by Julie Smith
"Turan who?"
He hit the chair arm again. "I don' know nothin' 'bout no last names. How come you white po-lice always has to have last names? Turan. Tha's all you need. Turan a mean dude, you ain' gon' like him a-tall. But he the only dude in town got any smack right now. Your boy Dennis, tha's what he into—and I know he is—he gon' find Turan."
Oh, sure. One guy in town's got heroin. Tell me about it.
She said, "Where am I gon' find Turan?"
"You use yo' famous skills as a white po-lice detective."
"Come on, Delavon. I didn't come all this way for nothing"
For some reason, that struck Delavon as funny. When he was finished laughing, he said, "Smart girl like you. You find him, all right."
"Shall I tell him Delavon sent me?"
Delavon laughed, emitting a kind of high-pitched giggle Skip found inappropriate to royalty. "Yeah. You tell him that thing."
"I'll do that." She glanced behind her. Her escorts were standing on either side of a brown-painted door, the only surface in the room that wasn't decorated.
Delavon said, "I hear Turan work for Gus Lozano." Some said the mob was more or less dead in New Orleans; but Lozano was still operating, as close as the city got to a crime boss.
"That so?"
"Some funny rumors goin, 'round about Gus. What you white po-lice know about it?"
It occurred to Skip that maybe she'd been taken to Delavon so he could ask this question; he had the ridiculous idea she could tell him something useful—and would.
Though she hadn't heard the funny rumors, she looked Delavon straight in the eye. "He's on his way out."
Delavon nodded. "Yeah. That what we hear too."
He made some kind of tiny hand signal—Skip was barely aware of movement—and once again she felt her elbows grabbed. The blindfold was slipped in place.
When it came off, she was back in Treme, at the exact spot where she'd been snatched. One of her guides returned her gun.
"You be careful," he said. "Streets full of badasses."
7
She planned to go to Kurt's that night, the bar Justin Arceneaux had mentioned, but she couldn't see doing it before nine or ten, giving the regulars time to filter in. A good thing because she had dinner plans. All the people she loved best—two of whom didn't care that much for each other—were getting together.
The two who didn't get along were Steve Steinman and Skip's best friend and landlord, Jimmy Dee Scoggin ("Dee-Dee" to Skip). From the moment Skip met Steve, Jimmy Dee had considered him a rival (though Dee-Dee was ineligible by dint of sexual preference). Steve had sensed his dislike and returned it.
But things were starting to change. For the first time in years, Dee-Dee had a lover, and with Layne as a buffer, the four of them could get through a double date with perfect civility. Tonight there would be five, including their friend Cindy Lou Wootten, sometime police psychologist. Despite her white-bread name, Cindy Lou was black; and despite her Vogue-model appearance, she knew the darkest secrets of the human heart, including such nuances as how to handle Frank O'Rourke, the homicide sergeant whose life's work seemed to be making Skip miserable.
They were going to Irene's, the Italian place down the street.
Skip was looking forward to it like a kid—after the humiliating events of the day, she needed diversion.
She was slipping on a silk tank top when she heard Steve mumble something. '
"What?"
He walked into the bedroom. "Sorry. I can't get used to this place. I thought you were two feet away."
"It's better, though, isn't it? You can get a beer without bumping into me."
"I kind of liked that aspect." He looked around. "But I have to admit this is rather grand—I never saw a slave quarters this big."
Skip's old apartment had been one room—one small room—hardly big enough for two people to have a drink in. But Jimmy Dee had taken it back when he decided to adopt his dying sister's two kids and convert the entire Big House, as they now called it, to its former use as a one-family home. He'd given Skip his own beautifully restored slave quarters at her old rent, and she was in the process of converting it from the quintessential bachelor quarters to an airy oasis of plants and art—or as much art as she could afford.
Only now they called it the garçonnière.
The kids were from Milwaukee, and Dee-Dee wanted to protect them from the city's brutal history.
