Authors: Julie Smith
"
He just doesn't like you, that's all."
"Doesn't like me! He nearly tore my throat out.
Well, look, let's say for a minute that he's just the most precious
little pooch and Kenny loves him to death. What do you think Jimmy
Dee's going to think?"
"
Jimmy Dee?"
"Yes, Jimmy Dee. The kid's uncle and guardian.
Have you noticed how absolutely fabulous he made that house, just for
those kids? How do you think he's going to like the last of the
timber wolves leaping up on the dining room table and scarfing the
pasta?"
"
Jimmy Dee," Steve said again, as if he'd
just heard of him for the first time.
"Did you get that thing from the pound?"
"
Yes. Why?"
"Okay, well, Kenny's going to ask that too. So
here's how it's going to go—assuming we don't have to pump
Napoleon's stomach to get Kenny out. Meaning this is the best case
scenario. "Kenny and Napoleon fall in love. But Jimmy Dee says
he can't have the dog. So then he knows Napoleon's got to go back to
the pound, where he's going to meet a horrible end. How do you think
that's going to make him feel?"
"God, you're being nasty."
She was, and she knew it. But somehow she just
couldn't stop. "Nasty! I just came home to a mouth full of teeth
and a kitchen full of shit. Anyway, I can't get over how thoughtless
you were about this."
"Thoughtless! Nobody else is doing anything for
Kenny."
"
That isn't fair and you know it."
"
You have the nerve to tell me—oh shit,
listen."
Skip heard children's voices. "Where'd you put
Napoleon?"
"
In the courtyard. Tied up. Don't worry."
By now the dog had set up a racket. Without another
word, Steve went tearing downstairs. Skip stopped to pull on a pair
of shorts and a T-shirt.
She arrived in the courtyard to find a young man on
the ground with Sheila bending over him, Steve holding Napoleon and
looking grim, and Kenny staring wide-eyed, holding out a hand for the
dog to sniff.
Napoleon's tail began to wag. A pink tongue came out
and licked Kenny's hand. Gaining confidence, Kenny began to pet the
dog's massive head. Napoleon snuggled into the caress as if he'd died
and gone to heaven.
Sheila said, "You're sure you're okay?" and
began helping her friend up.
The boy looked as if he had the flu.
"What's happening?" said Skip.
Sheila put a hand on her hip, outraged. "He
attacked Emery."
Emery. Sheila's new boyfriend—or what passed for a
boyfriend in the eighth grade. She'd better try to make amends, Skip
thought, and held out her hand. "I'm Skip. He doesn't like me
either."
The boy managed a weak smile, but Sheila scowled.
Steve had by now let go of Napoleon's collar, and
Kenny was caressing his chest and back, petting him all over as
reverently as if the dog were a unicorn with whom he'd been granted
an audience. Emery continued to stare round-eyed at the animal.
Finally, he blurted, "I think I'd better go
home."
"But Emery," Sheila said, and her eyes
locked with his. She saw the futility of protest and stopped in
mid-whine. "I'm sorry this happened." She sounded so polite
and grown-up, Skip was bowled over.
Sheila walked him back to the street, and when she
returned, she hissed, "What is that animal doing here?" Her
eyes meant war. Skip couldn't believe this was the same Sheila who
only the night before had asked Steve not to go back to California.
Now she hated him. Steve glanced guiltily at Skip. "He's a
provisional pet. I mean, he could be a pet if Uncle jimmy agreed."
Kenny stared at Steve like an actor in one of those
movies in which island natives think a shipwrecked man is god. "You
got him for us?"
"Well, a boy needs a dog, don't you think?"
Sheila said, "Do you know what you just did to
me? I'm probably never going to see Emery again." Tears were
starting.
Steve grinned. "Napoleon really didn't like him,
did he?"
She started to sob. "I didn't want a dog, I
wanted a cat."
Kenny stared at her, astonished.
"I don't see why I can't have a cat."
A voice came from the side of the house. "Anybody
home?"
They heard metal against metal as Jimmy Dee unlocked
the gate. Napoleon started barking as if the Huns were invading.
Steve grabbed his collar again.
They heard Sheila say, "Uncle Jimmy, if Kenny
can have a dog, why can't I have a cat?"
"If Kenny can what?" Jimmy Dee came into
view and proved the third person that day who reminded Napoleon of
someone. The dog strained against his collar until he choked,
slobbering, barking, growling, and showing his shark-sized teeth once
again. Skip prayed Steve would be able to hang on.
"
This is Kenny's?" said Jimmy Dee.
Kenny said, "Isn't he beautiful?" and Skip
wished fervently that she'd die in the next two minutes.
Steve did lose his grip, and Napoleon launched
himself toward Jimmy Dee rather like a Patriot rocket, but he stopped
about an inch away from Dee-Dee's face.
Showing the famous grace under pressure, Jimmy Dee,
unlike Skip and Emery, did not lose his cool.
"Would someone," he said, "please call
the zoo?"
Kenny understood instantly that heaven, which had
arrived so unexpectedly, was about to be snatched away. He sank down
on the flagstones and simply stared at the ground. Skip thought she'd
never seen anyone look so miserable.
When she thought things couldn't get any worse, he
said, "He's going to die, isn't he?"
12
Jim Hodges was quite a bit older than Skip, which
could have intimidated her but didn't—hadn't, right from the start.
Skip was young, she was from Uptown, and she already had an enemy in
Homicide when she was transferred in. Because Frank O'Rourke never
missed an opportunity to make her feel green, incompetent, and out of
place, she was wary at first, had been wary a long time—but she'd
always been okay with Hodges.
