Crescent City Connection (2 page)

Renee said she had no idea who’d want to kill a guy like Herbert.

By the end of the day, it looked pretty certain Herbert’s granny was going to go unavenged.

“Damn shame, ain’t it?” It was the same cop who’d reported Cooper’s resignation, a three-year vet named DeFusco.

“Damned ironic. Herbert was home free—he just didn’t know it.”

“I’m thinkin’ about the poor old lady. Bastard who killed her’s out gettin’ loaded right now.”

Adam Abasolo chimed in from across the room. “Don’t let it get to you, Joey boy. Seems like anybody we pop gets off, and if they don’t they’re back on the street in thirty seconds.”

“Two minutes max,” said Charlie Dilzell. “Least this way there’s one less punk on the street. That’s some kinda justice anyway.”

“However twisted,” said Skip, making a lame attempt to raise the level perhaps a millimeter.

“Shee-it. When was the last time you saw anything resembling fucking justice?” Frank O’Rourke was the speaker—not Skip’s favorite person, but the words were spoken with such heartfelt outrage, they made her feel helpless rather than angry.

I’ve got to get out of here.

But Cappello caught her before she left. “You okay with what happened?”

“Hell, no, I’m not okay with it, but there wasn’t any choice. Anyway, it’s LaSalle’s case; I can’t worry about it.”

“I didn’t mean the case. I mean … what you saw.”

She meant watching LaSalle shoot Herbert. Skip brushed unruly curls from her forehead. “No. I swear to God I’ll never get used to watching someone die.” She didn’t mention it was all she could do not to wince. “But I take your meaning. Yeah. I’m okay.”

“It didn’t bring back…”

“It did. How could it not? But it was LaSalle, Sylvia. Not me. I watched him do it, and I knew he had to do it. It’s a different deal. You know?”

“I needed to check.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I hear you were good with the kid.”

“Sometimes you get a second chance.”

Skip’s leave of absence had involved a shooting as well; but the dead man had a daughter, who witnessed it.

Skip could work now; she no longer had nightmares, nor saw the girl in every child who crossed her path. Today she’d proven she no longer fell apart at shootings where there were children.

But she was glad Cappello hadn’t asked if she was depressed. She was. She didn’t think she’d be human if she wasn’t.

And it wasn’t only about Herbert. There was hardly a thing about the day that wasn’t depressing. She couldn’t wait to get home.

She frowned. Actually, there were certain things about home that depressed her as well. One thing, anyway. A big thing, about a hundred and fifty pounds’ worth.

It barked as she approached. Barked and snarled.

“Napoleon, take it easy, boy. Come on, now, I’m your pal.” In a pig’s eye.

At least the dog didn’t come any closer.

He belonged to Steve Steinman, her long-distance sweetheart, who was visiting from California. Steve yelled down from the balcony. “Napoleon! Take it easy, boy.” The dog shut up and wagged his tail.

Skip said, “You’re a dog magician.”

“He likes people who like him.”

“Don’t be mean. I feel awful.”

“Be right down. Napoleon—stay.” But as soon as Steve stepped from Skip’s slave quarters into the courtyard, Napoleon leaped up lovingly, spilling the beer he’d brought for Skip.

“Dammit. Maybe you’re right about this creature.” His T-shirt was soaked.

“Napoleon! Hey, boy! Hey, boy. Come on.” Thirteen-year-old Kenny Ritter had dashed out of the Big House that also opened on the courtyard. “Want to go for a walk? Steve, can I take him for a walk?”

“Please do,” said Skip. “Across I-10.”

“Oh, Auntie.”

“Now here’s my baby.” Angel, a black and white fluffball, frolicked at Kenny’ s heels. Napoleon sniffed at her rear end. Skip said, “You leave her alone or I’ll kill you,” and Kenny smiled, used to her. He left with the dogs.

Steve said, “Cappello just called. She said either call her back right away or just watch the news.”

“That’s weird.” Skip plopped into a dark green patio chair. “I think I’ll opt for the news.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He massaged her neck.

“That’s better. I swear to God that’s better.”

“We’re here to serve.”

“How about you go be a cop for a while.”

“Uh-uh. I’d rather watch you suffer.” He was a filmmaker who’d become a film editor but never got over his first love. Right now he was back in New Orleans working on what was getting to be a long-term project: a documentary about kids who’d been shot—and, as Skip liked to say, the kids who shot them.

