House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  Once she got him out of the water, he jumped back in again, sure he was blushing all over, crying as if he'd broken all ten toes. His dad was still laughing his head off.

  Grady held onto the side of the pool so tightly his fingers turned white, but he was crying too hard to ask for his trunks, and his dad was laughing too hard to mention them.

  Sugar, furious and bewildered that he'd wriggled out of her grasp, was yelling at him: "Grady, what's wrong with you?"

  Finally, another swimmer saw the trunks, grasped the situation, and gave them to Sugar, Grady still being too upset to be distracted. That afternoon, Sugar took him shopping for a new bathing suit, and as they were leaving the store, he nearly fell down on the escalator, but Sugar grabbed him.

  "What's wrong, Grady?"

  "I stumbled."

  "Why did you stumble?"

  "I don't know. I just stumbled."

  "Well, there must have been some reason."

  "I just stumbled, Mama."

  That night when the family was together, she told the story of Grady's falling and asked Arthur if he had any opinions. "You're the expert," he said.

  "I just don't understand it," she said. "He's never done that before."

  The more Grady thought about the incident, now, his computer before him, the more confusing he found it. Some of it was predictable—his father's cruelty, his mother's strange thought patterns—but he couldn't see that writing it down was going to solve anything.

  However, he had a deal with himself.

  He sat.

  And then he wrote.

  As long as he wrote he was fine, but when he stopped to think about it, he got so anxious it was nearly all he could do not to reach for a beer to calm down.

  He understood these things—the confusion; the anxiety. He was used to them. What he didn't understand was how it was possible to be like Reed.

  Never confused. Impatient with those who were.

  Perfect.

  Why couldn't it have been me?

  11

  First thing in the morning, Skip trooped up to Narcotics, where she found her pal Lefty O'Meara chewing on his habitual unlighted cigar and just hanging up the phone. A smear of shaving cream decorated his right ear.

  "Hey, Skip. You're gonna make me work—you've got that look."

  "I just want to know if you know somebody. Heroin dealer named Turan."

  "Oh, Turan. He's dealin' boy? I thought he was into girl."

  "What's going on here? Am I in Vice or Narcotics? This guy's not a pimp, he's a dealer."

  Lefty laughed. "Funny, ain't it? I heard some guy make a buy like that the other day—‘two boys and one girl.' 'Member, you heard it here first."

  "Girl's coke?"

  "Yeah, I guess. Turan used to be a girl kind of boy. What's this heroin shit?"

  "You're supposed to be the expert."

  O'Meara shrugged. "Who knows about these dudes? Come on, let's get his record."

  They moved over to the division's one computer and O'Meara fed the monster a name: Turan Livaudais. It spat stats: Turan had a lot of arrests and one conviction; from the dates, he'd been a bad actor all his life, which, according to the sheet, was only twenty-four years along.

  "Let's see the address," said O'Meara, and frowned. "Nah, that can't be right. I've got to make a couple of calls. I'll call you in ten."

  "Thanks, Lefty. I really appreciate it."

  "By the way, did you ever find Delavon? I axed around—couple guys heard the name, but nobody knows who he is."

  "We talked, but I forgot to get a list of his aliases."

  She was sure O'Meara'd get the address; it was the kind of cop he was. He was still a patrolman, had probably never even taken the sergeant's test, or maybe couldn't pass it for one reason or another. But he was one of the best policemen in the department—competent but not flamboyant. If he said he'd do something, he would.

  She spent the next hour on the phone, calling everyone she knew who knew who anyone else was who might know anything about Dennis, or drugs, or even Reed. It was a highly tedious and unproductive exercise, but it had to be done.

  About ten o'clock, desperate to hear a friendly voice—and also needing to talk about something—she called Cindy Lou and asked her to lunch. She was just starting to wonder what had happened to Lefty when he called.

  "Hey, I got your address. Sort of."

  "What's this ‘sort of'?"

  "Iberville Project. That's the best I can do. He deals out of the Conti Breezeway, always after ten o'cIock at night—could be any time, like one A.M., two A.M., you never know."

