House of Blues (24 page)

To Skip's amazement, Steve stepped forward and put an
arm around the boy's shoulders. "It's okay, son. You can come to
my house and visit Napoleon. Anytime you want, honest."

"
Major grouch," said Sheila, almost in
wonder, as if she were witnessing a spectacle of some sort.

Layne handed the dog to Jimmy Dee. "You can be
so heartless sometimes." He was fumbling in his pocket for
something.

Dee-Dee stared at the tiny black and white face. "You
are pretty cute, you know that?" He patted her. She wagged her
tail and wiggled. He looked at Kenny, whose face had now taken on a
pathetic hopefulness. He handed her to him.

"Okay, you can keep the damn dog."

Both Kenny and Sheila began doing war whoops, which
terrified Angel so much she began yipping. The noise was so shrill
Skip was tempted to cover her ears, but she didn't want to take any
chances with Uncle Jimmy's largesse.

"What is it, Layne?" asked Steve.

Layne had now found a handkerchief and appeared to be
crying into it, moved to tears by the happy domestic scene. He
sneezed. "I think I'm allergic to her."
 

16

When they were alone, Steve found Skip's white
terry-cloth robe, pulled her T-shirt over her head, and held the robe
for her. "Let me take off your jeans."

She stood still while he wriggled them off.

"Now. Tell me about Jim."

She felt her mouth go funny on her. When she could
control it, she said simply, "He died."

"
I'm sorry." He held her, not saying
anything, and it occurred to her that there were no suitable
platitudes when a policeman was killed. You couldn't say, "It
happens," or "Every cop knows the risks," or anything
else that would remind the officer you were trying to comfort of her
own mortality.

Her fragility, Skip thought. Sometimes I think we're
all just hanging on by threads.

"There's more," she said. "O'Rourke
blamed me for it in front of everybody."

"So he's dead too, of course."

She surprised herself by laughing. "Well, he is
in the hospital."

She told the story with an exuberance that surprised
her, and when it was over, found herself wandering inevitably back to
her grief. She ended up crying in Steve's arms, inordinately grateful
that he was there.

He pushed her back against the pillows and loosened
the belt of the robe, so that it fell away from her. "We're
alive," he said, and kissed her, and then kissed her breasts.

He kissed her and stroked her a long time in a quiet,
sensuous way that was almost like a massage. She put a hand between
his legs, just to see what was happening, and found him hard. Her
mood changed in an instant from languorous to passionate.

She unzipped him lazily,
thinking of ways to prolong the moment, but he was having none of it,
and as it happened, that suited her too. She wrapped her legs around
him as he buried himself in her, and in that moment life seemed so
sweet she actually felt she tasted it, like honey on her tongue.

* * *

The next morning she woke up feeling as depressed as
she ever had been in her life.

As she got dressed, she realized she had no plan for
the day. She tried to think what to do.

Jim had died and a new life—albeit a canine one—had
come to her. This was both the cruelty and the beauty of nature. She
could have gotten into "giveth and taketh away" if she'd
thought in those kind of terms.

Something was nagging at her, nibbling at the edge of
her consciousness.

Old stuff, new stuff, dead stuff, You're going
crazy, Skip baby. You didn't invent the life cycle, you know.

So why can't you get it out of your mind?

An image came into focus. A baby, from the photograph
Sugar had shown her. Sally.

Skip's stomach turned over.

Where is she?

Is she with her mother?

Where the hell is that kid?

Carleton—who was quite a bit older than me—and
Carleton always said I was way too hard on Arthur—that he was
trapped.

"Trapped by his God, first of all—he thought
he just had to be religious, when he was really a brutish old bastard
who didn't have a spiritual bone in his body. But most of all trapped
by being an Hebert—life was running the restaurant, and you didn't
ask questions about it.

"Of course, Sugar just made him feel more
trapped than ever—she never saw anything like him in her life. Had
a blind date with him while she was at Sacred Heart and married him
just as soon as she could get herself pregnant. Poor man never knew
what hit him."

"Is she the jealous type?"

"Now that I wouldn't know. I don't really know
her personally."

"She seems to have the idea that you and Arthur
were lovers."

"Lovers!" She hooted. "Lovers!"
She leaned back in her chair and laughed until she actually had to
wipe away tears. "Oh my God, I'd rather go to bed with Ross
Perot. Can you imagine what kind of little skinny thing he's got down
there? Oh, my God. Lovers! Let me tell you something—I'm sure the
only thing he ever loved was his damned restaurant."

Skip laughed. "Are you saying you weren't
lovers?"

"I'm saying if he'd touched me, I'd have broken
out in hives." She checked her skin, as if the mere thought
might cause eruptions.

Skip was trying hard to retain a professional
demeanor. Anne Ebanks was lively, bawdy, and funny—somebody she'd
love to be friends with. But she might be a liar. Fighting hard not
to smile, she said, "You were his lawyer. Do you know if he had
any enemies?"

"He had hundreds of them. I'm sure his wife must
have thought the world of him—there's no accounting—but aside
from Sugar, I can't think of a soul who could stand him."

"I meant the sort who'd have reason to kill
him."

She opened her arms, causing a great jangling of
bracelets.

"Cast of thousands."

Skip waited, trying to set a tone: This is no time
for horsing around.

"But I don't know of any who actually threatened
his life."

Ebanks spoke more quietly, perhaps having gotten the
message.

"
I'll try to make my next question as general as
I can—were you and Arthur recently working on something requiring
long, confidential phone calls?"

