Authors: Julie Smith
Crowd noises.
Joe Tarantino, drawn by the commotion, emerged from
his office: "What the hell's going on?"
Someone, a voice in the back, said, "O'Rourke
hit Langdon."
Joe lost it. "Goddammit, Frank, that's it. I'm
getting you transferred out of here, and suspended if I can. That's
it, I swear to God."
"Wait a minute, Joe. We've known each other for
twenty years. Yeah, I hit Langdon. She hit me first."
"Oh, sure she did. Big nasty Langdon's always
picking on poor pitiful you. You childish sonofabitch—you're like
some playground bully with Langdon. Even if she did hit you, which I
do not believe, I'm sure she had a damn good reason." Even in
her state of suspended animation, Skip realized what a remarkable
thing Tarantino had done—he'd flat—out lost it. He'd reprimanded
O'Rourke in front of the entire unit, and he'd taken one officers
side against another. The irony was, O'Rourke didn't deserve it.
"
I did," she said.
"
What?"
"
I did have a damn good reason and I did hit him
first."
"What?" Tarantino was turning red,
beginning to be embarrassed at what he'd done; also, she thought, to
realize he'd been made a fool of.
But he said, "Now you're protecting him? For
God's sake, Skip. Cappello, did she hit him first?"
There was a long pause. Skip sensed Cappello
hesitating, making up her mind, though she had absolutely no doubt
what the answer would be. Cappello was a by-the-book cop,
scrupulously fair. She probably didn't like O'Rourke, but she was far
too professional.
He still didn't 1ook up.
"I don't feel right about it. I owe you one."
He lifted his head with a jerk and she watched his
face become suffused. He didn't speak, obviously trying to hold in
his bile for once.
She left, feeling isolated by his hatred. Even though
everyone in the unit had stood with her against him, something that
should have warmed her, she felt cold.
No one knew exactly why he hated her. Because he
hated women and he hated anyone from Uptown—because his wife had
dumped him—these were the easiest explanations, but they didn't
seem like enough.
She must symbolize something for him, or perhaps she
had a scent, so subtle no one could consciously smell it, but that
some people experienced on some level, and that made them hate her.
Skip, get a grip, she told herself You're just
depressed because of Jim. Oh, Jim. I forgot about that.
A wave of something washed over her, something
stinging that she recognized as sorrow. The shock was wearing off She
drove out to the West End, to look at the lake. She sat there, in her
car, and thought about Jim, intermittently, between sessions of going
blank again, feeling the way she'd felt before O'Rourke had spoken to
her. She thought mostly about how kind Jim was, and that surprised
her. If anyone had asked her to describe him, she'd have said first
that he was professional and competent, second that he was kind. But
the part of him that was human, not the cop part, was what stuck with
her now.
He probably married both those women because he
couldn't stand to hurt either one's feelings. The thought made her
smile. And then she had one that she'd been smashing down: It could
have been me.
Face it, it could have.
You can get killed on the job. You know it when you
start, but then you forget. You can die.
Oh, shit. I want to go home.
What she wanted was company—specifically that of
Steve Steinman. She wanted to feel his naked body against hers—his
chest hair, his hard thighs, his heat. She wanted sex not so much as
a couple of arms around her.
He wasn't home, and for some reason that set her off:
she cried at last. And then she slept.
She was awakened by the phone.
"
This your lucky day." It was Delavon.
"
With all due respect, Delavon, it's not my
lucky day." How the hell did he get my home phone number?
Jeweldean doesn't have it.
"Uh-oh. Thought you wanted a meeting."
"
I do. Where and when?"
"Why you in such a bad mood?"
"
You probably know already. You know my home
phone number."
"Delavon know all, see all."
"
Where're we meeting?"
"
You comin' alone?"
"Of course not—do you think I'm crazy?"
"Hey, you asked to see me. What you scared of'?"
"Okay, okay, I'm coming alone."
"
Tha's more like it." He gave her an
address.
In the mood she was in, she would have loved to go
alone, but that was too dicey. She reached Cappello at a crime scene.
"Damn. I'm missing one?"
"I know you're all torn up about it."
"I need backup. I've got a meeting with the guy
who sent me to Turan."
"Can it wait an hour?"
"I don't think so. This dude's pretty
capricious."
"We're having some problems here—I can't spare
anyone."
"
Hey. This is about Jim."
"I know, but here's the situation. O'Rourke
wasn't in the office when we left. I don't know where he was, but he
might be back."
She let a beat pass. "But that's crazy. I don't
see you two working together right now." Skip could almost see
her shaking her head.
"Hey, I'm a pro. I can live with it. What's he
going to do? Not do his job just because he hates me?"
"I can't send him." They were both
sergeants. "It'll be up to him. And I'm not exactly in his good
graces right now."
"Sylvia, this is about Jim."
"I know. I'll call you right back. Look, I've
got some good news."
"
You've got to be kidding."
"Fazio brought in Augustine Melancon. The kid
whose mug shot you picked."
"No!"
"Swear to God—the bad guys don't win all the
time. Lineup's tomorrow at four. That okay with you?"
"Sure." She gave Cappello the address
Delavon had given her and then brushed her teeth, hoping the
morning—time ritual would somehow make her more alert.
She was pulling on white pants when the phone rang:
"He's on his way. He'll park in front of the building."
"
Tell him to come get me if I'm not out in
fifteen."
The building was in a part of Gentilly where there
weren't all that many white people, which could make it hard for him,
she thought. But he was there, in a beat-up car she recognized as one
of those assigned to Homicide. He was scrunched down, hunched over,
and wearing a baseball cap.
