by Julie Smith
Skip was surprised that both the Fouchers were home, though it was a Tuesday. Perhaps they were out of work, or one of them was. Or perhaps Dennis's father had stayed home to await news of his son. "Could we give you some coffee? You are a blue person," Milton said. "I know you understand how Josie feels. We are happy to have you in our house."
He used no contractions and he enunciated each word, speaking in discrete phrases and projecting so strongly that if he'd been a preacher he could have reached every ear in the congregation without benefit of microphone. She wondered if he was a lay preacher who just liked to practice; also whether he was a raving lunatic.
"A blue person," she ventured. "Is that what you call a policeman?"
"Oh, hardly. I would hardly call a young lady a ‘man' of any sort. Accuracy is my passion, and I do not make mistakes so easily avoided."
He and his wife had now led her into a cramped and dreary kitchen, still smelling of breakfast. Skip refused coffee, but joined them at a table under a hanging light fixture that threatened to decapitate anyone who moved too fast.
Josie was silent. "A blue person," Milton said, "is a person of compassion, someone who feels for other people, who is kind and who wants to please. Josie is one as well. I myself am a green person—a scholar, something of a recluse, an intellectual, someone who loves studying above all else."
In spite of herself, Skip was fascinated. "Is this your own system or someone else's?"
"Well, we green people are indeed the creative ones—the inventors, the scientists. But this is not my handiwork. It is something I learned in a seminar. I attend every seminar I am able. I also read constantly. But never fiction, of course. No, sir, I am interested only in facts." Here his voice rose as if he were either angry or in the pulpit, making his most vital point. "Only facts!" he raged, and his face turned red.
He lowered his voice. "If there are no facts, I do not have interest. I do not watch television for any reason."
"Are there other colors?"
"Of course. The world could not survive without gold people. These are the doers; the movers and the shakers."
"I see. Which one is Dennis?"
An odd expression came over Milton's face. Skip could have sworn it was confusion, but Milton didn't seem the sort who went in for that. He recovered quickly.
"He is not intelligent enough to be a green person. He does not do enough to be gold person. I would say that he is a blue person except that he does not listen. No system is perfect."
Skip turned to Josie and smiled. "I wonder if you've heard from him since yesterday?"
"Of course we have not," said Milton. "If we had, we would have mentioned it. Dennis was always a hellion. He skipped school more often than he went, he associated with unsavory individuals, and he smoked marijuana. I was obliged to whip him at least three times a week. Quite often, he even failed to come home—he stayed out all night with fringe-element friends."
Milton had curly hair and looked like a laborer of some sort. Skip had never in her life heard anyone—especially anyone who looked like him—talk this way.
"Worried us to death," said his mother. "And such a smart boy. He finished two years at UNO, did you know that? But then he disappeared and didn't come back for a while."
"Somehow or other, he managed to meet Miss Reed Hebert. Neither Josie nor I will ever have the slightest notion how he did it. She civilized him as no one else had been able to do. We watched her turn him into a different person altogether. At this moment, a good friend of his is dying of AIDS—a neighborhood boy, two blocks away. This neighborhood. AIDS.
"This young man is as red-blooded as I am. He contracted this disease by using needles. That is correct. In this neighborhood. I stress that this boy is not a homosexual—this thing could have happened to Dennis. It did not because of Reed Hebert."
He set his lips in a grim line, and Skip wasn't sure she didn't hear regret in his voice. She thought he had probably predicted it and hated to be proved wrong.
"As it happens, I was talking to Mrs. Sugar Hebert when the kidnap occurred. I had called Dennis to tell him about his " friend Justin—the boy who is ill—and Mrs. Hebert answered the phone."
"What kidnap, Mr. Poucher? What did you mean by that?"
"That is what happened, of course. Surely the police have figured this out."
Josie said, "Did he mention green people like to control things?" Skip thought she was trying to be playful, but it wasn't working.
