House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  She simply sat at her desk running her hand through her hair again and again, disoriented, her mind a blank.

  "He wouldn't be dead if it weren't for you, Langdon."

  At first she didn't think she'd heard right. She knew the voice. It was the voice of a man who was perfectly capable of saying that, but she couldn't believe he actually had.

  "Didn't you hear me, Langdon?" Frank O'Rourke was standing over her now, too close, invading her space.

  She only stared, unable to answer, still uncomprehending.

  "You stupid bitch. If it weren't for Joe Tarantino, you wouldn't even be in Homicide—you'd be back in some district, where you damn well belong."

  She felt her mouth fall open, was unable to close it.

  "I got no idea in hell why Joe puts up with you—his idea of affirmative goddamn action, I guess. And now your incompetence has finally gotten somebody killed, just like it was bound to. How does that make you feel, Uptown rich bitch?"

  Skip stood, noticing her legs were still like Jell-O, and struggled briefly to keep her balance. And she smacked him in the jaw.

  Or rather, she noticed that she had.

  She hadn't meant to do it, couldn't remember moving her arm, just felt the sting, as if she'd suddenly recovered consciousness, and found herself staring into the furious eyes of O'Rourke, but for only a split second. He hit her back. The blow landed on her jaw and knocked her over, so that she sat down hard on the floor. Three men were now holding O'Rourke, she saw, and she felt someone grab her shoulders from behind. She heard shouting:

  "Hey, cut it out, you two."

  "Goddammit, O'Rourke."

  "Oh, shit."

  Crowd noises.

  Joe Tarantino, drawn by the commotion, emerged from his office: "What the hell's going on?"

  Someone, a voice in the back, said, "O'Rourke hit Langdon."

  Joe lost it. "Goddammit, Frank, that's it. I'm getting you transferred out of here, and suspended if I can. That's it, I swear to God."

  "Wait a minute, Joe. We've known each other for twenty years. Yeah, I hit Langdon. She hit me first."

  "Oh, sure she did. Big nasty Langdon's always picking on poor pitiful you. You childish sonofabitch—you're like some playground bully with Langdon. Even if she did hit you, which I do not believe, I'm sure she had a damn good reason." Even in her state of suspended animation, Skip realized what a remarkable thing Tarantino had done—he'd flat—out lost it. He'd reprimanded O'Rourke in front of the entire unit, and he'd taken one officers side against another. The irony was, O'Rourke didn't deserve it.

  "I did," she said.

  "What?"

  "I did have a damn good reason and I did hit him first."

  "What?" Tarantino was turning red, beginning to be embarrassed at what he'd done; also, she thought, to realize he'd been made a fool of.

  But he said, "Now you're protecting him? For God's sake, Skip. Cappello, did she hit him first?"

  There was a long pause. Skip sensed Cappello hesitating, making up her mind, though she had absolutely no doubt what the answer would be. Cappello was a by-the-book cop, scrupulously fair. She probably didn't like O'Rourke, but she was far too professional.

  He still didn't 1ook up.

  "I don't feel right about it. I owe you one."

  He lifted his head with a jerk and she watched his face become suffused. He didn't speak, obviously trying to hold in his bile for once.

  She left, feeling isolated by his hatred. Even though everyone in the unit had stood with her against him, something that should have warmed her, she felt cold.

  No one knew exactly why he hated her. Because he hated women and he hated anyone from Uptown—because his wife had dumped him—these were the easiest explanations, but they didn't seem like enough.

  She must symbolize something for him, or perhaps she had a scent, so subtle no one could consciously smell it, but that some people experienced on some level, and that made them hate her.

  Skip, get a grip, she told herself You're just depressed because of Jim. Oh, Jim. I forgot about that.

  A wave of something washed over her, something stinging that she recognized as sorrow. The shock was wearing off She drove out to the West End, to look at the lake. She sat there, in her car, and thought about Jim, intermittently, between sessions of going blank again, feeling the way she'd felt before O'Rourke had spoken to her. She thought mostly about how kind Jim was, and that surprised her. If anyone had asked her to describe him, she'd have said first that he was professional and competent, second that he was kind. But the part of him that was human, not the cop part, was what stuck with her now.