"Well, Dee-Dee knocked out walls. They probably had two or three families in here." She shook off the thought. "Let's not dwell on it. I'm sure it wasn't fun, but at least no one could be bothered haunting—they were all too glad to get out."
"Maybe the ghosts just don't like the color." Skip had painted her living room cantaloupe.
"Does that mean you don't like it?"
"Don't be so insecure. or course I like it."
"What were you saying when I didn't hear you?"
"I said it's not too late. We could change our minds and go to Hebert's."
"Let's skip that, shall we? I've had kind of a hard day." Exactly how hard she wasn't about to say. "Let's go get the boys."
Layne hadn't yet arrived, and Jimmy Dee was still getting dressed. Eleven-year-old Kenny barely looked up from his television show. "Hey, Steve. Hey, Skip."
"That's Auntie Skip, Buster." Skip leaned over the sofa to tickle him. His body jerked slightly, but he didn't turn around to smile at her.
Getting ignored, she thought, was probably an improvement. There'd been a time when he was so eager to please he'd probably have jumped up and stood smiling, standing on one foot and then the other, under similar circumstances. His sister Sheila, on the other hand, had been such a tough customer at first that Jimmy Dee started to regret he'd ever even thought of fatherhood.
Now they were both more relaxed: Kenny ruder, Sheila more polite.
Sheila came down the hall her favorite way: off to a running start, sliding the final third in her sock feet. She was nearly fourteen and dressed like a grown-up when she felt like it. She'd probably act like one when she was seventy-five.
"Auntie Skippy," she said.
"Oh, can the 'Aunt' if I have to be Skippy."
"Why do you want to be called that, anyway?"
"It makes me feel loved."
Sheila rolled her eyes. Kenny didn't deign to respond.
Steve said, "What are you two having for dinner?"
"Uncle Jimmy said we could order from the Verti Marte. But boy, is Geneese mad—she made greens."
"Y'all are so cruel," said Skip.
Kenny turned around, on his knees on the sofa. "Yuck. I hate greens." He was much more animated than when he liked something.
All to the good, Skip thought. He's settling in u little more every day. Sheila was getting on her mark, ready to slide back down the hall. "Hey, Steve," she said. "Why don't you change your mind?"
"About what?"
She didn't answer until her run was over and she was about to come out of the slide. At the last minute she turned briefly back around. "Going home."
She disappeared into her room.
Steve turned to Skip with a pleased smile: "Well, how do you like that?"
But Jimmy Dee had appeared in time to hear the exchange.
"Hey, if you're not Uncle Jimmy, you can't be all bad."
"I heard that," Sheila shouted. "You know what? You're right."
The bell rang, Cindy Lou came in, and instant replay began, Kenny ignoring her, Sheila flitting in and out while they waited for Layne. It was funny, Skip thought, how much attention children demanded the first few years of their lives and how hard adults strove ever after to get their attention.
"Kenny's getting pretty relaxed," Cindy Lou said as they were headed down St. Philip Street. "He's not such a little people-pleaser any more."
Skip saw Jimmy Dee and Layne exchange glances, the way parents do, and for some reason she found it touching. Mostly, she was glad Dee-Dee had a friend. Her landlord was f
ifty-something by now, a distinguished gentleman—if slightly short—with graying hair, extremely popular with the ladies, most of whom didn't know he was gay. Layne was younger—thirty-five, she imagined—and balding, with glasses and an intellectual bent, a puzzle-constructor by trade. ("Cool," Sheila had said when she heard that part, and Layne was an instant family member.)
Skip said, "What's wrong?"
"What makes you think somethings wrong? Except the little prince is now a little brat. You need something else?"
"I saw that look."
"Tell them," Layne said. "At least tell Cindy Lou. She might know what to do."
Dee-Dee looked at Cindy Lou, and Skip could see him make a decision. "After we're seated."
There was a half-hour wait at the restaurant, but when they'd finally secured a table, Cindy Lou pushed it. "Okay, Dee-Dee. Lie down on my couch."
"Kenny's started wetting the bed."
