NOLA

We're all set up now in my friend Walt's house. It has all the basics - walls, floors, roof, windows, locks, electricity - and compared to what some people have had to live with since Katrina, it's high style over here on State Street Drive. Air mattress, mini fridge, George Foreman grill. Pillow cases used as curtains, doors not attached but propped into place, building materials scattered throughout and now being used as garbage cans, tables, etc.

For those who don't know, Walt was my police reporting partner when I worked at the Times Picayune. He is one of the craziest, kindest men alive. He can be scattered at times, and when we worked together, I was the one who would pull our stories together. (Sometimes, because he has a tendency to wander off topic when telling a story, he would call my phone and start dictating facts the way they did it in the old newspaper days: But we'd be sitting right next to each other. I know. People would walk by and stare and say, "Are they on the phone to each other?" But it worked.)

I could tell Walt stories all day. Like how his car is always filled with, well, everything - blankets, books, trash, crowbars, towels, clothing, newspapers, cereal bowls with remaining milk - and how one time, he came to my house to help me change a tire but first had to get the jack out of his trunk. That involved dumping the contents of the trunk into the street, and among the contents were a rifle, a handgun, various other weapons including something that looked like numchuks, and scores of papers and clothes. It was like the clown car of possessions. I kept saying, "Why do you need this rope? Is that gun loaded? When are you ever going to wear all these clothes?"

Another time, we were working a story about a French Quarter bar owner who had been kidnapped. We found a guy who said he had some information, so Walt invites him to talk. Man's in the backseat, Walt and I are in the front two seats. I was not pleased with this. The man was clearly a scammer, so I kept saying, "Out. I want him out of this car. Now." while Walt would say, "Aw, c'mon, Natalie. He's a good guy. He's going to help us out, aren't you? Come on." Walt later said he thought we'd done a good job playing "Good cop/Bad cop." I said, "Are you kidding me? I wasn't playing!"

Walt also told me one of my favorite Times Picayune stories - and there are many. There was an editor in the 1970's who came to work one day, went home then killed himself. "And," Walt said, "his jacket is still hanging on the coatrack in the back." I was like, "Totally no way!" But we walked to the rack and there was this truly garish 70s style suit jacket with red and white checks. (I checked the pockets, of course. Empty.) That jacket had hung there for decades and stayed there until right before Katrina, when it mysteriously disappeared from its hook.

Then there's the story of the voodoo murder and speaking in code over the phone but forgetting what the code was and the best Valentine's Day I ever had, which involved a dog in eastern New Orleans coming across various body parts Feb. 13, but those are tales for another time. Just know this: Walt is aces.

We're off to the airport now. The cats are arriving from Philadelphia via Continental at 8 p.m. We expect hostility.