“You came to the right place. I’ve had a hell of a day.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

Sometimes she couldn’t, but this was different.

“Why not? It’ll be on page one tomorrow.”

When she had finished, he looked worried. “You … uh … dealing with this okay?”

“You sound like Cappello.” There was a reason for it. She’d had a near breakdown after shooting the man who tried to kill her.

She patted Steve’s knee, trying to reassure him. “Yeah, I’m dealing with it fine. Except, of course, for the part about the grandma. That gets to me.”

“Do you ever think about Shavonne?” Shavonne was the little girl who’d watched Skip blow her daddy away.

“Oh, yeah. I don’t even want to stop thinking about her—I don’t think it’d be right to forget. I mean, I don’t dream now—don’t look so worried—but I try to keep tabs on her. I check up on her now and then, sometimes even …” she hesitated.

“What?”

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, well. If you’re here long enough you’ll find out anyway. I take her little presents sometimes. Little surprises—anonymously, of course.”

“You’re right. I think you’re crazy.”

Skip felt her face get hot. She said nothing.

“But crazy good, of course. Crazy in a very sweet way.”

“You really think it’s nuts?”

“Of course not. No. You’ve got two really great projects— Shavonne and Jacomine. They balance out perfectly. Skip Langdon, Batwoman—flap one wing and nurture the innocent; flap the other, destroy all evil. You gotta love it.”

Her cheeks warmed again. “It’s not like that.”

“Don’t get huffy.”

“Are you laughing about Jacomine? Do I actually hear you laughing about him? The kids could be in danger.” She meant her friend Jimmy Dee’s adopted children—Napoleon’s pal Kenny and Kenny’s sister, Sheila. Jacomine was someone with whom she had some history. He was crazy, he was evil, and he had reason to hate her. She could never shake the fear that he’d go after the children—or even Steve or Jimmy Dee if he couldn’t get the kids. But there was no doubt in her mind, he’d try first for the children—it was meaner, it was nastier, and it was more likely to send her around the bend.

She said, “Let’s go watch the news. Cappello’s probably afraid they’re going to crucify LaSalle.”

But LaSalle’s case rated only a sentence or two—there were a couple of giant stories pushing everything else to the back, one national, one local.

The local one was huge—a blockbuster, said the anchorman—so mind-boggling no one would believe it. But first, a bigger one.

It was the verdict in the Billy Ray Hutchison case, a murder trial the press was calling “O.J. Revisited.” The thing was eerie, it was so similar to the O.J. Simpson trial: Billy Hutchison, an African American football player who did commercials, was accused of killing a wife who claimed a history of abuse.

But there were two major differences in the cases—the two were still married, and the wife was also black. To Skip, the evidence seemed overwhelming, and, to her mind, there wasn’t a racial issue.

Open-and-shut, she would have said.

But because of the Simpson trial—and because of Hutchison’s huge popularity—all eyes were on it.

The verdict was “not guilty.”

“Shit. He did it.”

Steve said, “FemiNazi.”

Skip made her hands into claws, pretending to scratch his eyes out. “It’s not funny. He bought himself a walk.”

“Get used to it. It’s the American way.”

“Oh, hell. I wish I had a joint.”

“Thought you stopped that shit.”

“God, I’m in a mood.”

“I don’t see why you’re so surprised. He’s not the kind of guy who’d do a thing like that.”

For the first time, she really looked at him, suddenly not sure what he was saying. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m just a right-thinking American—the bitch had it coming. Probably gave him lip every time he brought home a bimbo.”

Okay, he was kidding. “You’re not helping my mood.”

“Hey, who cares about evidence? I need justice—I work all day and when I come home I want a hot meal on the table. What do I get? Lip, lip, and lip. Billy’s my man.”

“I see what you’re saying, but there were eight women on that jury.”

“He’s a good-looking dude. That goes a long way in this country—along with a few million green ones.”

“I hate lawyers.”

“Omigod. Listen.”

The local story was on. Sometime between now and the time Skip left headquarters, the superintendent of police had resigned.

She said, “Holy shit! I should have called Cappello. Did I hear that right?”

“Even I don’t believe that one.”

“They said it though, right? Pinch me.”

“They’ll probably replace him with somebody worse.”

