by Julie Smith
It came to her that someone was holding Sally's mouth, just as hers was being held, and the thought made her break out in a sweat, followed by a fury she couldn't contain. She whipped her shoulders back and forth and tried to kick, but the man who held her was too good—she couldn't get near him. She let her knees bend, so he'd have to drag her, but he said, "Don't make me hit you. It'll give you an awful headache," and she saw the wisdom of that.
She was taken to a back stairway, and from there she could see the kitchen, which appeared to be full of caterers hard at work. The others were stumbling ahead of her, but she still couldn't see or hear Sally.
Then she was in this room, and for a while she had been gagged as well as handcuffed. Perhaps, even if the room were soundproofed, it leaked a little. She was left here, in the dark, alone, not knowing where her child was, for an hour or two, she thought, probably until the party was over.
And then a woman came into the room, a woman of about sixty, she thought, or perhaps seventy, a stunning beauty; but terrifying. Her hair was a steely color, streaked with white so becomingly it might or might not have been natural. It was thick, and cut so that it waved and pouffed in ways Reed had seen before, that made her envious of those born with thick curls instead of fine silk. The woman wasn't black or Creole, Reed thought, though she couldn't be sure. She was Mediterranean perhaps, but who could say in this city where anyone could be anything?
She wore a black dress with expensive jewelry and lots of it, some of it diamonds. Her face was longish, very elegant. Her mouth was red, her makeup flawless.
She was perfectly groomed, perfectly tailored, perfectly in control—a perfect dragon lady. A perfect aristocrat. She could be a high-up corporate executive, or perhaps an ambassador from some sun-drenched country.
Or maybe she was just a department store buyer who knew how to dress.
"Who are you?" the woman asked.
"Who are you?" Reed retorted.
The woman did something with her chin, and a man, the one who had found Reed at the gate, tossed the woman a document.
"No purse in the car. This is all there is."
"Dennis Foucher," read the dragon lady. "Who are you?"
Reed realized the document was Dennis's car registration. "I don't see why I should tell you that. Where is my little girl?"
"Your little girl?"
"Of course my little girl. Goddammit, what's going on here?"
"Perhaps you can tell me." The Dragon did the unexpected; she smiled. "How did you come to be here?"
"How did I—" Reed stopped and looked around, speechless, gripped by the absurdity of the thing. And then the words poured out, as if she couldn't talk fast enough.
The more she talked, the grimmer the Dragon's features became.
When Reed was nearly finished, when she was at the part where she had leapt from her car, she saw a way to make an ally of the Dragon. It was the New Orleans way, the way that always got you through. "We have mutual friends," she said breathlessly. "I saw people I know leaving your house." She was beside herself in her relief. "Bruce Smallwood and Lafayette Goodyear. Barron Piggott. I saw them leaving your party."
Reed thought the Dragon flicked her eyes at the man, but otherwise she remained impassive. "I don't believe I know them," she said.
"Oh."
The Dragon said nothing.
Reed let a moment go by and then she began to plead.
"Where's Sally? Where's my child? Please tell me my baby's all right."
The woman looked annoyed, as if she couldn't stand having her time wasted this way. "Of course she's all right." There was something different about her voice; it was still very definite, but a little softer.
But her face remained hard as a peach pit. She left without speaking again, and as Reed remembered the scene, she could hear the click of the Dragon's heels.
But that was impossible, the carpet was inches thick. She didn't know how long ago that had been, but she had had two meals since then; a day must have passed, or nearly a day. She couldn't hear anything, even telephones ringing. Not once did she catch a child's voice, even a faint high cry.
Where is Sally? What's happening to her?
The questions came up and up again, but Reed never saw harm as coming to her child, couldn't, in her heart, imagine her hurt. She was unable to watch television or read the books and magazines; instead she thought about having Sally back, about what their life would be like when this was over.