Cindy Lou sipped her wine. "How old is he?"
"Almost twelve."
"He must be upset about something."
"Now why would you say that? His dad deserted the family, his mother died six months ago, and he's living in a strange city with a weirdo uncle who's dating a man. Can't he just roll with the punches?"
Cindy Lou laughed, but she kept at him. "I think he should be in therapy."
"He's in therapy."
"With all due respect," Steve said, "I don't know what I think about that."
Skip was flabbergasted. "About what?"
"About therapy. I'm sorry, Cindy Lou, I know it's your job."
She shook her head. "Uh-uh. I'm a research type. I'm paid to have opinions, not listen to people's problems."
Cindy Lou seemed fine, but Skip couldn't shake the feeling Steve had insulted her; and she was confused about this odd opinion of his—whatever it was.
"What's your objection to it?" she asked.
"I don't see how just talking is going to solve anything."
Cindy Lou sipped again. "Well, it's kind of a complicated process. But one thing—it can't hurt."
"Yeah, but does it do anything?" The speaker, to Skip's further surprise, was Layne.
She glanced at Dee-Dee, who looked uncomfortable and a little undecided, as if he had half a mind to join that camp as well.
"Well, it's all we have," Cindy Lou said. "Besides, it works now and then."
"Works how?" asked Layne.
"Makes people feel better. That's the point, isn't it?"
"I thought the point was to keep the kid from soaking the sheets."
"If he's doing that, he's unhappy. Unless it's something physical." She raised an eyebrow at Jimmy Dee.
"It's not. We had him checked out."
Steve said, "You want to make him feel better? I've got a great idea."
"What?"
His face took on a maddeningly smug look. "I don't think I'm saying. But this is a great idea; trust me."
"Oh, God. Count your fingers and toes."
"I just need to take him on a little field trip. Okay, Dad?"
Jimmy Dee nodded. "Sure, what's the harm?"
Skip hadn't been in therapy herself, but it hadn't occurred to her to discount it. She'd go if she needed to, she'd always thought. Cindy Lou looked at her, amused. "A lot of men feel this way. Haven't you noticed your women friends complaining about it?"
"I guess not."
"Oh, well. They do. They say men are in denial, have no self-knowledge, and aren't willing to open up—you never heard that?"
"You're my closest woman friend, and you never talk like that."
"Well, the kind of men I pick, you can't expect much."
Everyone laughed a little nervously. Cindy Lou had the worst taste in men of anyone in New Orleans; she'd once dated the still-married father of a friend of Skip's, and that wasn't even her worst idea.
"Who're you seeing now, Lou-Lou?" Dee-Dee was obviously ready to leave the heavy subject of his kids.
"‘What's this Lou-Lou crap?"
"Payback for Dee-Dee."
Steve said, "Lou-Lou. I like it."
She made a face at him. "I'm seeing Harry Connick, Jr."
"He's married."
"That's what makes it so much fun."
"Come on. Who're you really seeing? And why didn't you bring him tonight?"
"Well, this one's nice. I'm not kidding—he's really nice; and he's kind of an old friend. I knew him back in Detroit."
Skip perked up her ears. A nice one? That was good, but it probably wasn't the whole story. Others had been nice—just sons of her bosses or husbands of her neighbors. "What's wrong with him?" she said.
"Now, y'all can't make fun of him; I mean that."
"Okay, we won't. Why didn't you bring him?"
"He gets tired easily. He was in an accident."
They were silent.
"It left him paralyzed; from the waist down."
For a minute Skip thought this was one of her jokes. But Cindy Lou was looking down at the table. 'Tm sorry," Skip said.
"We dated in high school. I guess I'm still in love with him."
Steve reached for Skip's hand and squeezed it. She was grateful to be with him, however briefly. She knew Cindy Lou would get over this man—she got over all of them—but what she was going through had to hurt. And what Dee-Dee was going through was no picnic either.
For just a second—one tiny fraction of time—Skip's life was going right. She wished she could dip the moment in amber and preserve it forever.