Ebanks swiveled jerkily, raising an eyebrow; the
effect was curiously like a stage double-take. "Why, no,"
she said, sounding unsure of it.

Skip was silent, giving her time to process it.

"So there were phone calls—that must be where
she got that ridiculous idea." She drummed pink, perfect nails,
staring into space. "Another Anne, maybe. Anything's possible,
but I can't imagine who'd put up with him." She refocused on
Skip. "Oh, yes, I can—somebody young and dumb. These old coots
can always get them.

"Tell me something—why can't women? I'd just
love a strapping young creature myself, wouldn't you? Oh, no, you're
young, you've probably already got one. I'd like a zookeeper, say;
someone who's kind to animals. I've got plenty of money and tons of
energy—why can't I have one?"

Skip gave up the struggle not to laugh; Ebanks
probably carried on this way in court, and maybe at funerals. "I'm
sure you'll get whatever you want. Mind telling me about the will?"

"Arthur's?" She inspected her perfect
nails. "I guess I can. It hasn't been admitted to probate yet,
but it became an operable legal document when he died. Sure, I can
tell you—simple usufruct, with the children as naked owners. Don't
you love the way we talk in this garne? It means Sugar, as
usufructuary, can use the property till she dies or remarries; after
that, it goes to the kids." She shrugged. "How conventional
can you get? I'm falling asleep just thinking about it."

Skip left, feeling buoyed by the sheer exuberance of
the woman. From what she'd heard of Arthur Hebert, Anne probably
wasn't kidding around—he just didn't sound like her type. She was
right about somebody young and dumb—if Arthur had a lover, it was
almost certainly someone like that.

Or someone young and grasping.

She hit the streets and showed her pictures at more
hotels, once again striking out.

Then she headed back to the office. It was nearly
time for the lineup. Two of the men in it had prominent lower lips,
like the kid she'd seen at the Iberville. Two others didn't, and
these she quickly eliminated.

The first two were the right height and build; in
fact, they looked so much alike they could have been brothers. She
searched both faces, looking for nuances she remembered, clues that
would jog her memory.

But in the end she couldn't be sure. She beat her
fist against her face, out of pure frustration. "Sylvia, I hate
this. Those guys look so much alike, it's a good thing they're
dressed differently."

"
Does either of them look like the right kid?"

"
That's the hell of it—they both do."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"
Melancon's got a very nasty record. He's a damn
good candidate."

"
Well, I'd pick him out if I only knew which way
to point."

Skip was instantly sorry for the sarcasm, but
Cappello was unfazed. "Do me a favor, okay? Would you please get
some sleep tonight?"

Steve was home when she got there, in the courtyard
with the kids and Angel. They were playing a game she thought was a
poor idea, which seemed to involve letting the puppy chase everyone
and bite their ankles.

"
Hey, Skip."

"Hey, Auntie."

"
Hello, everybody and their animal." They
paid her no mind as she crossed through. She went upstairs and threw
on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of Steve's shorts. When she came
back down, Steve was in the kitchen, stirring a pitcher of lemonade.
"Look what I made you."

"What happened to the kids?"

"Uncle Dee-Dee called them. He's getting to like
the dog, by the way."

"Who wouldn't? He just had a hard time making up
his mind to say good-bye to his expensive furnishings. Now it's done
and they'll all live happily ever after." She accepted a glass.

"Let's go out to the courtyard."

There was a metal table and chairs outside, and the
merest hint of a breeze.

Watching Steve sipping his lemonade, wearing shorts
exactly like the ones she had on, so comfortable here, she felt a
twinge.

"What?" he said.

"Oh, nothing. I wish you could stay longer,
that's all."

"Well, so do I, but now I've got the damned dog
to rescue."

"Napoleon."

"
I let him down and he's an ex-dog."

"How terrible", She let the corners of her
mouth turn up.

"Try not to cry. Anyway, I'm still trying to
think of a project that'll get me back here."

"Did we talk about kids who get shot? Tynette's
so pathetic; and you could find lots of others, I'm sorry to say."

"
I don't know if I could take it, I really
don't."

"
Have the Mardi Gras Indians been done?"

"Probably. Anyway, I'd like something a little
dark, a little—you know—illuminating of the urban condition."
He looked embarrassed.

"I can see that."

"
Know who I'd really love to interview? That
Delavon of yours. 'Portrait of a Sociopath'—do you like it?"

"He already thinks he's a star. Don't encourage
him."

"
I mean it."

She could see by his expression, which was almost
pleading, that he did. '"Well, you can forget that idea. If I
ever get hold of him, I'm going to make sure he doesn't get out of
jail long enough to talk to his fans."

"
Fans! I beg your pardon—how irresponsible do
you think I am?"

"
This is a really great opportunity for an
argument—"

"Look, you jumped on me. I don't really think—"

"—but I'm way too tired." She stood up.
"Anything you say, dear. Time for my nap now."

"
I'll make dinner."

"You will?" He'd never done this before.

"Sure. Me and the Verti Marte." The local
deli.

"
Good night, sweet prince."

When he woke her, hours later, she saw that she
hadn't undressed, and she could barely remember lying down. "Skip,
wake up."

Vaguely, she recalled the last thing he had said to
her. "Is dinner ready yet?"

"Dinner was hours ago—mine was, anyhow, but I
didn't have the heart to wake you. You've got a phone call."

"
Who?"

"
Tricia."

She grimaced.

"
I think you'd better take it." He handed
her the phone.