He wasn't a great conversationalist, wasn't the kind
of cop who loved to tell stories and jokes—in fact, he didn't
socialize much, even in the office. It might have been because he was
one of the few black officers in the detective bureau. Or maybe he
was just that way. Cappello was; so was Skip herself.
"
Do the job and go home," Cappello had told
her once. "Don't take it with you. You'll be a better cop for
it."
Whatever the reason, Hodges was one of the best—cool,
quick on his feet, there when you needed him. Skip found him a
genuinely nice man as well—a kind man. But maybe that just went
with being a consummate professional; thinking about his partner's
needs; the needs of the people he dealt with on the job.
Most policemen were on the job because they wanted to
help. It was the number one reason they gave for becoming cops.
Skip's reasons had been different, had much more to do with the fact
that the work simply suited her, suited a six-foot woman with a lot
of energy. But she figured Hodges might fall into the helper
category. He was a tough cop, but he was still a gentle man.
Working with him was like having a twin, a part of
yourself that knew what you needed before you did. She hoped she was
as good a partner as he.
When they had scrounged a car—not the easiest thing
these cheese-paring days—Jim said, "What are you thinking? We
going over to the Tidewater roof'?"
"
Now how'd you know that?"
"I've been around awhile. You forget that?"
He laughed. "Yeah. I've really been around awhile."
Skip laughed too. "Oh, come on. You're just a
youngster."
The Tidewater was on Canal Street, and Skip was
astounded by the view it afforded. The only thing was, they were too
far away to see anyone's face, especially in the dark.
So what to do? Head in if they saw a white man? She
didn't think they could even tell at this distance, and she knew they
wouldn't have enough time to get there.
"
This isn't going to work," Hodges said.
"
You're telling me."
"I'm going to have to go in there."
Skip sighed. "Yeah."
"
Damn good thing Cappello gave you a black
backup."
"Oh, who needs you? I could have come in
disguise."
"Yeah. Some cornrows and pancake; that'd prob'ly
do it."
He laughed at the silliness of it.
She said, "You got a pocket phone?"
"Yeah. You?"
"I'll get one—let me use yours."
He produced his and she dialed Jimmy Dee. "Dee-Dee,
do me a favor, will you? Lend me your cute little phone."
"What's wrong? That jerry-built cop shop doesn't
have any?"
"Are you kidding? It took us half an hour to
find a car that works. Put it in a cab and send it to the Tidewater
building; could you?"
"Okay. But the monster's got to be out of here
by noon."
"Steve or Napoleon?"
"Hey, the dog can stay if you'll send the other
one back."
"How's Kenny?"
"Put it this way—I've got clean sheets at the
ready."
She hung up, feeling glum; Steve had probably made
things worse.
While they waited for the phone, Jim said, "How
do you want to work it? How about I go in and loiter while you wait
in the car? Seems pretty straightforward to me."
"I don't know; I'm starting not to like this.
You're supposed to be my backup."
"Yeah, but there's a little problem. You're
white po-lice. Face it, Skip. It's the only way to play it."
"We could both stay in the car."
"We can't park close enough to see what's going
on. Turau's going to be in the Conti Breezeway, but that doesn't mean
Dennis has to walk in from the street. He could enter the project at
one of the other breezeways, for instance. Or he could drive in."
The Iberville's "breezeways" were park
areas between rows of red-brick buildings now grim with age and abuse
and neglect—and memories, probably, and the busted-up dreams of
busted-up families, or families that had never happened, that had
started out as pregnant teenagers and grown into young mothers of
three or four, strung out on crack and turning tricks to get it.
Children should have played in the breezeways, and
did, sometimes. They should have functioned as village greens. But
dealers dealt in these open spaces, and blood flowed there. Almost
every day the
Times-Picayune
reported the body of a young black male found in the courtyard of one
of the city's projects. If someone wanted to kill you, he had a clear
shot here.
Once you were actually in the breezeway, you were a
sitting duck. This was Skip's problem with the plan. She really
thought about the "disguise" she'd suggested so
facetiously, but people would never have left her alone, would have
tried to talk to her. She'd have been made in about thirty seconds.
"What are you going to say? Who are you?"
"Are you kidding? I'm looking for James. My
brother. Let's stop here a minute."
He pulled up at a convenience store on Rampart. "Wait
for me."
Skip waited, annoyed at the way he seemed to be
taking over her assignment. He came back with a bottle of
Thunderbird. "You drive awhile."
Skip took the wheel while he perfumed himself. He was
wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt, but his hair was short and neat. At
least he didn't wear glasses.
"James, he stay at Placenta house. You know
Placenta? She stay over there, don't she?"
"Jim, give me a break. Nobody's named Placenta."
"I swear to God. I heard it in Schwegmann's the
other day. Little four-year-old kid."
"
It's an urban myth, like Nosmo King."
"
The kid named for the No Smoking sign? That's
my nephew."
"Listen, I don't care if you did hear it in
Schwegmann's. Rename James's girlfriend just this once. Please?"
"Okay, she Magneeta. Magneeta, she stay with her
nanan, and her name, uh, let me think . . . I think her nanan named .
. . uh . . .ain't she the lady stay over there? You know, the one
with all them kids? She 'bout this high and she got a real pretty
smile."
"Magneeta. Holy shit. Magneeta."
"You just white po-lice. What do you know?"
"Jim, I don't like this."
"Here's a good place. Park here."
She knew it was a good place; he didn't have to tell
her to park. But the longer she didn't park, the longer she put off
his getting out of the car. For the first time in her life she had a
bad feeling. She didn't even want to look for Dennis. She wanted to
go home and forget the whole thing.