Big Easy Bonanza

hundred pounds into her finale when Skip spotted the white shirt and khaki pants of Hinky Hebert’s best friend since grade school, Bobby Alexander. Aha, where Bobby was, Hinky couldn’t be far behind. Bobby had his arm around a female who looked to Skip too small to be his wife, but couldn’t be anyone else—Tjpitina’s on a Saturday night wasn’t a sneaking-around kind of place. Sure enough, Hinky was approaching now, carrying three Dixies. Bobby let the woman go and took one; as the woman leaned forward for hers, Skip broke out in a sudden apprehensive sweat. Oh, God, the woman had seen her. She was waving. The others turned round and waved. The woman was Mary Earle O’Rourke, wife of Frank the Oppressor.
    By the time the break had begun, and she and Steve had purchased fresh Dixies, her heart had stopped pounding. She was saved from having to search through the crowd by her quarry himself—or by the rest of his crowd at any rate, which amounted only to Bobby and Mary Earle. (Like Tolliver, Hinky never had a date, although no one seriously imagined him a homosexual. They assumed he was usually far too drunk to be interested in anything other than music.)
    When Skip had introduced Steve, Mary Earle said, “I hear you and Bobby know each other.”
    “Have since kindergarten. But I didn’t know you two did.” She let her eyes travel from Mary Earle’s face to Bobby’s.
    “Meet my new fianceé,” said Bobby.
    Skip stared back at Mary Earle, bewildered. “He’s not kiddin’, honey,” she said. “I left Frank six months ago—or hadn’t you heard?”
    “I hadn’t.”
    “We’re living together,” said Bobby. “It’s been kind of hard on Jo Ann—”
    “I think it’s been hard on Frank too. And believe me, I’m in a position to know. I’ve been working with him.”
    Mary Earle said, “I hear he’s a bear lately. Somebody told me even Joe can’t stand him anymore.”
    “You wouldn’t consider going back to him, would you?”
    Bobby grimaced. “Do we have to talk about Frank?”
    “Can I get you a beer, Bob?” asked Steve, perfectly able to see Bobby already had one, and Skip loved him for it. She used the interruption, as she knew he meant her to, to get away.
    Hinky Hebert was leaning against the stage, both arms around the waist of an Italian-looking beauty of eighteen or so. “Hi, Romeo.”
    “Hello, Skippy darlin’.” His speech was only a little slurred. He released the girl and threw his arms around Skip. “How’s that brother of yours?”
    “You should know. You talked to him today, didn’t you?” Over his shoulder, Skip watched the young beauty slink away. Hinky released her.
    “Talked to him?”
    “He didn’t phone to tell you I’d meet you here?”
    “Is this a fix-up?” Hinky roared, apparently finding the idea the funniest he’d heard lately.
    “Sort of. Police business, baby. You sure Conrad didn’t talk to you?”
    “Positive.”
    “So how’d he know you’d be here?”
    He roared again. “Darlin’, I’m here every night of the week. Everybody knows that. And if I’m not here, I’m at Jimmy’s and if I’m not at Jimmy’s I’m at the Maple Leaf and if I’m not at the Maple Leaf—”
    “I get the idea, Hinky.”
    Skip didn’t like it when she caught herself thinking in stereotypes, but Hinky made her think of white bread. Despite his French surname (and possibly Catholic faith, Skip didn’t know about that) he seemed to her as bland and pallid as any WASP who ever sprang from the imagination of Woody Allen. Not the gorgeous rich kid of regattas and ski resorts, but the cousin from out of town who drank so much and acted so weird he quickly became the fraternity mascot.
    No wonder he never had a date, Skip thought—he was a joke, with his narrow shoulders, pasty skin, spectacles, thinning brownish hair, khaki trousers just like Bobby’s, and utterly blank expression. You looked, you thought,
Nobody home
, and you were about to move on when he said something either stupid, offensive, downright mean, or simply eccentric, depending on how drunk he was. And sometimes you stayed to talk, fascinated by his smallness.
    “Listen,” she said, “What’s with Bobby and Mary Earle?”
    “Haven’t you heard? Alison Gaillard must not have been living up to her reputation.”
    “Alison and I aren’t close,” she said, uncomfortable that this was true and that, in spite of it, she’d used Alison for information.
    “Darlin’, this is