  He probably married both those women because he couldn't stand to hurt either one's feelings. The thought made her smile. And then she had one that she'd been smashing down: It could have been me.

  Face it, it could have.

  You can get killed on the job. You know it when you start, but then you forget. You can die.

  Oh, shit. I want to go home.

  What she wanted was company—specifically that of Steve Steinman. She wanted to feel his naked body against hers—his chest hair, his hard thighs, his heat. She wanted sex not so much as a couple of arms around her.

  He wasn't home, and for some reason that set her off: she cried at last. And then she slept.

  She was awakened by the phone.

  "This your lucky day." It was Delavon.

  "With all due respect, Delavon, it's not my lucky day." How the hell did he get my home phone number? Jeweldean doesn't have it.

  "Uh-oh. Thought you wanted a meeting."

  "I do. Where and when?"

  "Why you in such a bad mood?"

  "You probably know already. You know my home phone number."

  "Delavon know all, see all."

  "Where're we meeting?"

  "You comin' alone?"

  "Of course not—do you think I'm crazy?"

  "Hey, you asked to see me. What you scared of'?"

  "Okay, okay, I'm coming alone."

  "Tha's more like it." He gave her an address.

  In the mood she was in, she would have loved to go alone, but that was too dicey. She reached Cappello at a crime scene.

  "Damn. I'm missing one?"

  "I know you're all torn up about it."

  "I need backup. I've got a meeting with the guy who sent me to Turan."

  "Can it wait an hour?"

  "I don't think so. This dude's pretty capricious."

  "We're having some problems here—I can't spare anyone."

  "Hey. This is about Jim."

  "I know, but here's the situation. O'Rourke wasn't in the office when we left. I don't know where he was, but he might be back."

  She let a beat pass. "But that's crazy. I don't see you two working together right now." Skip could almost see her shaking her head.

  "Hey, I'm a pro. I can live with it. What's he going to do? Not do his job just because he hates me?"

  "I can't send him." They were both sergeants. "It'll be up to him. And I'm not exactly in his good graces right now."

  "Sylvia, this is about Jim."

  "I know. I'll call you right back. Look, I've got some good news."

  "You've got to be kidding."

  "Fazio brought in Augustine Melancon. The kid whose mug shot you picked."

  "No!"

  "Swear to God—the bad guys don't win all the time. Lineup's tomorrow at four. That okay with you?"

  "Sure." She gave Cappello the address Delavon had given her and then brushed her teeth, hoping the morning—time ritual would somehow make her more alert.

  She was pulling on white pants when the phone rang: "He's on his way. He'll park in front of the building."

  "Tell him to come get me if I'm not out in fifteen."

  The building was in a part of Gentilly where there weren't all that many white people, which could make it hard for him, she thought. But he was there, in a beat-up car she recognized as one of those assigned to Homici
de. He was scrunched down, hunched over, and wearing a baseball cap.

  What a weird job, she thought as she climbed the steps. Here I am, entrusting my life to my biggest enemy. And the amazing thing is, I actually trust him.

  Delavon answered the door himself "Hey, Tall Beauty." He had changed her nickname; not a good sign, she thought. A little flirtatious; presumptuous.

  "Hey, Short Ugly."

  He laughed. "Now you know you don't mean that. Come on in."

  It was a Sharper Image kind of apartment as far as it went—all chrome, glass, and leather, but very sparse. Skip didn't see any sound equipment, which she thought strange. The kind of man who'd have this kind of furniture would have a fancy stereo system.

  "You heard what happened last night?"

  "You get right down to business, don't you? Can't I give you a drink or something?"

  "A policeman was shot, Delavon."

  "Now ain't that too bad."

  "He died."

  "Um-um." He shook his head in mock sorrow.

  "He was black. African-American. Do you care at all?"

  "Hey, 'member we talked about Gus Lozano?" The mob boss.

  "I remember. Who shot my partner?"

  "Now, how would Delavon know a thing like that?"

  "I think you set me up, asshole. You sent me there. Was I the one who was supposed to get whacked?"

