by Julie Smith
She thought they were driving to his house, but he stopped at the same bar she hadn’t liked in the first place. “What are we doing?”
“Let’s have a nightcap.”
“I have to get home, Charles. I have a kid, remember?”
“Come on, just one.”
He ordered a Rusty Nail, and so, more or less in self- defense, did she. Then he ordered another.
“Charles, come on. I’ve got to go home.”
He said, “God, you’re beautiful,” and leaned toward her. They kissed in the bar, unmindful of who saw, and then they had another Rusty Nail.
Finally, he took her home, it being far too late to go to his house by then, and she thought she heard noise from Torian’s room.
“‘Torian? What are you doing?”
“Just talking. Sheila’s sleeping over.”
Lise opened the door. Sheila was on the floor in a sleeping bag, candles burned on Torian’s dresser, and the room reeked of cigarette smoke.
“You’ve been smoking again.”
She crossed to the window and opened it.
“Mom! The AC.”
“We’ll talk in the morning, young lady.”
As she left, she heard her daughter say, “Did you smell her? She’s drunk as a coot.”
Chapter Six
SKIP RANG THE doorbell promptly at four. She had arrived early, but out of politeness waited till the hour.
It was a long time before she heard footsteps. Finally Boo opened the door, hands grubby, in a dirty T-shirt and shorts. She’d obviously been gardening.
“Omigod, Skip! I didn’t call you.”
Skip said nothing, too confused to speak.
“Omigod, come in. I spaced it. I can’t believe I spaced it.”
Skip followed her in, but stood barely in the doorway, knowing she’d be leaving soon. Evidently, Boo couldn’t see her now.
“Listen, I’m so sorry, but something very unfortunate’s come up. I’m afraid I’ve got a conflict.” She spread her arms, palms up, contracting her shoulders. “I promise I didn’t know this at the time we talked, I really didn’t, but my husband has taken a job with Errol Jacomine’s campaign. I don’t know what you’re planning to do”—she put up a hand—”Don’t tell me. Please. You see what I mean? We just can’t talk freely right now. So I’m afraid I really can’t see you anymore, but I’ll be glad to recommend someone I think you’ll like. I’m really sorry about this.”
Oh, no. Not my shrink too.
She took the name of the person Boo recommended, knowing she wouldn’t call her.
Okay, I’m paranoid, but I’m not telling my deepest secrets to someone recommended by the wife of one of Jacomine’s henchmen. For all I know Boo’s involved with them too.
Here’s what I don’t get—how does he do this? It’s like he can get to anybody. Or am I being paranoid, as advertised?
And she wondered, Who can I trust?
Jimmy Dee, always.
Cindy Lou.
Or not?
She’s Boo’s friend and she’s a shrink. Also, she’s black and Jacomine’s got that phony brotherhood thing going. Worst of all, she knows my lately unstable history. If Boo tells her I’ve gone off the deep end, she might believe her.
Steve Steinman. No question there.
Okay, good. All I need is one person, and that’s two. I can get through this.
* * *
An emphatic sneeze, audible from the far side of the courtyard, issued from Jimmy Dee’s kitchen as Skip stepped across from the garconnière.
Layne’s eyes were watering. He held a tissue to his mouth and nose.
Skip said, “Uh-oh. Did we forget to take our meds again?”
“They’re wearing off.”
Angel, the dog, was now apparently shut up somewhere in the back of the house, in deference to her pal’s infirmity. This was the second prescription that had worked for a while and then stopped.
Jimmy Dee looked panicked. His relationship with Layne was already the longest running of his life, he’d recently told Skip, and to his amazement, it was going beautifully.
“Magnificently,” he’d said, beaming, not even being slightly ironic, which was nearly unheard-of where Dee- Dee was concerned.
But then he’d said, “Except, of course, for the Celestial Furball.”
Dee-Dee, perennially depressed Dee-Dee, was happy for the first time since Skip had known him. When they first met, he was in a funk she thought was permanent. Many of his friends had died, but he never talked about it. He covered up his grief with campy chatter and weed, but she knew.
The kids and Layne, who’d arrived nearly simultaneously, had made all the difference. He’d had to give up pot because of the bad-example factor, and he still chattered campily, but he smiled a lot more. He was softer, somehow. He’d fallen in love with three people at once: or, to be more accurate, three people and a dog.
And then Layne’s allergy had come up.
“Something smells great,” Skip said.
“Crabmeat Extravaganza. You’re going to love it.”
“Extravaganza?”
“You wait.”
Layne looked miserable. “Wish I could taste it.”
Dee-Dee said, “Set the table, will you, Kenny?”
Thirteen-year-old Kenny, sitting quietly at the kitchen table all this time, got up and began gathering silverware. “This one, or the one in the dining room?”
“Sheila’s not here, so we can be intime, I guess.”
“What’s that mean?” Kenny looked so earnest Skip wanted to kiss him. He was desperate, as usual, to do nothing wrong, to make sure everything was perfect.
“It means the kitchen.”
He nodded, a man with a mission.
Skip said, “Layne, remember those witches I met a couple of years ago?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Layne. “Don’t start on the witches again.”