“There isn’t anyone worse. This dude’s dumb as a rock and corrupt as hell. God, is he stupid! Every day he transfers somebody just for the hell of it—just to prove he can do it, I guess.”

“Do you think he’s resigning over this LaSalle thing?”

“Naah. I bet it’s been in the works for weeks. Even the mayor can’t stomach him—or more likely, can’t stomach the increasing outcries of an angry populace. If he’s smart, he’ll bring in someone from outside.”

“The problem is, he’s not smart.”

“Well, he may be desperate.”

“I know I am.”

“Well. Mr. Cynical finally comes clean.”

He shrugged. “You gotta keep your sense of humor. Either that or go nuts.”

“You know what? This is good news. We just heard good news on the boob tube. Mark down the date and time. Break out the champagne.”

DORISE WAS WASHING wineglasses in a great big old stainless steel double sink equipped with garbage disposal. She was in pig heaven.

“Dorise! That’s lovely, but—”

Cammie Fontenelle had clicked into the kitchen on shoes so tiny Dorise wondered if she had to special-order them. In fact, Cammie was so petite she probably had to get her clothes somewhere in Asia. At the moment she was wearing a flamingo-pink spring suit that nipped in to show a waist about the size of a hummingbird’s. Dorise liked her as well as it was possible to like someone from another planet.

Cammie’s pretty little face was screwed up in distress, blue eyes all squinty. She didn’t know how to ask for what she wanted.

What was Dorise doing wrong?

Singing. She hadn’t even noticed.

“Oh, darlin’. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

Cammie smiled, all better again. Her eyes were sparkly between their liner and their shadow. “It’s beautiful. Really. Maybe you should come out and entertain.”

Dorise waved a hand at her and smiled. She started humming again before she caught herself. All things considered, she’d rather be in the kitchen, washing Cammie’s antique crystal, lovingly handling the gorgeous glasses, loading the china in the dishwasher, getting a gander at the silver as she put things back in the kitchen cabinets.

She liked serving, too, standing at the buffet table, ladling out the crawfish pasta and grilled vegetables, checking out the ladies’ sleek bright suits. Cammie always requested her, and now so did lots of Cammie’s friends, who also had occasion to give luncheons from time to time. She was careful, she was thorough, she was fast, and she was cheerful—those were some of the things that had consistently been mentioned in her evaluations ever since she went to work for Uptown Caterers. Her mama had taught her right.

It was easy to be nice in houses that were cool in the summer and warm in the winter, where you walked on Oriental carpets nearly as old as the houses themselves. Another lady, one the next generation up from Cammie, had explained to her that the more threadbare and tattered the rugs looked, the more likely they were to be valuable, thus the more careful she had to be.

In these houses, upholstery was always some kind of soft stuff, like silk or velvet. The furniture was dark and shiny, crystal prisms rained from sconces, mirrors were framed with gold leaf, metallic-colored tassels tied the curtains. There was so much to look at, she could hardly work.

She didn’t exactly fantasize about living in these places. That made no more sense to her than taking up residence in a museum—and anyway, she had an eight-year-old daughter. How did you keep a kid from breaking the Chinese vases? How did you get comfortable in a place like this? How did you keep it clean?

And then, of course, there was the problem of keeping the neighbors from shooting you. (Or more likely, shooting your brother or husband. Black men were viewed with suspicion in the Garden District. But she didn’t think much about that—her own living room in the East hadn’t been all that healthy for her late husband.) These places were just foreign—great huge rooms and high ceilings, more than a hundred years old. But she loved being in them, looking at everything, taking care of things. And the people who came to lunch! Judges’ wives, doctors’ wives, legislators’ wives, and for the night parties, the judges and doctors, too, some of them women. Some of them black. At Cammie’s once, she had met Suzanne Nickerson, the most popular anchor-person in the city. A black woman.

“I felt like I was really hangin’ out with the stars,” she told her sister.

Her sister had said, “Dorise, don’t you get it? You aren’t hangin’ out with anybody. You the help.”

“You just jealous,” she had said. “How else you gon’ meet Suzanne Nickerson?” Her sister worked at a laundry, back in their old neighborhood.

Under questioning, even her sister would have said Dorise was doing good. Dorise knew she was. She’d gotten married young and had some piddly job at a video store until her husband insisted she quit working. He made plenty of money and she had a kid to take care of.