Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

  She’d had to press her advantage.

  Now she had lost him. As well as her career and her liberty.

  Today she was going to “bond out,” as her lawyer called it—she was only in a holding cell—but she was going to jail if she lived long enough. She’d left prints on the knife and she knew it. She’d thought of that a thousand million times since leaving Doradale.

  Should she have fought harder? Denied she was Lacey Longtree? Yes. Almost certainly. But she couldn’t go kicking herself about it now—because she knew she could no more help what she’d said, the way all that came out of her, than she could help attacking Proctor. That was the part she wished she could take back—everything else was irrelevant. Because if they printed her, she was dead, and once they’d booked her for battery, they were going to print her.

  Only one thing could keep her out of prison. Her uncle Gamet was twice as mean as her daddy ever thought about being. If he was still alive, she had a good chance of dying instead.

  “Come on, Ti-Belle.” She hated the way they called you by your first name.

  But she might have a few days. There wasn’t even a crime lab in Doradale. Who knew where they’d have to send the prints? She could go somewhere—Mexico, Europe. But what was the point? With no Nick and no career, what was the point of anything?

  But Nick was waiting for her, looking like he was going to cry.

  “Nick Anglime, what are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might need a ride.”

  “You came to get me?”

  For answer he opened his arms.

  “I thought you hated me.” But then she remembered that he didn’t yet know she’d killed her father.

  “Why would I hate you, honey pie?”

  But he must know; Proctor must have told him.

  “I guess I lost my temper back at your house.”

  “I like a woman with spirit.” And she knew she had him forever. Knew, in fact, that he’d help her with the problem she hadn’t mentioned yet. This was a man with more heart than brains.

  She liked that.

  Skip watched as they left, fuming. Ti-Belle had spent about an hour in a cell. If the sheriff of Pine County, Alabama, hadn’t been so damned arrogant, they might still have her. Just because Ti-Belle said she was Lacey Longtree didn’t mean she was—Skip still didn’t think she had probable cause on the murder charge. But what to do about the old crime wasn’t her decision. She’d called the sheriff and said Ti-Belle had admitted she was Lacey Longtree, but hadn’t exactly confessed to the murder. Told him the singer was going to bond out and she didn’t know if she’d be able to find her later. Was there any way to identify her—a scar or something—as the real Longtree?

  The sheriff had guffawed in her face. “Detective, you got somethin’ against that little Cajun gal? There ain’t one hair of her gorgeous head that looks like Lacey Longtree. I’d love to catch up with Ms. L., I sure would, but I’m just afraid you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. You know how these singers are—the beauteous Ti-Belle’s probably so full o’ drugs she doesn’t know her name.”

  “Well, look, I’ll send you a copy of her prints by Federal Express.”

  “Hey, I thought New Orleans was supposed to be the Big Easy. Go to JazzFest, have some popcorn shrimp. I can wait till Monday, no problem.”

  He was so dismissive, he reminded her of her least favorite sergeant and she was a little thin-skinned about O’Rourke right now. He was the one she was really mad at. She was furious that he’d had the gall to tell her what to do. He’d said not to let Ti-Belle out of her sight—that she’d lead them to Melody.

  But if Ti-Belle knew where Melody was, she’d have already found her. She might have killed her daddy and she might have killed Ham, but she no more knew where to find Melody than Skip did. It was a waste of time.

  They went to Nick’s, of course. About an hour later they came out again.

  They drove across the bridge to the West Bank, a place many New Orleanians had never even been. It was like never having had a hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s—a matter of pride. When they ended up in Marrero, Skip began to develop a new respect for O’Rourke.

  Marrero didn’t even look as if it belonged in Louisiana—it could have been a seedy part of California, maybe. Everything was new here, meaning built in the last couple of decades. Every ceiling was low. The whole town looked made for dwarves. On Fourth Street there were mingy little nightclubs that looked more like hamburger stands.

