The place was an old Victorian flat in the heart of the French Quarter. Dark oak walls and ceilings, with expensive furnishings all around. This was a big change from the living environment Rickie was accustomed to. He’d slept outdoors with his group of gutter-punk friends the night prior.
Naked, Rickie stepped into a library off the main hallway. Across the large room, stood an eighteen-by-eighteen foot wall full of shelved books. From top to bottom, stood a rolling ladder on wheels. Two comfortable chairs, with a table, sat on a round expensive throw-rug in the middle of the room. A single small lamp, tassels hanging from the lampshade, dimly lit the library.
On the table, Rickie noticed a square crystal carafe, with a large ball corking the top. Inside the vessel, was what he assumed to be brown liqueur. He went over, hands shaking – pulled the cork loose and turned the square bottle up. After two large gulps, Rickie returned the cork. As he set the carafe back down, his head shook his head violently at the assault from the bourbon.