And she thought she ought to knock on wood.
Holding the moment as long as she could, she waited awhile, till the others had ordered coffee, and went off to Dennis's bar. Kurt's was a neighborhood-type saloon that could have been anywhere in New Orleans—the type beloved by its customers for reasons not apparent to the newcomer, dark and characterless. The sort where serious drinkers could get down to business in peace. As it happened, it was in the French Quarter, a fact that gave Skip a little hope. Maybe its clientèle would be slightly more accessible, the atmosphere a little less inviolate than that of most neighborhood oases.
After a quick glance around for Dennis, she bellied up and asked for a Coke. The bartender was a handsome man, ruddy and Irish-looking, but now a little too heavy and starting to gray at the temples. She had the feeling she knew him from somewhere. She watched him awhile.
He was good, jollying folks, keeping up conversations at different ends of the bar, yet remaining constantly in motion as he filled drink orders, seemingly without effort. He was precise and controlled, much like a dancer. She was waiting for an opening but she was in no hurry. There was plenty of time; no reason to push things.
When he brought her a refill, he said, "Hey, big girl, we know each other?"
"Maybe. You look really familiar."
"You don't know who I am?"
"My second grade Sunday school teacher?"
"Come on. You can do better than that."
The man at the next stool, an older man Skip had barely noticed, put a hand on her arm. "This here's Donnie." He slurred his words pretty badly.
"Hi, Donnie. Fm Skip."
"You still don't know who he is?"
Skip shook her head.
"From—you know—that show."
Donnie named a television show from way back, before Skip's time, but one of which she'd seen reruns. There was a character on it named Donnie, a cute little kid, maybe ten or eleven.
"Oh, Donnie. The kid."
"My real name's Phil." The bartender smiled as if he couldn't be happier.
It had entered her head from time to time, when she thought her life wasn't going fast enough, to wonder what became of child athletes and child stars. Something about Phil, about his too-ruddy face, once known to nearly everyone in the country, now seen only by a few drunks in a dark room, made her feel slightly panicky. She couldn't pinpoint the reason, thought it might have to do with the notion of change, things not being what they used to be, but she couldn'
t see how that applied to her life.
He was staring at her, still smiling, and she saw what was required. "I remember you. God, that was funny, that time you got locked in the closet with the dog."
"You can't even imagine how hot it was. Doing that scene."
Maybe I shouldn't feel sorry for him. Here's a guy who's got something in common with every person he meets. Maybe his life is wonderful.
But she couldn't shake a feeling of melancholy.
When they had passed enough pleasantries, she said, "You know a guy named Dennis Foucher? Used to come in here pretty often."
"Man, what a coincidence. He was here last night. Comes in, like no time has passed instead of five years, gets shit-faced, and then I read in the paper he's wanted for murder or somethin'."
Skip showed him her badge. "He's not wanted for murder. We just want to talk to him."
"You're a cop?"
"You're Donnie?"
"Everybody's got to be somebody." Phil laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. When he had wiped away the tears and returned to relative sobriety, he leaned close and touched Skip's elbow, conspiracy marked on his features.
"You're not the only one lookin' for him tonight." He pointed with his jaw. "That's Toni in the white T-shirt. She left with him last night."
Toni was sitting alone in a booth facing the bar. She was staring at Phil, as if expecting him to produce Dennis, and apparently saw him point her out. She got up and came forward, bringing her drink, a glass of white wine. Her gait was unsteady.
"Hello," she said. "Did we just meet?"
"I hear we're looking for the same man."
"Oh?" Toni was a slight woman, dark and hungry-looking, a little wiry, but full-breasted and apparently proud of it. Her T-shirt was tucked into black jeans that emphasized her small waist and hips or, more properly, the way they contrasted with her chest.
"For different reasons," Skip said, and identified herself. Toni's eyebrow shot up. "Why don't we have a drink?" She turned and sauntered back to the booth. Skip picked up her Coke and followed.