As always, Milton ignored her. "We will soon be receiving a ransom note—that is, Mrs. Hebert will. These people could not get a cent from the Fouchers." His voice was smug.
"This friend—Justin. Could you give me his address?"
"You wish to visit Justin? What on earth for?"
"I want to see Justin and any of Dennis's other friends."
Both the Fouchers looked furious—Skip couldn't think why, but she thought it had to do with the control Josie had mentioned. Blue person or not, she shared her husband's world, and very likely his reality. Perhaps they wanted to be the only sources, the world's greatest living experts on Dennis Foucher, dope fiend.
"We will be glad to comply," said Milton, "with anything the police desire. However, we know of no other friends of Dennis's."
His anger was so strong, so naked, she found it uncomfortable remaining in the room even long enough to get Justin Arceneaux's address.
If I lived with these two, she thought, drugs might seem very attractive indeed. In fact, they do right now.
She also found herself thinking new thoughts about Reed—most of them respectful. Boys from families like this one simply did not marry into Uptown families.
How on earth had Reed met Dennis? And, more important, how had she found the courage to bring him home? There must be a little outlaw in her, Skip thought, and she liked that. But she thought it must be deeply buried; it certainly didn't jibe with anything else she'd heard about Reed.
As she was leaving she said, "Can I ask you one thing? Do you know Nina Phillips?"
Milton Foucher turned red. "I don't believe I do."
"She works at the restaurant. Says she's your cousin."
"Dennis probably told her that. I am afraid the boy does not know the meaning of veracity. If he were here right now, I swear I would whip him again."
Skip sneaked a look at Josie. Her face looked as used-up as the crumpled tissue she clutched.
* * *
Justin Arceneaux's family and friends were gathered in the living room, as if he'd already died. A buffet table in the dining room was piled high. The sadness in the air was like a heavy fog on the river. As Skip entered the house, she wanted to run, or claim to be an Avon lady, to do anything but state her business.
How can I say I'm a cop? This is the last thing they need now. When she spoke, she heard the stress in her voice, the slight loss of focus, the disorientation anxiety bred. "I wonder if I can speak to Justin," she heard herself saying, and was ashamed at the arrogance of it. Why should she, a stranger, claim some of his last minutes?
"He's very, very ill," said his mother. "In fact, he isn't expected—" The sentence stopped and a sob came out.
"I wouldn't ask if it weren't extremely important. It's about Dennis Foucher."
"Dennis?" She looked puzzled. She glanced around the room. "Dennis isn't here."
She probably hadn't read a paper that day, or even turned on the television.
"He's disappeared. Along with his wife and daughter."
"Dennis? But Justin hasn't seen him in years." She looked as confused and forlorn as if Skip had accused her son of a crime on his deathbed. Treason, perhaps, or multiple murder.
"I'm very sorry to disturb you like this." She had already said this, but she figured Mrs. Arceneaux was hearing selectively. "I wonder if you could just ask Justin if he'll see me."
Skip hoped he wasn't asleep. She didn't want his mother waking him.
Mrs. Arceneaux came back looking as if the folds of he
r face were being dragged down by invisible weights. "He says he'd like to see you. But he's very, very ill—in fact, it's the second time we've thought he'd be dead before morning. They go real, real slow with AIDS—you just can't tell—but he's still got his mind." She nodded. "He's got his mind. He can talk if he can just—you know, he's hardly got any energy at all."
Skip rose and let herself be led to the bedroom, feeling as if she were marching to her own death. As they walked down the hall, Mrs. Arceneaux said, "Now, don't be shocked. He weighs about eighty-four pounds."
The curtain of bereavement, the fog, had settled on Skip like a thick mesh she could not squirm out of.
The first thing she saw was the metal tree for Justin's IV, and then she saw the people in the room. First a young woman sitting by the bed, ramrod straight, alert as a sentry. Her hair was white-blond, short and wavy, her face thin and gaunt, but Skip could tell that was from strain. She was extraordinary-looking, this young woman, someone who'd turn heads in this city of beautiful women. But she was stiff and tired, nearly frantic under her calm, with the effort of holding herself together.