Would Sally be scarred? Would she have nightmares? She might be afraid of people from now on, and loud noises; she might be clingy and whiny. Oh, poor, poor thing, who had been so innocent—it was so unfair.
Nothing untoward had happened to Reed. Her life as a child had been idyllic, perfect. Except for one thing, of course. How could she have forgotten?
She was transported to another room where she'd been a prisoner, a place that made her sweat and writhe to think of, where everything was white instead of gold.
Quickly, she wrenched herself out of it. She thought about her father, how he took her to the restaurant and showed her things; how he called her his "little smart girl."
She had made him a cake when she was six.
When she was a teenager she was already working at the restaurant, already planning to go to Cornell to learn how to run it. The thought of him—his smile when she did something right, his big, heavy features, the way he spoke so softly when her mother yelled at her—all that was so sad now.
She had nearly forgotten him in her fear for Sally.
Was he dead? Could he really be dead?
She hadn't seen, she had left too soon, but the answer weighed heavy inside her.
Yes, he was dead. Her dad was gone.
She cried for him now, and for her daughter, but furtively, feeling guilty and inept; worried that the Dragon would catch her.
9
Maya's house was actually an apartment not far from the bar, a large apartment with high ceilings and big rooms. Skip could see only the first two, which had once been double parlors and now seemed to serve much the same purpose. The furniture was minimal but effective. An ancient sofa had been draped with some sort of covering to make it presentable, yet a table with a wonderful antique lamp stood next to it.
It was dark, what light there was coming partly from candles, partly from very dim bulbs. All the lamps were of lacy metalwork like the ironwork on the city's balconies.
There was a table in the second room, which might sometimes have been used as a dining room—though Skip doubted it—and there were a few chairs in both rooms. The drama came from the lamps and from the walls, which were decorative by virtue of exuberantly peeling paint. A few darkish paintings hung, probably found in thrift shops.
The peeling paint may have been left that way on purpose, and the dim light, the dark paintings, were certainly for effect. But if the idea was to create a storybook den of iniquity, there were two even better effects—a slight scent of mildew under a few layers of incense, and a thick coat of dust over every surface, including the floor.
On the mantel was an altar of sorts. There were flowers and a few leaves, and a couple of framed photos, one of Marilyn Monroe, another of Tom Cruise, the logic of which was lost on Skip. There were also Mardi Gras beads, a ceramic figure Skip couldn't identify, and five or six of the colored candles poured into glass and marked for success, riches, or various saints that can be found in occult stores.
What Maya was into wasn't instantly clear, other than drama, drugs, and, very likely, some informal version of prostitution. The phrase "coke whore" came to mind.
There were a lot of people in the two rooms, ten or twelve at first glance; which one was Maya, Skip couldn't tell. What she could see was that this was a very hip scene, and biracial, which probably indicated musicians hung here. That and a couple of instrument cases. There was a good sound system, too, currently playing music with a lot of fairly subtle percussion.
The women were all young, t
hin—maybe a little too thin—and wearing something figure-flaunting. From what Skip could see in the dim light, they were fairly attractive, as Toni was, and had a kind of hungry look about them, as if they were looking for something but not quite sure what.
The men were less attractive. But how they fit into the world was a little unclear. They weren't young professionals. Some were probably the suspected musicians—the black ones, maybe. Others could have been waiters or bartenders or hairdressers, or srnall-time hustlers and thugs, or people who had smallish jobs for performers or clubs. A lot of them had a hanger-on kind of feel to them; an uneasy posturing.
Like the women, they seemed hungry, on the make; Skip wasn't sure for what, and she wasn't sure they knew.
For the most part, they were older than the women. Some were overweight, some muscular, some had a tough, streetwise look that Skip wasn't crazy about. One of them, Skip was willing to bet, paid for Maya's apartment.
A group was sitting in the living room, mostly on the floor around a coffee table. One of the women wore an unbuttoned blouse, revealing her bra. A couple of loners sat in corners, probably too loaded to socialize.