  Not far from there, blacks lived in a housing project, cheek-by-jowl with blue-collar whites in mobile homes. On weekends they could rim into each other at some of the bars on Fourth Street and bang each other upside the head with pool cues. If things got dull.

  To Skip, even the project wasn’t as depressing as the nasty little lanes lined with cheap bungalows, many of them prefab, a lot of them neat, some falling down, and every single one with heavy-duty bars on every single window. People owned these places, called them home. One of the streets was named Silver Lily. It made you want to cry.

  Nick and Ti-Belle drove to a gun store. Skip parked and looked in the window while they bought a gun. A handgun. Ti-Belle was the one doing the talking, testing the thing for heft—and eventually the one paying. Skip couldn’t for the life of her think of any plausible, legitimate reason why Ti-Belle Thiebaud would need a handgun. Uptown ladies carried them, fearful of getting mugged in their front yards, if you thought that was legitimate. But Ti-Belle didn’t live Uptown. Nick did, but since Audubon Place had a gate at the entrance, it was hardly a paradise for muggers.

  They made no more trips, just drove home and went to bed about nine-thirty—or at least the lights went off then. Skip went home depressed. She hadn’t seen Steve all day, hadn’t talked to him, and didn’t think he’d be there.

  But he’s on a big project, Skip. It’s nothing to do with you.

  Maybe it is.

  She couldn’t stall that second nagging little voice.

  Her apartment was stuffy and unwelcoming. She opened the windows and turned on the ceiling fan. The soft light from the lamp spilling on a new purchase, an antique English table, was pretty on her new sofa, her melon walls. But she couldn’t get comfortable. She wanted a joint.

  Hell, I want Steve.

  Failing Steve, she wanted a joint.

  But Jimmy Dee wouldn’t be too bad either.

  She picked up the phone. “Dee-Dee, I need you.”

  “This is getting to be a habit. What is it, angel? Bear bite?”

  “The bear’s out. I need conversation.” She paused. “And drugs.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh what?”

  “You’ve been Little Miss Nancy Reagan lately. Something must be wrong.”

  “Get over here, Dee-Dee, and bring a big fat joint.”

  He came in holding it out to her. “What’s the prob?”

  They sat together on the couch, companionably passing the joint. “Probs plural. I’m beat. I hate this case. I’m worried silly about the kid. Cappello’s on sick leave and O’Rourke’s my sergeant.”

  “Oh, my poor tiny thing. Not the dreaded O’Rourke!”

  “I could kill him.”

  “And the bear? What about him?”

  “The bear.” Skip sighed. “Nothing new. I guess I’m still upset that he stayed at Cookie’s the other night.”

  “Jesus. This is why I don’t date women, you know that?”

  “It is not. You just don’t think we’re cute.”

  “I don’t think most of you are cute. But you, Margaret Langdon, are tiny and adorable. I would say marry me, but you’re too damned insecure.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” She felt horribly sad. “What the hell’s wrong with me, Jimmy Dee?”

  “You’re too dainty and helpless. Such a tiny thing against the world—who could cope?”

  “Waaah!” She was pretending, but she really was close to tears and she didn’t know why.

  “Tell Papa.
”

  “He says he loves me. …”

  “Bleeagh.”

  “He even acts like he loves me.”

  “Well, he better. The brute.”

  “But…” She bit her lip, trying not to make too big an ass of herself.

  “But what, babycakes?”

  “I don’t see how he could!” The words burst out of her like air out of a suddenly released balloon, a rubber sphere propelled by its own insides, bouncing off walls, falling finally flat and shrunken.

  Dee-Dee’s kind eyes reminded her of those of a maid her family had once had, a big, comfortable woman who’d called Skip “dawlin” and held her against a mammoth bosom. “Oh, my precious darling. Give Dee-Dee a hug.”

  His chest was bonier than Louvina’s had been, but it did the trick. “I can’t believe I’m acting like such a dork.”

  “Babykins, I remember sex. I mean, I have to reach pretty far back, but I can just barely barely recollect a tiny bit.”

