."

"Underarmed? What?" Jake was still reeling.

"Some strange stuff has happened to me when a gun might have been helpful. So, now I have one. If you want to call the police, let's do it from the Dog. Nobody's hurt; it will be hours or days before they come to take a statement. You want to stand here for hours?"

Rob pushed open the Dog's swinging door. Jake saw a black-haired raven in tight jeans and a leather vest standing at the bar before him as he walked through the door. He forgot about calling the police.

Rob said calmly and flatly, "Hey Rachel, this is Jake. I just rescued him from a mugging. He is a musician and singer but does not seem to be much for a knife fight."

Having begun to recover his senses, Jake smiled and shook his head in complete surprise. New Orleans was a city of contrasts: danger was always nearby, but a feeling of community ran deep, friendships could form fast, and unexpected things could happen without warning.

Jake's life was about to change.