  "Oh, happy day." She was already exhausted from her late evening at Maya's.

  She had gotten past that, and was thinking how conspicuous she was going to look, hanging around the Iberville, when O'Meara said, "You know about the Tidewater Building?"

  "Know what about it?"

  "You can see everything in the Iberville from the roof."

  "Lefty, you're a prince. I owe you one."

  She got some coffee and hit the streets with the picture of Dennis and Reed. By twelve-thirty she was hot and discouraged. She headed for the Thai restaurant where she and Cindy Lou were meeting.

  Cindy Lou was a little late and, by the time she arrived, a bit bedraggled, unusual for her. "Too damn hot," she said. "I should have stayed in Detroit."

  "I hear it's lovely in summer too."

  "I think I'm having a beer."

  "What's wrong? Something's wrong."

  "Nothing's wrong." She spoke so sharply Skip said nothing.

  "Yeah, something is. I had a message on my machine last night. He's going back to Detroit."

  "The guy? The one you like?"

  "It wouldn't have worked out, right? How could it? I mean, no sex; come on."

  "It seems a little cold to leave a message."

  Cindy Lou pointed a manicured finger at Skip. "Thank you."

  She studied the menu a moment. Skip didn't bother. She always got whatever crawfish dish was on the menu—today, eggplant and crawfish.

  "I mean I never expected it to work out," said Cindy Lou.

  "That's not my thing."

  "You just hate feeling like chopped liver."

  "Thank you."

  They gave their orders and sipped tea. Skip considered the virtues of letting Cindy Lou talk it out, but on the whole she figured there wasn't that much to say—it was about the shortest duration of any of her friend's relationships, which were notorious for their brevity; therefore, despite the ancient connection, it had probably been no more than a spark.

  "Listen, Lou-Lou—first of all, do you hate being called that?"

  "I kind of like it, actually—but don't tell Jimmy Dee."

  "Good. Look, I've got to tell you about something."

  "The case? Things didn't go well last night?"

  "Things went a lot better than I hoped—I met someone who'd seen the person I'm looking for; and better yet, sent him to a sort of upscale crack house, which she took me to." She broke off and shuddered. "Thoroughly revolting scene."

  "You didn't find him, I gather."

  "No, but I did find someone."

  ''Uh-oh."

  "I need to talk to you about it, but the thing is, it's kind of a touchy subject."

  "Hey, I'm the police shrink. It's okay to talk to me."

  "The problem is, this is personal."

  "Oh. A friend."

  "Yes, but that's not the problem. It's that her dad's a former friend of yours."

  "Oh, my God. Tricia Lattimore." In a moment of ridiculously poor judgment, even by Cindy Lou's standards, she had dated Tricia's still-married father. It had been one of her longer relationships, and as far as Skip could see, she'd cared about him. "Her dad told me she had a drug problem."

  "She did, but she was supposedly over it. I ran into her at the Monkey Bar—the place here Darryl Boucree works."

  "Oh, yeah. The Butterfly Man."

  "Oh, Lou-Lou, he is no
t." For reasons Skip couldn't fathom, Cindy Lou had taken a dislike to Darryl on grounds that he was lightweight. "He works three jobs and supports his kid; he brings over presents for Sheila and Kenny. He's a perfectly decent guy."

  Lou-Lou sniffed. "I know him. He's a type."

  "Anyway, Tricia was waiting tables and looking fine—she told me she'd had a habit and she was over it."

  "Either she lied or she couldn't stay clean. What's she doing?"

  "You mean what drug? Crystal, she said. And a lot, I guess. She acted kind of crazy."

  "So she'll be doing some kind of downer as well—-could be alcohol. Probably is, with something else. Valium, maybe."

  "You mean she's got three different addictions?"

  Cindy Lou shrugged. "It's all part of the same thing. She's in deep. Her dad used to worry like crazy about her."

  "Yeah, well, me too now."

  "Do you know the statistics? They say in AA you have to be sober three years before you have an even chance of staying that way."

  "But she's such a wonderful person. She's a writer."

  "I thought she was a waitress."

  "She isn't published yet."