  “And what do you remember?”

  “Turns strong men to jellyfish. By that I mean myself, of course.”

  “Oh, Dee-Dee, come off it. You don’t have an insecure bone in your body.”

  “Oh, my dainty darling, hush yo’ mouf. You’ve never seen me in love, do you realize that?”

  “Not a pretty sight?”

  “Omigod, the pacing. The tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth. The agony! You wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. I’d keep you on the phone till three A.M. I wouldn’t eat, you’d have to feed me intravenously. But of course it would be worth it. I have much better taste in men than you do.”

  Skip burst out laughing, thinking that a world with Dee-Dee in it couldn’t be all bad. “Oh, you idiot, what would I do without you?”

  “Well, you won’t have to. Unless you move to California with all the fruits and nuts.”

  “Don’t be such a bigot.”

  “Bigot, hell, I’m jealous. We’re talking my people.” He paused, seemed to reflect, to know that he’d lapsed into the inanity people fall into when they’re trying to avoid something—sometimes a good-bye, sometimes another subject; a painful one. He took a deep toke, held it a long time, looked anxious, as if he had something unpleasant to say; something scary. “Listen, I want to talk to you.”

  Not again. She wanted to be a good friend, but she’d called him because she needed cheering up, not because she felt like offering a shoulder to cry on. In fact, what she felt was bone-tired. Just too tired to cope. A day of her favorite pop Cajun R&B singer had done her in.

  She yawned, not bothering to hide it.

  “Tired?” said Dee-Dee.

  “Getting there.” She blinked at him sleepily. She slapped her own face.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I just realized I’m stoned out of my gourd.” She smiled. “I’m out of practice.”

  “I better go.” He started to get up.

  “No.” She patted the sofa. Suddenly it was important to her to function, to do something for Dee-Dee. She was tired, but suddenly overcome by guilt, accompanied by a tidal wave of sloppy sentimentality. She hoped she wouldn’t throw her arms around his neck and tell him she loved him.

  “Talk,” she said.

  “Okay.” But he was silent. “This is hard.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you’re acting like a straight guy. Only two things make them this nervous. So I’m wondering—are you proposing, or are we breaking up?”

  The minute she said it, she got a cold feeling in her stomach. Maybe they were breaking up, in a sense. Maybe he was moving to Minneapolis to take care of his niece and nephew. Dee-Dee gave her a smile as sloppily sentimental as she felt. Then he did the unspeakable—threw his arms around her neck and said he loved her.

  “Ick, Dee-Dee! Bleeagh. I love you too, but yuck. If we start carrying on like this, what’ll be left when we’re eighty?”

  He was laughing as only the mightily stoned can do, his whole body shaking, tears pouring. “God, you’re a bitch. No wonder that man-mountain’s stopped coming around.”

  “Oh, boy. Who’s the bitch?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing—bimbo attack, probably.”

  “Oh, can it, Dee-Dee, I thought you wanted to tell me something.” She hated herself for breaking the mood. Women always said men wouldn’t talk about feelings, but she was the guilty one here. She’d sidetracked sentiment as handily as any clod who’d ever pledged Deke.

  “Well, like I was saying, I love ya, baby.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  “I have to make changes in my life—for the kids.”

  “You’re really going to be a dad?”

  “What else do you suggest?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Boarding school, I guess.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Uh-uh and no way. I got sent and no kid of mine—”

  “Listen to you! One minute you’re camping it up and next you’re talking no-kid-of-mine.”

  “Well, dammit, I want to do this. I really want to take care of those kids.” He stopped and looked away from her, made sure she couldn’t see his face, and said, “Love them.”

  He said it so low she wasn’t sure she’d heard right, but she was starting to come down and she had the sense not to ask.

  He turned to her and grimaced. “It’s not like I had a sex life or anything. I might as well get a hobby.”

  “Dee-Dee, you’re the worst.”

  “Well, I mean, guys in feather boas and leather aren’t exactly a wholesome influence. Do you think?”