A few people stood around the table in the dining room, as if there was food there. One couple were leaning against a wall, going at it fairly heavily.
Toni said, "Damn. He's not here."
"Could he be in a bedroom or something?"
She shook her head. "Trust me. That's not what he's into. Let's go find Maya."
She led Skip to the dining room group, plucking at a woman in black jeans and a black, tight-fitting garment that might have passed for a T-shirt if it had been shaped remotely like a T. It was mostly Lycra and shaped a lot like the woman inside it.
"Maya, meet a friend of mine."
Maya was one of the too-thin ones. Her body looked fine in the outfit, but her face was a little gaunt, her chin and nose a little sharp, giving her a raw, unfinished look. Her hair was brown and thick, but slightly bedraggled.
However, Skip's attention was instantly riveted not by Maya, but by the woman she was talking to. It was Tricia Lattimore, her best friend from McGehee's, the exclusive private school her parents had sent her to.
Tricia had moved to New York and dropped out of Skip's life for a while. When she came back, she hadn't called. Skip found out she was back coincidentally, from the bartender at the place where Tricia waitressed.
Tricia said she hadn't called because she had a drug habit; but now she was over it.
She wasn't over it anymore.
Skip felt her face flush in fear that Tricia would blow her cover. Just as her ears were starting to ring with panic, Tricia nodded very slightly with her chin, as if to say that was all the acknowledgment Skip was going to get. Maya didn't introduce them, but Skip said, "Hey, Tricia."
"Hey, girl." That wasn't a way Tricia normally talked.
"You know her?" Maya said, ignoring Toni and Skip. Guests were probably supposed to be prescreened.
But Toni was impatient. "Look, we don't want anything. I'm looking for Dennis—you know that guy I sent you?"
Maya was suddenly cold. "I don't think I do."
"You know. I called you about him. Has he been here?"
"Toni, you're drunk." Maya turned her back.
Skip said, "Look, he's my brother-in-law. He left my sister with two little kids." She brought out the picture, but Maya shook her head.
"I haven't seen him."
Casually, she turned to Tricia. "Have you?"
"I might have."
"Can we talk?"
Tricia nodded, and slipped out of the conversational circle. She and Skip fell back toward the wall.
Skip said, "Don't blow my cover, okay?"
Tricia nodded again, seemingly in shock; probably very loaded.
"Do you know this man?"
Tricia shook her head, still not saying anything.
"Ah. So you wanted to talk to me. I'm sorry to see you here."
Tricia looked as anguished as if she'd been caught stealing.
"Will you leave with me?"
"I can't. I haven't—" She stopped.
"You haven't scored yet."
But why not? Skip wondered. Why not just plop her money down and get out?
Because she doesn't have the money.
She probably has to go to bed with somebody to get her drugs. Skip hesitated, but only for a moment. She didn't want to support a drug habit, but there were worse things. She dug in her purse. "Do you need money?"
"No. Of course not."
The light was too dim to tell for sure, but Skip had the impression Tricia's color had changed.
Her hand closed around a wad of bills. She extracted it and pressed it on Tricia. "Don't argue, Tricia. just take it. Please."
They had been talking softly, but Tricia took a breath and Skip could see she was going to yell; it was too late to stop her. "Leave me alone, goddammit!" She threw the bills in Skip's face.
Mortified, Skip bent automatically to retrieve the money and heard a ragged sob. It was followed by a loud, "Oooooh, God!" and then Tricia was a crying machine.
She had her face down, one hand at her mouth, and Skip was trying to decide if she ought to hug her, and if so, how to do it, when Maya said, "Okay, Toni, that's it for you. Take your friend and don't ever come back. Tricia, you too."
Toni started to protest, but Maya said, "I mean it. Out."
That seemed a fine idea to Skip—the sooner the better—but she hung back a moment, as if stunned by what was happening. She wanted to see which of the men would come forward to police the eighty-sixing.