  Cindy Lou snorted. "Why do you suppose that is?"

  "Come on, Lou-Lou. Help me. You know the family situation—"

  "I know it's fucked up."

  "Should I call her dad?" She hesitated. "And her mom? Isn't there something called an intervention?"

  "I don't know, Skip; I just don't know. Or let me put it another way—I know things you probably don't; things her dad told me. I don't think interventions a good idea."

  Skip was dying to ask her what she knew, but she had no business knowing and Cindy Lou wouldn't tell anyway. She sighed, overcome by a sudden feeling of hopelessness. She said, "Okay. Let's talk about my case."

  Cindy Lou looked relieved. Because she was a consultancy to the New Orleans Police Department, Skip was free to tell her anything she wanted, and to ask for her assistance.

  When she had run down the case, she said, "Dennis was supposed to be a pillar of AA too."

  "Well, he had a shock."

  "Do he and Reed seem an odd match to you?"

  Cindy Lou looked placid. "Of course not. Codependent and druggie. What could be more perfect?"

  "That's what Nina said."

  "She sounds like a smart cookie."

  "But Reed sounds so damned perfect. It just seems like she wouldn't let herself be with someone like that."

  "You forget—he isn't 'like that,' or at least he wasn't. She reformed him—evidence of her very perfection."

  Skip felt oddly unsatisfied. "People are weird."

  "You're not kidding. If they weren't, I'd be out of a job."

  That tickled Skip. "So would I."

  "Uh-uh. People are bad. That's what keeps you employed."

  "Miss Cynical."

  "Don't get me wrong, they're good too. Usually both things in the same body. "

  "Usually?"

  "Okay, always. It's the ones who don't cop to the bad part who keep you in business. Most of us know what evil lurks—and we control it. But if you decide you deserve what you can get by dealing dope or maybe you're some kind of missionary, or even that you're above all that, and what you do is okay because other people deserve what they get, then you're dangerous."

  "Delavon. "

  "Who's that?"

  "Somebody I hope you never meet—because he's so truly rotten to the core, you'd probably fall desperately in love."

  "Uh-uh, I don't like criminals; just creeps."

  "And the utterly unavailable. With any luck at all on my part, Delavon's going to get fifty or so years someday—what could be more perfect for you?"

  Cindy Lou smiled. "I have to admit it has merit."

  * * *

  Skip was dog-tired on account of her late night at Maya's, and she could feel another all-nighter in the works. She wanted to go home and get some sleep, but it was time to report to her sergeant. Cappello was glad to see her. "Skip. Making progress with the heater case? I'm still gettin' calls."

  Skip raised an eyebrow. "Joe?" Joe Tarantino, their lieutenant.

  "No, not Joe. just a bunch of assholes who're probably on the take and need somebody to make them look good. Can you believe this stuff in the paper?"

  "What stuff? I didn't see the paper this morning."

  "Not one, not two, but three great items. First, the policeman O'Rourke's platoon arrested for murder. What a department. Then the vice squad hearings."

  Several members of the vice squad were accused of raiding French Quarter joints, then when all the strippers and barkers were outside, helping themselves to the contents of the cash registers.

  Skip winced. "I hate that one a lot. Not just bad and stupid, but crude."

  "Then there's this new stuff about that security firm run by our favorite high-ranking officer. You know: the one with the fancy cars and the Armani suits."

  Skip named him. "What about his firm?"

  "It seems he got booked in by some production companies making movies here and they say he charged them for equipment the department normally lends out."

  "But the city got the money, of course."

  Cappello laughed. "Oh, sure it did. And that wasn't the whole thing—they also claim he overcharged them for people's hours, and what really fries me, that he booked officers to work on those jobs who were scheduled to be working for the department at the same time."

  "A little double-dipping; very Louisiana."

  Cappello snorted. "Don't you ever get tired of this shit?"

  Skip sat down, nonplussed once again at Cappello's frustration. "Well, yeah, I get tired of it. But we don't even know if that one's true. Nobody's proved it, right?"

  "Skip, Skip, Skip. In what other city does this kind of stuff even come up?"