  “Depends on the guys.” He said it with her, and they split their sides for a while, still deliciously loaded.

  “What I want to say first—here’s the bottom line—is you’re family. Do you understand that? No matter what happens.”

  “Dee-Dee, what are you saying?”

  “Well, I kind of need your apartment.”

  So that was it. The cold feeling in her stomach came back. “You want me to move?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Dee-Dee, you do or you don’t.”

  “I want you to move and stay here too. What I want to do is take back your apartment and the other two, redo the budding as a single-family home, and move the kids in. Plus a nanny or au pair or something—whatever you’re supposed to get.”

  She shrugged. “Beats me.” She didn’t know what she’d do if it were she, suddenly a mom without a clue.

  “It’ll be gorgeous, don’t you think? Qui you see the possibilities?”

  “It’ll be great.” I wish I could live in it.

  “And I want you to take the slave quarters.”

  “What?” He lived there himself, and it was a showplace. “Dee-Dee that’s sweet of you, but I don’t think—”

  “At the same rent, my dainty darling. A teensy-weensy little rent for a teensy-weensy girl.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Mais certainement.”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you must. I can’t go through this alone.” It was a joke, he said it like a joke, but she caught an involuntary twitch in his neck, knew that it was true, that he was tense right now, afraid she’d turn him down.

  She said, “You just want a built-in babysitter.”

  “Wrong. I need a cop in the house. ‘Cause you know what kids do? They make you watch Freddy Krueger movies and then you have nightmares and wake up scared. I need you to protect me.”

  Skip was jerked upright by the sweet domestic image—Uncle Jimmy and his niece and nephew watching scary movies in their newly redone French Quarter home. Munching microwave popcorn. No lights on. The kids on the floor, Skip too. Everybody giggling at funny old Freddy and his fake fingernails.

  It seemed doable. Alien, but doable. She was excited by it in a funny way, somewhere deep in her belly felt fuzzy little stirrings. I want this. She was surprised.

  She turned to Jimmy Dee and raised an eyebrow. “You’re g
etting weird, Dee-Dee.”

  “I’ll go make up the lease—okay?”

  “They have to call me Auntie. That’s non-negotiable.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  They were hugging when Steve came in. A curious domesticity had come over them, a weird blissful peace, as if they’d found something they were looking for.

  “You two getting married?”

  “No. We’re going to be single parents.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “That’s my cue,” said Jimmy Dee. “‘Bye now.” He floated out with a campy flick of the wrist.

  Steve stared after him: “Like I said. Am I missing something?”

  Skip got up and gave him a hug, but she felt resistance and was hurt. “What’s the matter?”

  “You and Dee-Dee. You looked like you were in love.”

  “Well, we are, sort of. It’s like Tootsie—if he’d cut out the drag act one day, maybe we could—”

  He stepped away from her. “You’re stoned.”

  It was like a slap, sudden, sharp, painful, and utterly sobering. “Well, I was. I think I’m coming down. I’m sorry about the scene with Dee-Dee. I have a hard time remembering you get jealous of him.”

  “I’m not jealous!”

  “Would you like to sit down, by any chance? Could I get you a beer maybe?”

  He relaxed, dug into his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Good God, yes.”

  She got him the beer and made some instant iced tea for herself, thinking about what she wanted to say. “Listen, I’m sorry I got stoned.”

  He reached for her in that easy way he had. He was affectionate and she liked that in a man. He didn’t seem even slightly threatened by being close to her. “It’s okay. You’ve got a right to get stoned. I was just noticing, that’s all.”

  “You know, I hardly ever do it anymore. Tonight I was feeling insecure.”

  “Your case?”

  “No, you.”

  “Me!” He couldn’t have looked more bewildered if she’d set him on fire.

  “I guess I was upset that you went to Cookie’s the other night.”

  “But why?” Now he seemed hurt too—as if she’d said she wanted to break up.

  “I guess I thought you didn’t want to be with me.”