Next a little girl, also blond, lying on the floor, her dress flipped up so that her panties showed, feet in the air, one hand out to her side, touching a toy dinosaur, stroking it but not looking at it. Instead looking at Skip without interest. Obviously beside herself with boredom, having been here for hours, or days perhaps.
And then there was Justin himself. Later Skip could remember almost no details except that his hair was a sandy color, that he had freckles and that his eyes were like holes in a sunken face. Despite his mother's warning, the shock of seeing someone so wasted nearly rendered her speechless. He had on no pajama top, so that she could see paper-thin skin, skin like plastic wrap, stretched over a frame that looked too small to belong to a man.
"Hello," he whispered. "This is my wife, Janine. And my daughter."
Skip thought he had meant to say his daughters name, but decided to save his breath. He grimaced as if it hurt to talk, but Janine said, "It's the sheet. It hurts his feet, and his shoulders sometimes. It's caused by a deadening of the nerves that makes him supersensitive. "
"I know what that is," said the little girl. "It's called neuropathy." Skip thought that was a fact the child was much too young to know.
Janine stood up and swabbed Justin's mouth with what looked like a giant Q-tip. She slipped something between his lips that must have been an ice chip.
Skip walked a step closer, not wanting to invade his space, but not sure she could hear from a distance. She said again that she was sorry to disturb him, and she told him Dennis was missing. This time she said nothing about Reed and Sally; it was somehow too grim.
"Dennis," said Justin. "He was always a needle freak. We shared. But he got through okay." The words came slowly, one by one, painfully. His lips looked as if he'd spent weeks in the Sahara—this was not normal chapping, something much more extreme. When he spoke, Skip could see that the inside of his mouth was dead white, tongue and all, as if he had no blood left.
Skip waited a moment. "If he were really in trouble, does he have a friend he'd go to?"
"Me. Me, man."
"Has he been here? Has he phoned?" It sounded ridiculous, but she had to ask.
"I don't know," he whispered.
Janine turned pouched and swollen eyes on her and shook her head.
"If he's in trouble, he'd go to Delavon."
"Delavon?"
"His dealer."
"You mean Delavon's a friend—or he'd go to make a buy?"
"To get fucked up."
"He's been clean for a long time."
Justin shook his head, or rather turned it on the pillow once or twice. "Don't know that Dennis. Only know the other. He needs the warm hug; gotta have the cocoon."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Dope."
"What kind?"
"Only one kind. He hated coke; couldn't stand that wiry feeling."
"Heroin?"
Justin was quiet, as if the question didn't deserve an answer. "Where do I find Delavon?"
"Treme. No last name. I know Dennis. He'd go to Kurt's too."
The words came slowly, each one an effort.
"Who's Kurt?"
"Not a person. A bar."
"Can you tell me where?" She felt like an officer of the Inquisition.
"Dumaine. Near Rampart."
"Thanks. Anything else?"
Justin closed his eyes and again rotated his head.
"Thank you," Skip said, and she said it again, this time whispering. Janine looked at her, not changing expression. The little girl had turned over on her stomach.
She looked about four or five, and no doubt her mother thought she didn't understand what was happening, or that her father needed her now—or more likely, since she'd known about his nerve problem, that it was better for her to face it. Skip wondered how many years on a shrink's couch she would spend as a result of this experience, or if she would simply forget it, bury it, and suffer depression the rest of her life.
She wondered too if the girl and the woman carried the virus. Even outside, in her own car, she could not escape the fog of misery.
She went back to headquarters to talk over the case with her sergeant, Sylvia Cappello, who threw a file down hard as Skip walked in. "Shit!"
She looked in the direction of an officer who was just leaving. Maurice Gresham.
"What's wrong?"
"Goddammit, another piece of evidence is missing. I'm so damned tired of the little things that happen when—" She stopped, but stared in Gresham's direction, pointing him out.