  She didn't know what to say that would make Cappello feel any better.

  But the sergeant was on a roll. "I bet half the cops in this building are on the take."

  "Oh, come on."

  "I mean it. You've got to remember the mob started here."

  "A lot of Italian-Americans would dispute you on that."

  "Oh, hell, I'm Italian myself. What I'm saying is, we've got a history here. This casino business has stirred things up like I haven't seen since I came on the job. When the bottom fell out of oil, nobody had any money and no way to make any. Now there's big bucks in town; big things at stake. The state was crazy to say they'd keep the mob out. Maybe the operators aren't mob, but the town's suddenly crawling with characters you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley."

  "Hey, that reminds me. I met this unsavory dude who tells me Gus Lozano's on his way out."

  "Mr. Kingpin? No shit?" She shrugged. "Well, it makes sense. There's a lot of new guys in town, all of them probably wanting hunks of Gus's pie. Anyway, what's the difference? The new guy might not be named Gus, but he'll be his twin brother. He'll buy some cops and we'll have to work with 'em. Sleeping with the enemy as usual."

  Skip tried to think of something to say.

  "I've got to get out of here," said Cappello. "I don't know how long I can take this."

  "Uh, you want to know about the heater case?"

  "Oh, yeah. Work."

  "I found someone who's seen Dennis." She ran it down for the sergeant, and told her what she planned to do that night—go find Turan.

  "Take Hodges," said Cappello. "He's good and steady."

  "Why not? We had a good time last night."

  She went home, hoping Cappello would pipe down sometime soon. It wasn't that she didn't sympathize with her; it was that she didn't like her talk of leaving. Skip liked being on Cappello's platoon, and there were other sergeants she didn't much care for—like Frank O'Rourke.

  Oh, well. She could get transferred out as easily as she could leave. So could I for that matter.

  Every time a new mayor got in, there was a new superintendent, and sometimes there was one in between terms i
f he embarrassed the department too badly. Each new superintendent did what he pleased; seemingly random transfers had happened before and could happen again.

  Skip had stepped in the shower that morning without washing her hair, forgoing beauty in favor of extra sleep. But after a day in the sauna that was New Orleans in summer, it was a mop of wet nasty curls she couldn't wait to deluge. After that a nap would go down well, alongside Steve Steinman if he was home.

  But when she opened her door, a great, fanged, snarling beast leapt at her.

  Steve said, "Napoleon! Easy, boy! Hey, it's okay." But he seemed to be somewhere in Kansas and there was a large dripping muzzle in Skip's face, a hot smelly one, and jaws that clipped together every time the creature barked, which was about eight times a second.

  She had already stepped back involuntarily, past her own threshold, and now stood in the courtyard, which the beast seemed to be willing to concede to her, as long as it could have the house.

  "Napoleon. Hey, boy. That's Skip; our good friend, Skip. Hey, boy, take it easy now."

  The thing was a German shepherd, she saw now, and she also saw that Steve was holding it by the collar. She had heard barking when she arrived, she realized that also, she just hadn't put it together that it was in her house.

  "What the hell is that creature doing in my house?"

  "You're mad?"

  "Mad? Wouldn't you be if you came home and found the hound of hell in your living room? Which is probably now covered with hair and God knows what else."

  "He's for Kenny. Easy, boy. Hey, Napoleon. She's a friend, okay? Skip, hold out your hand so he can sniff it."

  "Are you crazy? That thing just tried to kill me."

  "Well, I admit that was a little disconcerting. Maybe you remind him of someone."

  "He reminds me of somebody too. Cerberus. The Hound of the Baskervilles. The monster in every movie I saw before I was ten."

  The dog was starting to calm down, but Skip was having a delayed reaction. She felt slightly shaky, and didn't want to admit it.

  "Nice dog," said Steve. "Go say hello to Skip."

  "Listen, how about if you take him for a walk while I go in and take a shower? Then you can leave him in the courtyard while you tell me what the hell this is all about."

  "Well, uh . . ."

  "What?" She was almost inconceivably tired, it was ninety in the shade, her hands were still shaking, and she was getting madder by the minute.