Big Easy Bonanza

on one foot and then the other, cold and impatient, until a plan finally formed in her head, inspired by what she was looking at—the window Henry had left cracked earlier, when he cleared the house of the pot smoke. She’d have to leave her post and trust luck for a few minutes, but this way would be much cleaner and more elegant than the alternative, which was conning her way in the downstairs door and kicking in Henry’s.
    She phoned Steve, told him to meet her immediately, and to bring a long rope.
    Luck went her way. Bitty and Henry didn’t come out for another hour. As soon as they were out of earshot, Steve threw the rope over the gallery rail, and Skip shinnied up. It was a struggle, but it hadn’t been easy at the academy, either.
    Henry might destroy the birth certificate—might have already—but it wouldn’t do her any good to steal it. It wasn’t evidence unless it was found in his apartment, not stolen from it. What she wanted might or might not be evidence—but no one would ever believe it had been taken from his apartment. That was the beauty of this little burglary. And the justice of it pleased her. Henry had twice invaded her home.

Tuesday
    BITTY ARRIVED PROMPTLY at eleven-fifty and asked not for O’Rourke and Tarantino, but for Skip, as Skip had known she would, because by this time she knew that Bitty knew the other two would be busy. They had been closeted with Henry since ten-thirty, taking his confession.
    Skip got her a cup of coffee and sat her at Tarantino’s desk, feeling she ought to have removed the snake poster for the occasion. As quickly as she could exit gracefully, she left, ostensibly for lunch, actually too tense to eat, too bewildered and disoriented to stick around headquarters; and far too angry to stay in the same room with Bitty.
    She had spent the early-morning hours—from seven on—with Duby, Tarantino, and O’Rourke, one or two at a time, mostly being yelled at, now and then being patted on the head when one of them (never O’Rourke) actually remembered she had done a good job, however unorthodox. (They didn’t know how unorthodox, and she was never going to tell them.)
    When Henry showed up, she nearly lost it—nearly ran screaming into the street and disgraced her uniform, knowing what he was going to try to pull. She didn’t think it would work—it certainly hadn’t on her—but thinking wasn’t doing her much good. Feelings were getting the upper hand and she felt as if someone was slowly shrinking her skin, making it tighter and tighter, like some shroud-like version of all-body thumb screws. Bitty’s appearance only made things worse.
    What the fuck were these two up to? But she knew; she knew. Deep in her heart, goddammit, she knew.
    She found an empty office and used the phone, able, at last, to return Steve’s call, to ask him if they had anything. She had found the film within thirty seconds of entering Henry’s apartment, but Steve had long since returned the projector he’d rented at Mardi Gras, so they hadn’t been able to view it.
    Steve wasn’t home. How dare he! But of course—he must have already left for her house.
    She found him sitting on her front steps, film and freshly rented 16-millimeter projector in hand, shit-eating grin on face. She said, “What is it?”
    “I think—I really think—we’ve got what you want.”
    Her knees buckled. What the hell
did
she want?
    The film was exactly as advertised a week ago—perfect; gorgeous. Dolly playing the gun tricks, Dolly drawing, Dolly shooting—“and then nothing,” as Steve had said then.
    But that had been only the filmmaker in him talking. There was something; plenty of something. A collage, as the camera was jostled. First the bunting-covered balcony, then Dolly’s face again. Then a piece of the wall, with just the blonde wig at the bottom of the picture, a back view—she had turned around. Then more wall, as the camera was pushed up. And that was it. But the proof was there.
    Skip’s stomach hurt. The last thing she felt like doing was eating, but she couldn’t risk getting faint at a tense moment.
    They walked together to the Quarter A&P, fast, trying to work off stress, and bought the makings for health-food shakes. This was far from her usual style, but she couldn’t possibly get down anything solid.
    She consumed hers absently, not really tasting it, just hoping it would do its work and see her through the afternoon.
    Afterward she thought about making