Big Easy Bonanza

threw his napkin on the table for emphasis. “I need to know you’re there. I need you to be strong for me.”
    She dabbed at her eyes again, trying to force a smile and ending up with a grimace. “No, you don’t, son.” Her voice came out in a whisper.
    “Mother, pay attention to me. I need you. You know what I’m talking about.”
    “No, Henry.”
    “I’m talking about Skip Langdon.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, I’m probably going to be arrested.”
    She screamed. Not a particularly loud scream, a muffled one, but unquestionably a scream. Three waiters hovered instantly, shielding their table from the other diners. “Is there a problem, monsieur?”
    “My mother is ill. Help me, will you?”
    The waiters moved with startling efficiency, two attending to coat-getting and door-opening, one helping him support Bitty, the other acting as escort, trying to hide them and not succeeding while Bitty blubbered and tried to walk on rubbery legs, though really they had to half-drag, half-carry her.

3
    Could Skip get Cookie a
date
? She simply did not believe the message on her machine. Was Steve Steinman out of his mind? No woman in New Orleans would go out with Cookie Lamoreaux, and with good reason. Everyone had already done it once, and no one was dumb enough to do it again. Though nearly thirty, Cookie was the original teenage gross-out king—arriving drunk, puking in the daisies, groping women, insulting elder statespersons, having to be driven home and poured out of his car—these were a few of his endearing little trademarks.
    The message not only asked her to get him a date, but specifically mentioned Marcelle. Marcelle! Aphrodite reborn as a mortal. Not bloody likely, Steinman. The alternative, however, was spending an evening with Steve and Cookie alone. Cookie would tell endless tales of drunken ribaldry, and she and Steve would end up playing audience to him. Skip thought hard. Maybe there was a female cop who hadn’t met him yet.
    In the middle of her reverie Marcelle called to see how she was and if she wanted to go out for a bite, and Skip was desperate enough to pop the question. Amazingly, she was willing to do it—seemed eager, even, but couldn’t because of André. Even more amazingly, Cookie, confronted with the situation, invited André.
    Due to sartorial indecision ending in a promise to herself to go shopping soon, Skip arrived to find the others well into the cocktail hour. As advertised, Cookie was cooking, leaving Marcelle and Steve to huddle together on the living room sofa. Skip had finally broken out an almost-new red sweater with which to top her jeans; Marcelle’s own jeans were tight, her shirt long and sexy, magenta with leopard spots. Skip felt an urgent need to go and stake out LaBelle’s and realized with horror that this was serious jealousy. She was hooked on Steve Steinman.
    He got up to give her a hug worthy of Mighty Joe Young. Guilt, she thought. “Ouch,” she said, and rather testily.
    “Sorry. You looked so pretty, that’s all. I just want to—” He bit her ear.
    “Not here, King Kong.”
    Marcelle got up to deliver her own hug. “About time you got here. Can you imagine how hard on the ego it is to try to talk to a guy who keeps checking his watch and glancing toward the doorway?”
    Could she be serious? Skip decided not to think about it, to be grateful they were both polite, at least. Steve followed her when she went to say hello to Cookie. “Marcelle’s nice. I like her.”
    “What guy wouldn’t?”
    “Weird taste in clothes, though.”
    From his post over a hot stove Cookie hollered, “Kojak! Who loves ya, baby?”
    Skip gave him the requisite sisterly kiss, noting that he looked unusually spruced-up. “What’s the occasion?”
    He shrugged. “I thought we should all be friends.” Skip thought he probably had a long-term crush on Marcelle. She’d never seen him quite so civilized.
    “So, Kojak, tell us about the big case.” Deftly, he turned the fluffy-looking shrimp he was frying.
    “No shop talk, okay?”
    “Not okay. Why do you think I invited you?”
    Marcelle drifted in. “Cookie, please.” She looked as if she were about to cry.
    “Oh. Gosh, sorry, Marcelle. I must be crazy.” His face glowed like a tequila sunrise, and Skip didn’t think it was just from the heat. “Women out of the kitchen. You’re making me nervous. Steve, you can help me.”
    The women took their drinks into the living room. Except for the