Maya turned to her and Tricia. She put an arm around Tricia's shoulders and started to guide her out. "Let's go, ladies. That's enough for tonight."
Skip glanced around. The guests were frozen in a silent tableau, watching the action. No one seemed about to participate.
She followed.
Tricia was talking low now, pleading. "Maya, I'm really sorry I lost it. Let me go out and get a breath of air and I'll be fine. I'll be back in five, okay?"
"Another time, babe. This isn't your night."
They were at the door now, Toni already outside, Maya more or less pushing Tricia out, and Skip behind. She felt movement at her back and turned around to see a man in black, dark and, at the moment, extremely unhappy-looking. Probably the one who really ran things here.
Skip said, "I'll take care of her," which caused Tricia to give her a look of flat-out hatred, but Maya stepped aside.
Skip guided the still-dazed Tricia down the steps and looked at her, about to offer to take her home. "Goddamn you, Skippy Langdon!" Tricia hollered at full capacity. "Goddamn you!"
Toni said, "Shhhhh," rather helplessly. She looked as if she'd been slugged with a crowbar.
"Come on, Toni. Let's get her out of here."
"You are not getting me out of here. I'm not going anywhere."
Tricia was yelling and sobbing at the same time.
A black man stepped out of a parked car. It was Jim Hodges, Skips backup. He only looked at her inquiringly, letting her know he was there, but giving her the option of ignoring him. She shook her head slightly; absurd though it seemed even to her, she didn't want to upset Tricia any further.
She spoke very softly, patting Tricia's back. "Hey, Trish, it's okay. Come on, I'll take you home now. Everything's okay."
"I can't go home. Don't you understand? I can't leave here. I've got to have what I came for." She sat down on the pavement and began sobbing hysterically.
Skip looked helplessly at Toni. "Listen, she's an old friend. You go on home. I'll take care of her."
But Tricia yelled, "No! Toni, help me. Where else can I go?"
Skip said to Toni: "Go." And she went.
Tricia lay down and started to roll around. "Oh, goddammit. Oh, nooooooo. Nooooooo. Oh, goddammit, noooooo."
Now there was no choice. She said, "Jim, let's get her out of here." When they bent to pick her up, she kick
ed and struck out with her hands.
Jim said, "You stop that now, or we gon' have to hurt you," and Skip winced.
"She's a friend of mine, Jim. If you get her legs, I'll get her arms."
He held her legs down while Skip handcuffed her. It happened so fast it was done before Tricia realized it. She turned wild eyes on her friend and hollered in amazement. "Skippy!"
"Let's get in the car."
She put up no more resistance. When they were all three in the car, Tricia in the backseat, crying softly, Skip said, "Tricia, what are you on right now?"
She shook her head violently. "Nothing! Nothing! That's the problem."
"What do you need?"
"Why do you want to know? So you can get me some?"
"I want to know if you're about to go into shock. Let me see your arms." At least she could check for needle marks.
"Oh, forget it. Nothing's wrong with me a little crystal won't fix."
Methamphetamine. Skip wasn't sure what would happen if she didn't get some. She said to Jim, "Let's take her to Charity."
"You don't have to do that. I'm fine."
For now, she looked fine and sounded fine.
"You weren't fine a minute ago."
"I got upset, that's all."
"You're sure you're okay?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
Skip had walked over to Kurt's. She said, "Jim, I'll take her home if you'll drop us at my house."
"No problem. I'll take y'all." She'd been pretty sure he'd say that. Jim was a sweetie—one of her favorite officers to work with; she knew he didn't want to leave her alone with a woman this volatile, and she was glad of it. Tricia might behave in front of a stranger.
Skip looked at Tricia. "What's your address?"
"I don't want to go home."
"Where do you want to go?"
"Here."
"Tricia, I'm talking to you as a friend, not a police officer. I'm worried about you. If you go in there right now, something might happen. Maya's got some not very nice friends. They wouldn't think twice about beating you up if you make another scene."