  Delavon found a piece of furniture to smack. That seemed to be his style. "Jim Hodges's death was a accident!"

  "Now, how would Delavon know a thing like that?"

  Delavon laughed. "Delavon know everything. More'n you know, I bet. Bet you don't know Gus Lozano's dead."

  "I don't give a shit. Jim Hodges is dead"

  "You real sure you don't give a shit?"

  She wasn't. She was already starting to regret having said that. She had a moment to think about it while Delavon answered his cellular phone.

  "Well, now that's mighty int'resting," he told the caller. "I think this be lesson time." He hung up and looked at Skip inquiringly, almost benignly.

  "Okay, okay. Tell me about Lozano."

  "All I know is he's dead, if you believe the word out on the street. New guy prob'ly killed your partner."

  "Oh, come on. Turan was too small-time for that kind of crap."

  "Mob be everywhere. Don't you know that?"

  "It is not, Delavon. The mob's practically dead in New Orleans."

  "Ah-ha. Now you gettin' to the crux of the matter. Mob practically dead—Gus Lozano actually dead. Think those two facts be related?"

  "Probably not." She didn't think the mob was going to have somebody killed for inefficient business practices. Stealing, yes. But not incompetence.

  "Prob'ly so. New guy's takin' over lots o' little operations. Gon' be runnin' much tighter ship." He shrugged. "What I hear, anyway. Hear he flexed muscles last night. Turan got real unlucky; your partner got in the way."

  Skip was pretty sure the person she'd seen was no Mafia enforcer. He was certainly not Italian, and probably not even an adult. But to keep the conversation going, she said, "Who is this new guy?"

  "Thought maybe you'd know."

  "What'll you trade me for it?"

  "Might have somethin' for you. But don't call me, I'll call you."

  Skip stood up. "You'd better call me if you've got something. A cop got killed, Delavon—have you grasped that yet?"

  He smiled again, the genial host seeing his guest to the door.

  "Hey, I heard about your run-in with that babe over at Maya's place." .

  "You're just everywhere, aren't you?"

  "I sho' try to be."

  "Then you must know where Dennis Foucher is."

  Delavon made a show of looking at his watch, which was a Rolex, Skip noticed.

  "Well, no, not at this precise moment. But I sold him some shit about a hour ago."

  Skip wheeled. "Goddamn you, Delavon." She had no idea whether it was true or if he was playing with her.

  "Hey, I can't be everywhere at once. How'm I s'posed to know where somebody is I saw a hour ago?" He paused. "But listen, I'm a good guy. You want me to find him for you?"

  The man was maddening. "Yeah. I want you to find him for me. 'Cause you're a good guy and a damn good citizen. Because virtue's gonna have to be its own reward, you know what I mean?"

  "Miss Tall One, you think you hot stuff, don't you?" His features had become a hard and nasty mask. "You think you get anything you want just 'cause your daddy a doctor. Well, let me tell you somethin', girl. You got a few things to learn. Things don' work that way. You think this where I live? This idn't where I live. I had to borrow this place from a friend. Had to leave my bi'ness and come over just to satisfy you. And Delavon don't like being inconvenienced. "So you see you owe me already. You owe me just for comin' over here."

  It was all she could do not to blurt: How the hell do you know what my daddy does?

  15

  When she came out of the building, O'Rourke wasn't in his car. She had been inside only ten minutes—he wouldn't have come for her yet, and she would have passed him if he had.

  She knew he wouldn't have left for a trivial reason—whatever else he was, O'Rourke was a good cop; even Joe Tarantino wouldn't put up with him if he weren't.

  He'd been made.

  She remembered Delavon's phone call: "Well, now, that's mighty int'resting. I think this be lesson time." Delavon's life was probably full of interesting discoveries that called for painful "lessons," but she was pretty sure this one involved her. He'd gotten a little nicer—right after he hung up the phone—no doubt luxuriating in the knowledge that he had the upper hand for the moment.

  Without stopping to call for backup, she headed for the rear of the building. Delavon would leave that way, she felt it; he'd expect her to wait for backup, and he'd be long gone by the time it arrived.

