The summer before Katrina, New Orleans was spinning out of control in a boozy maelstrom of guns and drugs, murder and corruption. Flush with tourist dollars, the sweltering city felt overripe and frantic, like some blowzy hooker who, late into besotted middle-age, sinks to new depths because she hasn't got much longer to live. In July, after my gentle dog-groomer friend was shot to death in a demented crime of passion, I wanted to run onto Canal Street, hold up my hands, and scream STOP, NEW ORLEANS, JUST STOP.