by Julie Smith
“Last on my block as usual.”
“You gotta go to the Fais Do Do at Tipitina’s. Or come here—they have lessons at six o’clock.”
She would have said she’d do that, but he had dragged her to the dance floor, stuffed ear plugs in his ears (“I never dance without ’em”), and was getting into professorial mode. “Okay, here’s all it is. You think it’s going to be two steps but it’s four. You’ve got to take those two extra steps. Bend your knees and kind of go up and down. That’s it. Got it?”
“I guess so.” Dancing wasn’t her strong point.
But the music was irresistible, and he was right, it was getting to be a fad. She went at it with all her heart.
“Hey,” said Abe, “you can’t do that.”
“I can’t do what?”
“You’ve got to go up and down when your partner does. You can’t set the rhythm yourself.”
Damn! Just like high school—she never could do it right. Her knees were starting to kill her. “Maybe that’s enough for now.”
But in Abe’s opinion it wasn’t. She was a near-cripple by the time they got back to the table, and, worse, felt off-balance, a failure. She caught Abasolo’s eye—and could have sworn he was grinning evilly.
When they had ordered—jambalaya for him, catfish for her—Abe leaned forward. “Tell me about yourself.”
No. Something in her balked at the exercise. Why did she always have to do every little thing he wanted?
“You first,” she said.
“No, you.”
It was a direct order. She said, “I wasn’t really born here. That’s just the story my parents tell. Actually, I was left behind when my spaceship took off and I’ve been trying to learn the language ever since.”
“I see what you mean. You don’t look like you fit in.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, from me that’s a compliment. I hate this place.”
But it stung. She had been trying lately to fit in better and she’d thought she was succeeding. What was it that made her stand out? She didn’t ask, knowing the answer was bound to make her feel insulted.
She changed the subject. “Why do you live here if you hate it?”
“To be near my kids. I was in Atlanta before—now, there’s a city! But my wife divorced me and moved here; she got the kids, of course, so I’d hardly ever have seen them if I’d stayed there. This is bad enough.”
He speared a piece of lettuce, using his fork like a weapon.
“You miss your kids?”
“I miss ’em like crazy.” He stared at her, letting his eyes go moist. She got the feeling he’d done it before.
“But you must see them sometimes.”
“Oh, sure. It’s just not like having a family.”
Skip had a feeling that she was supposed to take his hand and croon, “Ooooooh, is that what you really want?”
Instead she said, “You’re upset about the divorce?”
“Horribly.” He tried the spearing trick again, but missed—his fork squeaked nastily on the plate.
He wants me to ask him what went wrong and whatever it was will be her fault.
“Would it be rude to ask what happened?”
“Not rude at all. Cynthia didn’t want to be married anymore. Period.”
“She didn’t give any reason?”
“She gave lots of them, but they all amounted to the same thing—I wasn’t perfect.”
“And you thought you were.”
Seeing him start, Skip held up a hand. “Just kidding. Really.”
“Anyway, she really pulled the rug out from under me. I had a nice wife, nice home, two great kids, good job, friends—now I’ve got none of it. I threw away my whole career to come to a city where nothing’s happening economically.”
“Do you think she was right about any of the stuff she said—about your not being perfect?”
“I don’t know if I really want to talk about that.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t blame you. I was thinking you were being awfully forthcoming for someone talking to a stranger.”
“You mean I don’t have to?”
“Don’t have to what?”
“Talk about this stuff. I thought women expected it. It’s supposed to make us seem vulnerable or something.”
Skip failed in all attempts to avoid laughing. “Sorry,” she said when she had gained control, “but you don’t seem at all vulnerable to me.”
He made a fist and set it sideways on the table. “You know, I don’t know what to do with you. I thought women liked to talk about themselves, so I tried to talk about you. I know they love to hear personal stuff, so I tried that. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”
“You don’t have to be vulnerable to be attractive.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I just want to get to know you. You don’t have to present some kind of false identity to get me to like you. We could just have a little quiet conversation, maybe.”
“I’ve already gone through all my subjects.”
”No you haven’t. You could tell me about your children.”
“What’s to tell? Two lovely daughters. Real smart. Pretty.”
“Names?”
“Why should I tell you their names?”
She wondered if a lot of his dates walked out in the middle of dinner and hailed the nearest taxi.
But probably none of the others have been cops. I could just pull out my gun and shoot him.
It was tempting, but instead she took a deep breath. “Oh, hell, let’s talk about us.”
He looked so shocked it was almost worth it. She said, “Are you dating anyone else?”
“I’m not even dating you.”
“I got a good recommendation on you. I hear you date a lot of women from that inner-child group.”
“Tell me something—will you just tell me something? Why do women think this kind of stuff is any of their business?”
“I really like you, Abe. I’m just trying to find out what you’re all about. Isn’t that reasonable?”
He looked wary. “What do you want to know?”
She smiled, trying to look as pleasant and non-threatening as a six-foot cop can look. “Oh, where you live, for instance. What part of town and whether you like it there.”
