Big Easy Bonanza

downtown.”
    “So?”
    “We just went Uptown!” She guessed only a New Orleanian could understand the stupid circle they were making and on second thought, she guessed stupid didn’t enter into it—the guy was just trying to lose them whatever way he could. Clearly he had no plan—he was just driving aimlessly. Now that she thought about it, she realized this was in their favor. If only the damn Toyota wasn’t so fast.
    Calming down, she rubbed Steve’s thigh and turned to him. “How’re you doing?”
    Briefly, he too turned and smiled at her. “I’m having the time of my life, to tell you the truth.”
    Oh great, again. He wasn’t taking seriously the fact that they were in hot pursuit of a criminal. Or maybe he was just trying to reassure her. She wished she knew, and wished desperately that she hadn’t gotten involved in this. On the other hand, if it turned out right she might be arresting Chauncey’s murderer sometime in the next few minutes.
    At Lee Circle the driver of the Toyota took the little jog at Howard that gets you onto Camp. From Camp he turned onto Canal, which curves as it gets close to the river, and the curve fetches up at—too late, Skip realized the driver did have a plan—the curve ends at the Canal Street Ferry. As they arrived, the Toyota was driving aboard.
    Skip glanced quickly at the traffic light. Green. There was still time. She said, “I don’t believe this,” and Steve, instantly grasping the situation, drove triumphantly down the ramp.
    They stared at each other, grinning, unable to contain their mutual delight.
    “Trapped!” said Skip, banging her leg with her hand.
    Steve said, “Like the rat he is.”
    “Or she is.”
    Skip was out of the car, gun stuck in her waistband, almost before Steve had turned off the ignition. This time she didn’t want him in front of her, messing her up. As she slammed the door, she said firmly, “You stay here. I mean it,” knowing it would do no good.
    The driver had parked forward on the ferry and had hunkered down, probably aware now that he had been almost unbelievably stupid to have panicked and driven onto the boat. But the rat metaphor held—trapped animals were violent, and he might have a gun.
    Skip held up her badge and bellowed, “Police. Get back, please. Get back.”
    A few lollygaggers got back, Steve along with them, she was happy to see.
    Standing behind the Toyota, she spoke to it. “Let me see your hands. Sit up and put your hands on your head. Now.”
    Nothing happened. What to do? She could give the driver a count of five, hoping he’d lose his nerve, or she could rush the car. She needed another officer. She wished she could ask Steve to open the door so she could be quicker with her gun, but she couldn’t endanger his life any further.
    Forget the count of five. I’m too nervous.
    She pulled the door open on the passenger side. No one was in the front seat. Roughly she pulled the seat back forward, but by now she knew what she would find—nothing.
    She kicked the car, hollered loudly, “Shit!” and made for the stairs up to the passenger deck, steps pounding behind her—Steve’s, she was sure. Behind her someone said, “Language!” and the group of men laughed.
    As she reached the upper deck, the ferry started to pull away. “Shit” she said again, sure now what had happened. She had been outsmarted by a rat. The Toyota driver had simply climbed upstairs and walked off the ferry. “Double shit!”
    Steve put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. She wasn’t in any mood to be comforted.
    Only one person was riding on this deck, a black man, snoozing. Sticking the gun back in her waistband, she touched his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir.” He came awake with a jolt. “Did you see someone walk off the ferry a minute or two ago?”
    He shook his head and closed his eyes again. Briefly, she wondered if this was the man who had been driving the Toyota, but she thought he was the wrong build—too stocky by far. And his shirt was yellow, whereas the burglar had worn something dark.
    Steve said, “What do we do now?”
    “We go to Algiers,” she said. “Look, there’s a chance he’s still on the boat. I’m going to look around. Can I trust you to stay here?”
    “He’s not on the boat.”
    Her belly, getting one of its twinges, told her it was true. “I’ve got to look anyhow.”
    She walked away, not glancing at him again, pretending to herself that she was confident he’d