Just down the street stands a three-story flophouse, easily within sight of the criminal-court building. The motel’s only customers are prostitutes and johns. Whores and drug dealers prowl Tulane Avenue all night long, while drunks and addicts shuffle past like zombies. He has seen dealers selling heroin on the courthouse steps, and whores down on their knees on those same steps.

It has to stop.

New Orleans is the new Sodom. And just like in the original, there are not even ten righteous men left here. He is the last, and his job is to call down the Lord’s wrath, to bring forth the cleansing fire that will make holy this unholiest of places.

His cleansing began more than a year ago. Tonight it will continue with this fallen woman on Tulane Avenue, a harlot so brazen she is unafraid to ply her trade only blocks from a house of God.

His wrath is growing. All he has to do is get through the next few awkward moments. He must make her believe he is an addled, sex-crazed cretin.

“H-h-how m-m-much?” he asks. His cursed stutter makes him feel weak. When his mother is drunk-which is nightly-she teases him by impersonating him in her whiskey-slurred imitation stammer.

“Depends on what you want,” the woman says. She glances around and lowers her voice. “Full service will cost you a hundred.”

The harlot isn’t mocking him with her voice, but he can still see the scorn in her eyes. “I-I-I’ll take f-f-full service,” he says.

The prostitute casts a glance at the motel. “A room costs extra, or we can just go behind one of these buildings. I’ll bend over and you can do me from behind.”

“I-I-I h-h-have a car.” He has to force the words from his constricted throat.

She shakes her head. “It better be big ’cause I ain’t getting in the backseat of no itty-bitty car.”

He steps closer to her. For an instant her eyes widen. Is it fear? A tiny pulse of electricity shoots through him. “I l-l-live j-j-just a few blocks away. We can g-g-go to my house.”