Kenny said, “I like witches.”
“You do?” Layne said. “Well, if you like ‘em, old buddy, you get your mojo workin’. I’m afraid of them myself.”
“Oh, Layne, you’ve got it wrong. They’re gentle as kittens. What can it hurt? I’ll call them and ask if they can do a healing.”
“Just so I don’t have to meet them.”
“Well, I don’t know whether you have to or not.”
“They probably have to lay on hands or something.”
Kenny said, “I want to go if you go to a coven meeting.”
Skip was surprised. “Why? Are you expecting vampire makeup and black fingernails? Believe me, it’s not like that.”
“Oh, Auntie, I know what a witch is.” He sounded disgusted. “We had one come in and talk to our class. They’re into goddesses and myths.”
“And you like that?” She would have thought a thirteen-year-old boy would prefer some fantasy form of Satanism.
He shrugged. “Yeah. I think it’s cool.”
Jimmy Dee ruffled his hair. “I think you’re cool.”
Kenny was the gentlest of children, unlike Sheila, who could be rambunctious. As a result, he got more rewards from adults, which bothered Skip sometimes—she hated seeing him work so hard to be perfect. “Why do you think it’s cool?” she said.
“All those stories. Mythology and stuff. Oh, yeah, and magic. Everybody likes magic.”
“Okay. I’ll see if I can get you in.” He really is too cute for words.
Dee-Dee sighed. “You’re going to call them?”
Layne sneezed again. “Yes. She is.”
The Crabmeat Extravaganza was something with cheese and eggplant and artichokes (besides crabmeat, of course): “My own concoction,” Dee-Dee said proudly, but Kenny left half of it on his plate.
When he had begged to go, been chided for failure to eat, and finally been excused, Layne said, “Oh, well. Sheila probably wouldn’t even have pretended.”
“Where is she, anyway?” said Skip, who had been invited at the last minute,
on grounds that they had too much because Sheila was out.
“At Torian’s.” Dee-Dee and Layne exchanged a look.
Skip noticed they’d been doing that more and more lately, like married people.
“What is it?” she said.
“What did you think of Torian?” Dee-Dee asked.
“Nice. Shy but nice.” She shrugged, trying to figure out what he was getting at. “Inoffensive. Why?”
“I don’t know. I just notice Sheila’s getting weirder and weirder lately—maybe since she started hanging with Torian.”
“More obstreperous, you mean. That’s called adolescence, Dee-Dee darling. They just get that way.”
“I don’t know. I think she’s less obstreperous. She’s even a little withdrawn; she spends a lot of time in her room.”
“Teenagers are like cats—they have important business that doesn’t involve mere humans.”
Layne said, “Tell her what’s really bothering you.”
“Oh, all right.” Dee-Dee turned to Skip. “That business with Darryl the other day. What’s with that child?”
“Oh, that. Well, you’re right. She went too far.”
“You know how I feel about Darryl—”
Layne said, “I don’t want to hear about it.”
Dee-Dee gave him a flirtatious look. Skip said, “Quit being cute, you two.”
“Darryl’s the man I’d marry if it weren’t for Layne—”
“He handled it really well.”
Dee-Dee nodded. “A gentleman to the core. But she can’t make a habit of that shit.”
“So why are you telling me and not her?”
“My, don’t we cut to the chase.”
“Uh-oh. I don’t like the way you said that.”
“The poor child has no mother. Who’s going to give her motherly little talks?”
“You are, Dad.”
“How about some chocolate cake? I’ve been baking all day.”
“You have not. And don’t think you can bribe me.”
“Hush or I’ll give yours to Kenny.” He plopped a huge slice in front of her. “Of course I’d never dream of bribing you. But I know you’re as concerned about the girl’s welfare as her mother and I are—isn’t that right, Laynie?—so naturally you’ll do the right thing. I offer cake merely to fortify you.”
Skip sighed. “I don’t have to talk to her tonight, do I?”
“She’s not even coming home tonight. She’s sleeping over at Torian’s.” He made a fist and slammed it gently against his forehead. “God knows what those two are plotting.”
“Okay, I’ll do it. I don’t know when or how—and I’ve got no earthly idea what I’ll say, but if you want a completely unqualified cop on the case, you’ve got it.”
“You’re not unqualified, you’re a woman.”
Layne said, “Just tell her we’re going to beat her butt if she doesn’t stop it.”
Skip laughed. Sheila at fifteen was nearly as big as Skip—over five-eight and a hundred and forty-five pounds. Layne was an inch shorter and probably weighed less.
“I’ve got to go, guys. Got a phone call to make.”
Dee-Dee said, “You go hug that bear,” knowing she was about to call Steve Steinman, her long-distance beau.
* * *
It was two hours earlier in Los Angeles, about seven o’clock. “Hang on a minute,” said Steve. “I was just making some pasta.” When he got back, he said, “You okay? How are you feeling?”
She was taken aback, having almost forgotten he’d been worried about her. “Better.” She thought about it. “I’m actually feeling better.”
“Fantastic! What’s happened?”
“Oh my God. I don’t know where to start. First of all, I’m on leave from the department.”
She heard him breathing in. “Is that really a good idea?”