What a weird job, she thought as she climbed the
steps. Here I am, entrusting my life to my biggest enemy. And the
amazing thing is, I actually trust him.
Delavon answered the door himself "Hey, Tall
Beauty." He had changed her nickname; not a good sign, she
thought. A little flirtatious; presumptuous.
"
Hey, Short Ugly."
He laughed. "Now you know you don't mean that.
Come on in."
It was a Sharper Image kind of apartment as far as it
went—all chrome, glass, and leather, but very sparse. Skip didn't
see any sound equipment, which she thought strange. The kind of man
who'd have this kind of furniture would have a fancy stereo system.
"You heard what happened last night?"
"You get right down to business, don't you?
Can't I give you a drink or something?"
"
A policeman was shot, Delavon."
"Now ain't that too bad."
"He died."
"Um-um." He shook his head in mock sorrow.
"He was black. African-American. Do you care at
all?"
"Hey, 'member we talked about Gus Lozano?"
The mob boss.
"I remember. Who shot my partner?"
"Now, how would Delavon know a thing like that?"
"
I think you set me up, asshole. You sent me
there. Was I the one who was supposed to get whacked?"
Delavon found a piece of furniture to smack. That
seemed to be his style. "Jim Hodges's death was a accident!"
"Now, how would Delavon know a thing like that?"
Delavon laughed. "Delavon know everything.
More'n you know, I bet. Bet you don't know Gus Lozano's dead."
"I don't give a shit. Jim Hodges is dead"
"You real sure you don't give a shit?"
She wasn't. She was already starting to regret having
said that. She had a moment to think about it while Delavon answered
his cellular phone.
"
Well, now that's mighty int'resting," he
told the caller. "I think this be lesson time." He hung up
and looked at Skip inquiringly, almost benignly.
"
Okay, okay. Tell me about Lozano."
"All I know is he's dead, if you believe the
word out on the street. New guy prob'ly killed your partner."
"
Oh, come on. Turan was too small-time for that
kind of crap."
"
Mob be everywhere. Don't you know that?"
"
It is not, Delavon. The mob's practically dead
in New Orleans."
"
Ah-ha. Now you gettin' to the crux of the
matter. Mob practically dead—Gus Lozano actually dead. Think those
two facts be related?"
"
Probably not." She didn't think the mob
was going to have somebody killed for inefficient business practices.
Stealing, yes. But not incompetence.
"
Prob'ly so. New guy's takin' over lots o'
little operations. Gon' be runnin' much tighter ship." He
shrugged. "What I hear, anyway. Hear he flexed muscles last
night. Turan got real unlucky; your partner got in the way."
Skip was pretty sure the person she'd seen was no
Mafia enforcer. He was certainly not Italian, and probably not even
an adult. But to keep the conversation going, she said, "Who is
this new guy?"
"Thought maybe you'd know."
"What'll you trade me for it?"
"Might have somethin' for you. But don't call
me, I'll call you."
Skip stood up. "You'd better call me if you've
got something. A cop got killed, Delavon—have you grasped that
yet?"
He smiled again, the genial host seeing his guest to
the door.
"Hey, I heard about your run-in with that babe
over at Maya's place." .
"
You're just everywhere, aren't you?"
"I sho' try to be."
"Then you must know where Dennis Foucher is."
Delavon made a show of looking at his watch, which
was a Rolex, Skip noticed.
"Well, no, not at this precise moment. But I
sold him some shit about a hour ago."
Skip wheeled. "Goddamn you, Delavon." She
had no idea whether it was true or if he was playing with her.
"Hey, I can't be everywhere at once. How'm I
s'posed to know where somebody is I saw a hour ago?" He paused.
"But listen, I'm a good guy. You want me to find him for you?"
The man was maddening. "Yeah. I want you to find
him for me. 'Cause you're a good guy and a damn good citizen. Because
virtue's gonna have to be its own reward, you know what I mean?"
"Miss Tall One, you think you hot stuff, don't
you?" His features had become a hard and nasty mask. "You
think you get anything you want just 'cause your daddy a doctor.
Well, let me tell you somethin', girl. You got a few things to learn.
Things don' work that way. You think this where I live? This idn't
where I live. I had to borrow this place from a friend. Had to leave
my bi'ness and come over just to satisfy you. And Delavon don't like
being inconvenienced. "So you see you owe me already. You owe me
just for comin' over here."
It was all she could do not to blurt: How the hell do
you know what my daddy does?
15
When she came out of the building, O'Rourke wasn't in
his car. She had been inside only ten minutes—he wouldn't have come
for her yet, and she would have passed him if he had.
She knew he wouldn't have left for a trivial
reason—whatever else he was, O'Rourke was a good cop; even Joe
Tarantino wouldn't put up with him if he weren't.
He'd been made.
She remembered Delavon's phone call: "Well, now,
that's mighty int'resting. I think this be lesson time."
Delavon's life was probably full of interesting discoveries that
called for painful "lessons," but she was pretty sure this
one involved her. He'd gotten a little nicer—right after he hung up
the phone—no doubt luxuriating in the knowledge that he had the
upper hand for the moment.
Without stopping to call for backup, she headed for
the rear of the building. Delavon would leave that way, she felt it;
he'd expect her to wait for backup, and he'd be long gone by the time
it arrived.
He wasn't there, but O'Rourke was, stomped and
beaten, maybe dead. "Dammit, O'Rourke, don't be dead."