“I can’t take this. I just can’t take it.” He flung down his napkin and strode out, possibly to fling himself in front of an oncoming car. It didn’t occur to Skip to follow. She ordered coffee and peanut-butter pie, hoping he wouldn’t be joining her.
If it had been a genuine date, she probably would have been close to tears, but in the circumstances she could hardly keep from laughing alone and loudly, making a perfect spectacle of herself.
She made a mental note to phone Steve Steinman first thing in the morning. Thank God her real life—as opposed to her professional one—didn’t require any Awful Abes or even Exciting Alexes. As Cindy Lou had said, teddy bears were so good for the inner child….
Abe slipped back into his chair, face washed, hair combed. “I guess I kind of blew the evening, huh?”
“Au contraire. ‘Memorable’ is exactly the way I’d describe it.”
“Listen, my wife always tried to get me to to ‘open up’—that’s what she called it, ‘open up,’ like a dentist. I don’t know what it is—when women start asking me questions, I just freak.”
“I can ask non-threatening questions. I promise.”
“No you can’t. No woman can—I mean it’s not about them, it’s about me.”
“Abe. How about those Saints?”
“What does that mean?”
“What do you mean what does that mean? All I said was, how about those Saints?”
He looked at the table, apparently truly embarrassed. “I don’t follow baseball.”
“Or any sports, I gather.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Just a guess. Here’s one: Seen any good mo
vies lately?”
“No, wait. Why’d you say that about sports? You don’t think I’m very masculine, do you?”
Are you kidding? I barely think you’re human.
“Of course I do—it’s just that the Saints are a football team. So that was a clue.” She felt as if she were talking to a child. What on earth was wrong with this man?
But of course she knew. His inner child was a big fat mess.
On the way back to their cars, Abe reminded her that she was going to tell him why they should pretend they weren’t dating other people.
“I was going to say,” she said, “it’s because it’s more Southern that way—it make things smoother. But now that seems a little out of place.”
“It wasn’t a smooth evening, huh?”
“The food was great. And there’s a cypress knee in the bathroom. I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”
“Shit! I wish that bitch hadn’t left me! I’m not cut out for this crap.”
FIFTEEN
WHATEVER TINY BREEZES had stirred the city on the weekend subsided early Monday morning. Skip, who used the ceiling fan at night, hating the sterile atmosphere air conditioning produced, awoke with her hair damp, whimpering from a dream she couldn’t remember. The dream had frightened her, or maybe it was the oppressive torpor of the city that had her on edge. She lay there not wanting to get up, her apprehension holding her down like a pair of strong arms. It hovered in the room, a strange and shadowy intruder, reminding her of times when something had been horribly wrong at bedtime and she’d awakened not remembering at first, but frightened and depressed, not knowing why.
What was it? She took mental inventory.
It was the Axeman. Tomorrow was the day he’d set for his personal Jazzfest. Tomorrow.
And they were no closer to catching him than they’d been a week ago. Panic seized her.
The time had come for “creative police work”—or, more accurately, for giving Cindy Lou’s idea a shot. She hoped she wouldn’t be sorry.
She grabbed for the phone and dialed her brother.
“Conrad, I need a favor.”
“If it isn’t the black sheep.”
“I liked Camille.”
“Everyone likes Camille.”
She could hear the muffled voices of an early-morning talk show. While boning up on news and trends, Conrad was probably sipping a vegetable cocktail whipped up in his juicer. In the kitchen, another expensive machine was probably turning out a perfect cup of coffee. And for all Skip knew, Camille was working beside it, manufacturing the world’s first cholesterol-free breakfast. There was no question she’d be the breakfast cook—if anyone would have a traditional relationship, Conrad would.
“Listen, I want to make a trade.”
“Later. I’ve got a meeting.”
“Two questions.”
“Six tickets.”
“Three.”
“One question.”
“Okay, four.”
Their standing deal was this: When she was desperate, she pumped him about his Uptown acquaintances, in return for which she fixed his parking tickets. Since they’d hit on it, they’d gotten along better than they had in years, no doubt because each of them thought they were getting the better of the other.
She figured Conrad enjoyed the power inherent in having a flunky to fix his tickets; as for her, she didn’t care how she got the information, but she did find a certain pleasure in knowing she was deceiving her brat of a brother. Because the truth of the matter was, she simply paid the damn tickets herself, thus reducing him to the status of common snitch.
“Do you know Sonny Gerard?”
“A little bit. Nice guy.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Good reputation, everyone likes him, especially women.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the enchilada. Was it worth four tickets?”
“No.”
“Tough shit.” He laughed triumphantly.
“Come on. You’ve got to give me more than that.”
“Okay. His dad’s Bull Gerard the plastic surgeon.”
“Give me credit for something, Conrad.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re a detective, right? Sonny’s okay; his brother’s the weird one.”
“His brother?”
“Rob Gerard. He’s an artist. He and Sonny don’t speak.”
“How’s he weird?”
“I told you—he’s an artist.”
Rob was in the phone book, but it was hours too early to call an artist.
She dressed, went into the office, and ran the whole plan by Cappello. As she’d expected, the sergeant agreed—it was unconventional, but time was running out.
