House of Blues (23 page)

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 name?"

"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.

She threw off her clothes as she climbed the stairs,
and slipped behind the shower curtain, turning up the hot water, even
though it was June, and stood there until she was cried out.

Opening the bathroom door, she thought she heard a
noise.

"Steve?"

The noise came again, almost like a cry. Pulling a
terry-cloth robe around her, she found her gun and crept down the
stairs. The noise was coming from the kitchen, pretty steadily now,
and she was beginning to have a suspicion; the gun was making her
feel silly, but she kept it anyway, just in case.

She opened the kitchen door and something soft
touched her leg. Her suspicion was correct—another animal. Not
Napoleon because he would have barked; probably a lion cub or a
ferret—small but potentially destructive.

Actually it was another dog—or at least a
dog-to-be. At the moment, it was little more than a handful of white
fur with one black eye and one black ear.

"Oh, you angel," she blurted, putting her
gun on the counter and reaching down for the puppy. It was shaking.
"Oh, Mama's widdle baby's terrified; never seen a great big ol'
gun before. Poor widdle baby animal."

It settled into her hand as if she really were its
mama. She was just getting it calmed down when the door burst open.
"Hello—oo—oo," Steve singsonged.

He never does that, she thought. But hold it—I
don't do babytalk either. The kids—both Sheila and Kenny—were
with him. She had a moment of thoroughgoing gratitude that they
hadn't come home in time to catch her.

"Did you find Angel, Auntie?" Sheila was
beaming, as if she'd been chosen class president. "Isn't she the
sweetest? Come to Mama, baby." She reached for the puppy.

"
Angel. That's what I called her."

"She's my dog." Kenny grabbed for her too.
Angel yelped.

"Hey. Hey," said Steve. "She's
nobody's dog yet. Don't forget about Uncle Jimmy."

Kenny's attention wandered to Skip's gun. "Hey.
Were you going to shoot her or what?"

Skip pocketed the gun. "I thought she was
Napoleon."

She regretted it as soon as she'd said it. Kenny's
eyes brimmed at the memory of the big dog.

Setting down a grocery bag of pet supplies, Steve
ruffled his hair, causing Skip nearly to gasp. She'd never seen him
do such a thing. When he'd arrived a week ago, he'd been pretty much
of a dyed-i -n-the-wool child-hater. This dog thing was having a
weird effect.

"
Hey, champ, Napoleon's going to be okay. I
promise. Nothing bad's going to happen to him."

"
How dumb do you think I am? They're going to
kill him."

"No, they're not."

"
I'm not stupid."

"
They don't kill dogs that get adopted. Napoleon
got adopted."

"Oh, sure he did. Like you'd really know all
about it.".

"Well, I should. I'm the new owner."

"What?" Skip and Sheila spoke together.
Kenny's mouth dropped in wonder.

Steve shrugged sheepishly at Skip. "I guess
you'll never come visit me again, huh?"

"
You adopted that dog?"

"Had to. They were going to kill him." He
leaned against the counter with something that resembled a swagger.

It worked like crazy with Kenny. "You did? You
really did?"

"Uh-huh. Bet you'll come visit me."

"
Can I? Hey, Skip, can I?"

"
What, and leave Angel alone?"

"Aren't we forgetting something?" Sheila
spoke severely. "We still have the James Scoggin hurdle."
She still had possession of the puppy, which was starting to wriggle
out of her arms.

"Where is Napoleon?" Skip said, wanting to
make sure he wasn't anywhere close.

"Oh, they're keeping him a few more days. I paid
for his vaccinations and all. Besides, they love him at the shelter.
Nobody wanted to off him. Shall we unpack? See, some nice puppy food,
a water dish—"

"I'm going to put the gun away. " She
pulled on some clothes while she was at it, crossing her fingers that
Jimmy Dee would let them keep the puppy. He had twin soft spots for
Kenny and Sheila, but she just didn't see him opting for a pet that
was bound to systematically destroy his carefully decorated abode.

Hearts were going to break, she thought.

Let's face it, including mine. I really fell hard for
the little dickens. She had a thought as she came back down the
stairs: "Hey, Steve, she's not a border collie, is she? She
looks kind of like one."

"Why?"

"They're murder. They herd you and all your
neighbors. And they have to run a lot. Also, they're smarter than
most humans. I find that an unsettling quality in a dog."

"Nah. She couldn't possibly be one." He
tweaked the puppy, distracting her from Kenny's shoelace, which she
was enthusiastically masticating.

"By the way, how come you're babysitting? Did
Jimmy Dee go out or something?"

"
I don't think so. He's making cannelloni for
Layne. When Kenny saw it, he said such rude things I felt sorry for
Uncle Jimmy and offered to take the kids to McDonald's."

"I did not!"

''Well, the look on your face said it all. Anyway, I
brought them over here and cast my evil spell first. We were kind of
hoping you'd be back in time to go with us."

"I got delayed." She hoped her face didn't
betray too much, but it must have told him something.

"How's Jim?"

She shook her head briefly, telling him to shut up.
"Let's take Angel over to the Big House."

"Okay," said Steve. "Everybody ready?"
He was a regular dad all of a sudden.

"Kenny, you take Angel," said Sheila. "You
can be last."

It was uncharacteristically generous, but Skip
figured she had a reason—she had a flair for drama.

"Uncle Jimmy! We've got something to show you."

He and Layne were in the living room having coffee.
"Hey, everybody. What took you so long?" They were twin
souls of civility. Skip didn't want to think about how a dog could
disrupt the momentarily peaceful household.

"We had to make some stops," said Sheila.

"Where's Kenny?"

"He's bringing up the rear."

"What are you showing me?"

"Kenny's got it."

Here goes, thought Skip.
His
last normal moment. After this, everything changes.

"Oh, Kenny, you can come in now." Sheila
hummed the wedding march. Skip and Steve joined in. Catching on,
Kenny came in haltingly, in time with the music.

"Oh, my God, it's a puppy. Kenny Ritter, you get
that creature out of here this instant."

"But she's beautiful," said Sheila.

"
The only thing worse than a big dog is a little
dog." Kenny held the puppy to his uncle's face, which she
obligingly licked.

"
Help, I've been kissed by a dog."

''Look how cute she is."

"She had the audacity to lick me."

Layne said, "My God, that's the cutest thing I
ever saw in my life."

Dee-Dee glared at him. "Et tu, Brute."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, James—quit camping it
up and look at her. Is that a face you can resist?" He held his
hands out for Angel, who came to him with full tail wags. "Ohhh,
look at the widdle thing. How can big ol' mean Jimmy Dee say no to a
little ol' ball of fur like this?"

"I can't stand it! You're all
disinherited—including you, Aphrodite." Meaning Skip.

"Aphrodite," said Sheila. "Maybe we
should call her that instead of ‘Angel.' "

Layne said, "How about Elsie? I had an aunt
named that."

"
I'm leaving." Dee-Dee stood up. "Wait
a minute, what am I doing? She's leaving."

He pointed portentously at the wriggling furball. "I
mean it, Kenny. No dogs. Period."

He sounded so intractable that even Skip felt herself
shrinking slightly. Worried, she glanced at Kenny. He was fighting
his disappointment, but it was winning. His face twisted, a horrible,
cracked half scream escaped his throat, and tears began to stream.