  He wasn't there, but O'Rourke was, stomped and beaten, maybe dead. "Dammit, O'Rourke, don't be dead."

  He had a weak pulse.

  "Okay, hang on. You're going to be fine."

  Reluctant to leave him, she shouted until somebody looked out a window.

  "Call 911," she said. "Get the police and an ambulance."

  She noticed she was holding O'Rourke's hand, and she continued to hold it until he woke up in the emergency room.

  He said, "Langdon. Goddammit, am I going to live?"

  "Of course. You're too ornery to die. But just in case, can I ask you something?"

  "What?"

  "How many wives have you got?"

  "I'm too ornery to get married." He had gotten married once, to a police officer; she was the one who had dumped him.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "Couple assholes pulled me out of the car and beat me up. Took my badge and gun."

  Delavon, I'm going to get you.

  She had left the district officers to get a description of Delavon's car and any available eyewitness accounts, but she knew they weren't going to turn up anything. Even Jeweldean, her friend, wouldn't identify the neighborhood mugger. No one here was going to turn in a heavy-duty gangster.

  She headed for the assessor's office, where she learned the building was owned by a Reginald Vicknair, who lived in Pontchartrain Park, a high-end black development. He had an office on Gravier Street.

  Arriving there, she saw that it was occupied by a well-known law firm.

  Vicknair was as she expected—dignified, middle-aged, in every way comfortable—looking; perhaps a little smug. He wore glasses and a smile that seemed practiced. "How can I help you?"

  "I need to know the name of one of your tenants."

  "May I ask why?"

  "Certainly. A police officer got beaten up outside the building."

  "And you suspect my tenant?"

  "Let's say I need to talk to him—or her."

  He sighed. "Very well. What apartment?"

  "Seven."

  His eyebrow went up. "Mr. Smith."

  "First n
ame?"

  "John."

  "I see. What does Mr. Smith look like?"

  "Black, about twenty-nine or thirty. Medium skin—darker than mine, say. No scars or anything. Perfectly nice-looking fellow. Medium—uh, height and weight."

  He could have been Delavon.

  "By the way, how does he pay his rent?"

  "He's only been there a couple of weeks."

  "What else do you know about him?"

  "He has a nice car, I remember that—a Lexus, I think. That was one reason—I hate to admit it—I didn't check his references. He had nice clothes, a nice car, and he was clean-cut. I thought he'd be fine."

  "What does he do for a living?"

  "I can't remember, but I can call my wife. Those records are at home, of course." He got his wife, made the request, and said to Skip, "He's a salesman. For a company called Amglo Products."

  "Address?"

  He spoke to the phone. "Honey, is there an address?" He scribbled something and handed it to Skip. "I'm getting a sinking feeling," he said. "Let's look it up."

  It wasn't listed.

  Skip glanced at her watch. It was about five. By the time she could get back to Gentilly, people would have started getting home from work.

  She knocked first on Mr. Smith's apartment, but got no answer. Then she talked to everyone else in the building. No one had ever seen Mr. Smith, not even when he moved in. His next—door neighbors had never heard anything either.

  Skip remembered how there hadn't been a sound system, how Delavon had been called on a cellular phone. It was her guess there wasn't any Mr. Smith, there wasn't any Amglo Products, and Mr. Vicknair's tenant, whoever he was, Wouldn't even be back fOr his furniture.

  She had no way back to Delavon, except Biggie. But if she took Biggie to headquarters and sweated him, he wouldn't talk and she'd lose him as a semi—informant. She wasn't willing to do that yet. She had one other hope: O'Rourke might be able to pick out a mug shot of one of his assailants.

  She went home exhausted, remembering that she hadn't seen Steve all day, that he'd be there for her.

  But he wasn't.

  The house was empty and seemed dark, though the evening was bright. She had been thinking about Jim on the way home, and the tears were near the surface. As soon as she put her key in the door, realizing the house was empty, she relaxed enough so that a sob rose up out of her. Blinded by tears, crying loud now, she wanted nothing except to get in the shower, perhaps to wash her grief away.