"What, Sylvia?"
"Too much shit happens here, that's all. We're about to serve a warrant, nobody's home. We lose a little piece of evidence and it turns out somebody"—again she stared at the space where Gresham had been—"checked it out and, what do you know, they lost it."
Cappello was far more upset than Skip had ever seen her. What she was saying bordered on unprofessional, and Cappello was never unprofessional. She was a by-the-book cop who thought before she spoke, and right now she was bad-mouthing one of her officers to another.
Skip tipped her chin at the now-invisible Gresham. "You think he's dirty?"
"Who's not in this goddamn town? You read the paper? You notice how just about every day some relative of some politician turns up on the payroll of some casino? Everybody's taking kickbacks, everybody's got a scam, everybody's looking out for their friends—it's got to the point where no one cares. One day you can be a front-page scandal, the next day you get elected to high office—or more likely appointed because you've got a buddy."
"Why don't you just get him transferred out?" She avoided saying Gresham's name.
"You think he's the first one I ever had? Or the only one now? What if I did get rid of him? There'd just be another. Or a swarm of them, like cockroaches. Skip, I can't take this anymore. I swear to God I'm getting out."
Skip sat down, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of her. "Getting out? You mean quitting?"
"I mean quitting and moving out of town and probably out of the state." She paused. "Maybe I'll go to law school."
Skip was speechless.
"You know what this casino means? It means several billion dollars are up for grabs. That's billions. In permits and hotels and restaurants and jobs and parking lots and every piece of the pie you can think of. You think this city and this state were crooked before, it was just a warm-up for the kind of scrambling that's starting now. I don't want to raise my kids in a place like this."
Skip was vaguely aware that Cappello had kids, but it was nothing they ever talked about. She never thought of Cappello as someone with a personal life, just as a police sergeant—and about the best cop Skip had ever worked with. If she quit, it would leave a gaping hole in Homicide.
But she could see what the sergeant meant. Skip knew Gresham was dirty. She knew there was nothing Cappello could prove, not
hing she could do about it except try to keep him out of certain cases.
But since she didn't know who was paying him, and what cases involved his employers, it was hard to do that.
Then there was the problem of overhearing—Gresham could know things and dole out tips with almost no effort.
There was nothing the sergeant could do, and Gresham was only a symptom. The dirt, the buying and selling, the scamming, could wear on you; it wore on anyone who worked for the city and tried to do a good job. It wore particularly on police officers.
"Oh, hell, you're right," Cappello said. "I'll get him transferred out."
Skip decided to wait till later to talk to her about the case. She was feeling a lot like one of Justin Arceneaux's relatives—so stressed out she'd come unfocused. She didn't trust herself to give a good accounting right now.
But Cappello said, "How's the heater case? Every lieutenant in the building's called." A heater case was one the brass cared about—any case, said the more cynical, involving a white person. Skip ran this one down for her.
Then she ran unsuccessful records checks for "Delavon," both as a first and a last name. Since it was near lunchtime, she called Narcotics without much hope, but her pal Lefty O'Meara answered with his mouth full. "Lefty. If I'd thought you'd be there, I'd have come up to see you."
"If you thought I wasn't here, why'd you call?"
"Hope springs eternal. Who do you know named Delavon?"
"Nobody. Who's he supposed to be?"
"Big-time dealer. Heroin, maybe."
"Not much of that around."
"I hear Delavon's got some."
"Trust me. There ain't no Delavon."
She trusted him, but she thought there was. It was just that O'Meara probably knew him as something like George Boudreaux, or "Tiny," maybe—no last name.
She sat at her desk and stared at the phone. She needed human contact, but not with Cappello right now—with someone who wouldn't depress her.
She called her friend Cindy Lou, hoping to snag her for lunch. But there was no answer.
She called Steve for impromptu cheering up—but her own machine answered. She called her landlord and best friend, Jimmy Dee Scoggin, but got his secretary; he was in court.