She called Abe’s old law firm in Atlanta and the one he’d said he recently joined on Gravier Street, forebearing to use the term Awful Abe, but only barely. Both places verified his existence. Next she checked for any criminal record in Georgia but failed to find one. Finally she tracked down a Cynthia Morrison in the admissions office at UNO, the ex. Now, here was a potential source. But how did you ask a woman if her ex-husband had murderous tendencies?
On a roll, she called Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and learned not only that a Missy McClellan existed, but her dad was a former mayor running for the legislature. Good family, churchgoers, no police record; lived with an aunt in New Orleans. Skip checked one more thing—a map. She wanted to see if Hattiesburg was just down the road from Indianola, where Linda Lee had grown up. It wasn’t.
Di was another matter. None of the hypnotists in the book had ever heard of her and neither had the National Guild of Hypnotists, the American Association of Professional Hypnotherapists, or the National Society of Clinical Hypnotherapists. She was licensed neither by the State Board of Certified Social Work Examiners nor by the State Board of Examiners of Psychologists. None of which meant she wasn’t a hypnotherapist, but if she was, Skip had the feeling she was the sort who just decided she was and hung out a shingle.
She reported to Joe and Cappello, “They’re all screwballs—three of them out front and two who’re too good to be true.”
Joe said, “They sound pretty ordinary to me.”
“Yeah. Ordinary screwballs. At least they’re all who they say they are, except for Di. The voodoo people don’t know her and neither do the headshrinkers.”
“You better try to concentrate on her awhile.”
“Okay.” She felt a light sweat break out on her forehead: I think I’ll just ask her mom about her. Or maybe her ex-husband.” On days like this she was glad she didn’t have a partner; it wouldn’t suit her freewheeling style. But some things had to be run by her superiors. “By the way, tonight I have a little pretend date with Alex.”
“You what?” The look on Joe’s face said his own dog had bitten him.
Cappello calmed him. “It’s okay. She’s already been out with Abe. To what avail I’m not sure, but I’ll try anything at this point.”
“Abe doesn’t have a criminal record. Alex hit a guy once.”
“He doesn’t quite check out either. Claims he lives Uptown and he doesn’t. But not to worry—I can handle him. And Abasolo’s backing me up.”
Joe sighed. “Be sure you take a radio with you.”
When they were done, she drank coffee, killing time. And at ten o’clock she took off for Rob Gerard’s studio, not caring if she made him mad. Just feeling desperate.
She had a bad feeling the Axeman had been out of commission too long for comfort. The first murders had been close together. Another was due.
* * *
An ankle was tied to something—a rope, maybe, a wisp of fog, perhaps—that anchored the body to Earth. It floated aubergine and red in a dark mass that could have been space, or possibly the sea. The mass roiled and twisted, alive with tumult and agony, Skip thought, but that wasn’t possible. It wasn’t alive, it wasn’t even real.
She was oddly unnerved by the huge painting—Rob’s, surely�
�leaning against a brick wall. It made her throat close slightly, and not in a good way. She felt a little bit afraid, though there was no one else in the courtyard except a man so wispy she could have broken him in two. He was clearly unarmed, indeed almost undressed, wearing only a pair of faded shorts. His skin glistened, probably from a recent application of sunscreen. He was very white to be out in August with no shirt or hat. His hair glinted copper, neon in the morning sun. He sat on the ground, his back to Skip, either staring at the painting or meditating.
“Excuse me….”
When he turned around, she saw that his eyes were light blue and his face, unlike his body, was biscuit-brown. His lashes and brows were bleached white. He reminded her of a leprechaun, so small was he, and so crafty-looking.
“Whoooo are yooooou?” He drew out each syllable, in a parody, she thought, of some Lewis Carroll character, some grotesque from Alice in Wonderland. He stood, feet apart, solid. He was a good six inches shorter than she was but he had presence.
“I’m Margaret Langdon,” said Skip. “I work at DePaul.” The local mental hospital.
“How very convenient. It’s time for my medication.” He held out his hand.
“You’re not kidding. That is, if you painted that.” She nodded at the painting, knowing she was taking a big chance. If she insulted him, she was lost; if he took up the challenge, she’d established a weird rapport.
He didn’t bat an eye. “I’m a very sick man. You have to help me.” He didn’t remove the open hand.
“Drop by,” said Skip. “Feeding time’s at three.”
He was bored with the joke and was looking at her intently, starting to make her uncomfortable. “You wouldn’t let me paint you, would you? Just your face. I mean it.”
“Are you Rob Gerard, by any chance?”
“They’ve heard of me at DePaul?”
“Only in the personnel office. Your brother wants to work for us as a volunteer.”
“And he gave me as a reference? Excuse me, but I’m hallucinating. Give me a Valium.”
“Actually, he didn’t.”
“Would you like to go inside? Your upper lip’s sweating and I keep wanting to lick it.”
“Please.”
In a moment she saw why he painted outside. He had no real studio at all, just a garage with a skylight. It would have been fine except that it was filled to the gills—with furniture (indoor and lawn), books, magazines, painting supplies, and paintings, paintings, paintings. “Maid’s day off,” he said. “Have a seat.”