“I lost it when I saw a kid whose father got killed. People saw.”
“Yikes. Not good.”
“Cappello said she’d make me go to Cindy Lou if I didn’t do something drastic, so I went to Cindy Lou myself—not officially, I mean, just as a friend. And she said take a leave and go to a shrink.”
“It must be working. You sound a hundred percent better.”
“Well, in a way it is, I guess. But the therapist dumped me. What happened was, the first session was great. She got me thinking about what I ought to be doing, and that worked out so well I almost feel…” she stopped to assess “… well, not my old self, but better than I was. But then, because of all that, she dumped me.” She realized she was more or less gibbering. The whole Jacomine thing scrambled her brains.
“You’re not making sense.”
“I know. I just caught on.”
“But you do sound more upbeat.”
“I really think I am.” She took a breath. “Okay, let me start from the beginning. Remember that preacher-man I met last year? Errol Jacomine?”
“Sure. He’s running for mayor.”
“Right. I’m trying to kick his ass.”
“That’s what you got out of therapy?”
“Well, yeah. She hypnotized me, and I realized that’s what I wanted most in the world.”
“I thought you wanted to be with me.”
She laughed. She had been withdrawn for weeks, and he had put up with it and gotten past it in his own mind, understanding it had nothing to do with him.
“Then I went back for my second appointment—having done quite a bit of work already, I might mention—and she said she couldn’t see me anymore—her husband’s his press secretary.”
“She should have thought of that before.”
“He only got the job the day I saw her.”
“Sounds fishy, doesn’t it?”
“Everything about Jacomine’s fishy. That’s why I gibber when I try to talk about it. It’s like some giant kids’ game run amok.”
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“See? I’m not making sense again. I mean it’s like the way kids play fantasy games. They agree to play certain parts to keep the game going. Jacomine’s getting people to play parts—like that time when I met him and all those people stood up together. Each one was a recovering something-or-other his precious church had saved from the gutter.”
“Isn’t that ‘testifyin’ ‘? I thought it was an old Protestant tradition.”
“I can’t explain it. My brains are scrambled.”
“Exactly how do you plan to kick Jacomine’s ass?”
“Using my police skills, of course.” She was suddenly sick of the whole subject. “Listen, how’s the project going?”
“So glad you asked. I’m coming into town next week.”
“You are? When?” She heard excitement in her voice, and she wondered at it. Not even Steve Steinman had been able to make her voice rise for a long time.
“You sound like you might be glad to see me.”
“I’m always glad to see you. What day are you getting here?”
“How about a week from today?”
“Fantastic! Still have your key?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. Tell me about the project.”
“I think I want to do two things—all part of the same piece. Kids who’ve been shot by other kids.”
“And the kids who shot them.”
“You got it. What do you think?”
“Powerful. Depressing.”
“Sometimes I don’t know if you can have one without the other.”
“Yes.” Her voice was almost a whisper. There were times when it took only a nuance of thought to swing her back into sadness. Her life before her depression had been powerful; she was paying for it now.
* * *
The next morning she awakened with a sense of something unpleasant to do. Rolling over, she thought of it—go tell Nikki Pigeon’s sister that Nikki was dead; try to persuade her to make a positive ID.
It can wait, she thought, and turned her mind once more to Steve Ste
inman, her favorite early-morning diversion. She liked to think of him in the zone between sleep and full awareness—she reveled in his voice; his laugh; his happy, kind face.
His body, heavy against hers.
She wasn’t ready to come out of her trance when the phone rang.
“Skip? Cappello here.”
“Sylvia. What is it?”
“You tell me.”
“What?”
“Nobody can get through the switchboard, we’ve had so many calls about you.”
“Calls about me? From whom?”
“From people trying to get you fired. They say you’re a racist, and a cop has absolutely no business in politics, and how dare you try to tear down a good man like Errol Jacomine.”
“What?”
“What are you doing, and why? You’re home because you’re supposed to be resting. What the hell is going on here?”
“Sylvia, who’s getting these calls?”
“Me. Joe Tarantino.” Her lieutenant. “Every other lieutenant in the building. Every captain. Every officer who anyone’s brother-in-law knows. The superintendent. And the mayor. And guess who they all called? Joe.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You’re jeopardizing your job, Skip. Tell me you’re not working on Perretti’s campaign.”
“Of course not. But—how to say this?—I’ve been trying to get something on Jacomine. Not for any candidate. Just because the guy scares me to death.” She realized how lame that must sound to a working police sergeant—people didn’t do things for free, certainly not scratch for dirt on a candidate. The concept of “concerned citizen” hardly applied in a state as corrupt as Louisiana. “Look. This is the one thing in the world I want to do right now. I met him last year and it shocked the hell out of me. We talked about it—remember?”
Cappello ignored the question. “Did I mention you’re supposed to be taking a rest? You need to go to the beach and cool out.”
Skip was silent, trying to think what to make of all this. “How many calls have there been?”
“I don’t know. Dozens. Call after call since seven a.m. No letup.”
“Doesn’t this strike you as an organized campaign?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“‘Tell me the truth. Have you ever seen or heard of anything like this?”
