Uneasy in the Big Easy

"After Hurricane Katrina, the crime rate in New Orleans has made international headlines", said my guidebook.  I swallowed hard and peered down Canal street through the mist.  Our hotel was only two blocks away, but my Jason Bourne-level situational awareness told me there were several obstacles between here and there.  There was the cluster of homeless people huddled 100 yards to my right - were they bunching for warmth or doling out their ammo?  There was the construction scaffolding we'd need to pass through - was it narrow for structural integrity or to funnel us into enfilade fire and cut off our retreat?  Behind us a line of taxis idled on the curb.  Were they waiting for fares or for us to get halfway across the street?  Revelers at the trolley stop shouted something indistinguishable that carried through the fog - was it joie de vivre or coded instructions to nefarious companions hiding in dumpsters ahead of us?  "Don't worry guys, I have my knife", whispered Denver, clutching his ornamental silk-screened "Wolves in Moonlight" folding pocketknife. Poor, brave little soul!  What did he know of the desperate, crack-addled zombies that preyed on tourists waddling home after po' boys and gumbo?  Their fingernails were deadlier than his chromed butter-spreader!  We darted in lockstep past the withered clump of vagrants, hunched motionless over their cigarettes.  We entered the tunnel of scaffolding in single file, just as a dark shape bristling with weaponry entered the other end - was it a.... nope, just a shopper carrying purchases. We nodded grimly to each other as we passed, two survivors, grateful to be carrying on the fight.  Past the worst of it now, only 100 yards to the bright neon safety of the Everything Voodoo Market.  Denver's hand was still in his pocket wrapped around the moonlit wolves.  I used the reflection from the puddles to scan the rooftops for silhouetted heads - WHAT'S THAT! AAAAAHGG - THAT'S A.... nope, just a lamp post.  I make a note to remind Jason Bourne that puddles can be deceiving.  We arrive at the brightly lit corner, breaths coming in ragged, rainbow gasps under the garish neon.  The taxis still rumble on the curb, bored drivers texting their wives.  The revelers are celebrating on the trolley, you can see them laughing through the windows as it silently rolls past Magazine street.  There was no danger after all.
Hhmph.  This guidebook must be out of date.