House of Blues (17 page)

"What happened the other night." A new
euphemism for those madcap Heberts.

"He did the same thing to one of his women that
he did to me—and she killed him for it. But she didn't think Reed
and Dennis and Sally would be there, so she had to kidnap them."

Was this possible? If Arthur was a philanderer, he
supposed it was, but most of Sugar's stories were cut from whole
cloth. And he didn't want to say it, but he thought killing the
Fouchers would have been a better solution than kidnapping.

"See, she thought if she kidnapped them, then it
would look like some kind of mob thing or—you know—something
criminal."

Grady hooted involuntarily. "Not that," he
said, for a moment almost enjoying himself

Even Sugar saw the humor of it. She smiled. "Well,
you know what I mean. A cover-up." Her cheeks were flushed with
the thrill of the chase—Sugar liked nothing better than to be on
the trail of some crackpot theory or other.

"Who do you think the woman is?"

"Whoever he just dumped. How hard could that be
to find out?"

Grady suddenly saw how
much mischief she could make if she took it into her head to do it.
"Mother," he began, "you've really got to cool your
heels."

* * *

Sugar drove back to Reed and Dennis's alone, stewing.
Grady wanted to write for a while.

Write. Sure.

The great artist was going to spend the evening
kidding himself as usual.

How dare he try to talk me out of trying to find
out who killed my husband? If not me, then who?

She was good at this—when her children were sick,
she always knew what was wrong with them before the doctor did. If
Grady cried a certain way, for instance, she knew he had an ear
infection. Being a mother was detective work—figuring things out.

Who does he think he is, trying to lecture me? He
could never do anything right—Arthur always had to help him. And
now that he's grown up, he'll never amount to anything.

Her mouth set in a hard line as she realized she was
for the first time facing the truth about her son: Grady was a
ne'er-do-well.

I'll always have to help him, always have to be
Mama, just like it always was. My little boy's not growing up. Ever.

Her mouth relaxed. This was something she knew how to
do, something with which she was comfortable.

He was such a precious little boy, and absolutely
the apple of his daddy's eye. But we spoiled him, I guess—he just
doesn't think it's up to him to make his own way in the world.

Nina must have dumped him because he's so worthless.
He's always going to need my help. Always, always.

He's never going to
find a woman of his own.

* * *

Grady was trying to get her on paper, but he didn't
think he understood her well enough.

What drives her? What's she about?

Don't try to answer that. Just tell her story.

But what was her story? What could have made her so
insecure?

So paranoid.

Was something medically wrong with her? Was there a
chemical imbalance? Something like that seemed the only explanation.

Just tell what happened when. Like that time we
went to Florida.

He was six at the time and he had dived happily into
a swimming pool, only to feel the horrible sensation of last year's
bathing suit coming off his bottom. The elastic, rotten from drying
in the sun, had snapped on impact. He cried out but, being
underwater, swallowed a bucket or so of water. He came up coughing;
drowning, he thought.

He panicked, not knowing what to do next.

So he started crying, crying and coughing at the same
time, not really caring whether he drowned or not, just afraid he
wouldn't get his trunks back before it was too late.

"What is it, son?" his father had yelled,
and about that time arms had closed around him, and he realized he
was being rescued—by a heavyset woman his mother's age.

"
No!" he screamed. And he fought and
kicked, because if she pulled him out, everyone would see him naked.

"Goddamn brat," she said, and let go.

His father laughed. Sat on the side of the swimming
pool and laughed while Grady coughed and struggled. Later, he said it
was because Grady's trunks had come floating up and he'd caught on to
what the problem was.

But while his father laughed at him, Sugar had dived
in and pulled him out, apparently not even noticing he was naked.

"No!No!" he yelled, and again kicked and
struggled, but she was a mom saving her kid and she wasn't letting
go.

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."