Big Easy Bonanza

Chauncey? Tolliver? Haygood? The disappearing act seemed too big a coincidence.
    And if LaBelle was gone, truly gone, who had been harassing Skip? She thought she knew.
    She parked and didn’t even go in to change out of the damned brown shoes. She walked fast, almost running, toward the river side of the Quarter. And as she walked, it occurred to her to wonder for the first time why Marcelle had gotten so testy when she asked about Hélène.

4
    He was reconsidering moving in with Bitty. If he did it, he’d at least have to keep the apartment so he’d have a refuge. He’d stayed with her last night and most of today, finally dropping her off for one of her “naps” before their dinner tonight. He’d found himself unbearably oppressed by the house and, face it, nearly at the end of his rope.
    Today had been the worst by far. He found that he literally couldn’t imagine life without Tolliver, knew now that his fantasy of living with Bitty had included Tolliver, had always included him, he just hadn’t realized it. He was smoking a joint as if it was a cigarette, puffing nervously, just wanting to get as stoned as he could as fast as he could.
    He thought when this was all over—if it ever was—he would go to AA. Knowing better, much better, he had fallen off the wagon once already with disastrous results. He knew better right now; he shouldn’t be letting down his guard like this. But he couldn’t help it. Honest to God he couldn’t live another moment in the melancholy and misery the day had brought. He supposed that was the definition of an addiction, but he couldn’t worry about it now. For today, he was getting stoned.
    He was just starting to relax, to think he could face getting ready for Bitty, when someone pounded on his door. “Open up, Henry. I know you’re in there.”
    Tubs Langdon. How the hell did she get in the downstairs door? A friendly neighbor must have arrived at the same time she had and helpfully let her in. But she was lying. She couldn’t possibly know he was in there.
    “Come on, Henry! The pot smoke’s so thick out here half the neighborhood’s getting stoned.”
    She was probably telling the truth—you probably could smell smoke from out there. Still, if he kept quiet—
    “Goddammit, don’t you think I learned how to kick in a door at the police academy? You really want me to do that?”
    He put out the joint, quickly flung up the windows, and opened the door. “All right, officer. You don’t have to squeal and go ‘oink.’ A simple huff and puff, and I’m sure you could blow my house down.”
    She grabbed his shirt and backed him into the apartment, throwing him roughly onto the sofa. “Don’t get me any madder than I already am.”
    Jesus. It was true what you saw on TV—cops really did assault you if they felt like it. And there were no witnesses. He could report what she’d done and she’d just deny it. The injustice of it infuriated him, reminded him of the time he’d mouthed off at a traffic cop, who’d threatened a few charges besides running a red light. And he’d known he had to shut up, that the First Amendment got temporarily suspended when you were nose to nose with an officer of the law.
    He sat up, trying to recover a modicum of lost dignity, and gave his head a shake. “I’d ask you what I could do for you but my brains are too scrambled right now.”
    “You broke into my house, you little asshole. Twice! You ransacked it and you mugged me and you smeared that stupid blood on my front door and you slugged my boyfriend. Have you any idea how mad that makes me?” She moved closer to him, threatening, a dowdy harpy in a shapeless suit and hopeless shoes.
    “Would you like to sit down?” he said.
    “Talk, Henry.”
    “You’re making me nervous.”
    “Gosh, I wouldn’t want to do that.” She sat.
    Jesus, it felt good to have her out of his space. “I didn’t slug your damn boyfriend,” he said. “I didn’t even know you had one.”
    “Steve Steinman. Big guy with a beard and film of the murder—the one you hit on Mardi Gras night. You listened in when Marcelle phoned me, and found out he was coming to my house.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Okay, let’s talk about the other stuff.”
    “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I was trying to get you to butt out.”
    “Sure you weren’t trying to kill me? Like you killed your father?”
    “I didn’t kill my father. Tolliver killed my father.” Even to