Big Easy Bonanza

lavish mass of crinkly curls.
    “I thought that was just a good perm.”
    “Absolutely natural. But I don’t count because we’re ‘from away.’ However, there was a queen of Comus a few years ago who mortified her whole family by declining to have her hair restyled for the great occasion. People who saw it said that Afro was so high and so thick the crown would hardly sit on it.”
    Steve laughed. “Her father must not have been in the Boston Club. Surely you have to be racially pure to get in.”
    “I doubt it. How would anybody know? Anyway, a little thing like ancestry wouldn’t stop a true Bostonian from being a rockrib—the point is to pass. However—” she took another toke—“back to strata. The blacks have their own strata, based—are you ready for this?—on skin color.”
    “I think I might throw up.”
    “Why? They’re just emulating the rest of us bigots. Stories used to be told about black nightclubs where they wouldn’t let you in if you were any darker than a paper bag. An ‘integrated’ club meant one where you could go if you were anywhere from cafe au lait to licorice. Want another beer?”
    “I need one, I think.”
    Skip gathered up the empty cans and hauled out a brace of fresh Dixies. When she got back, Steve was pulling on his beard, thinking. “I want to use all this stuff,” he said. “It’s going to be a whole different movie.”
    “Put me in it, why don’t you?” Skip put a hand on her hip and started to mug.
    “Why not? You’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”
    She’d started cutting up because she was high and having fun—she hadn’t expected a serious answer. “Thing?” she said. “You think I’m a thing?”
    “Are you an anthropologist doing fieldwork?”
    “I’m a cop. No shit. A cop. I’m just observant, that’s all.”
    “Cookie said you kept flunking out of schools.”
    “So?”
    “I expected a ding-a-ling.”
    Skip shrugged. “I read a lot.” She was getting pissed. She didn’t like people telling her what they expected, and for that matter didn’t like them expecting things of her. Who cared if Mr. Steve Steinman of AFI expected a dumb cop? Skip was Skip and not who he expected, and he was drinking her beer and smoking her dope and he could keep quiet about it.
    Steve said, “You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. How many cops have gorgeous hair? And almond-y eyes. Maybe you could play the lead.”
    She didn’t speak, wasn’t sure she’d heard right. And wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. She could have sworn he’d just given her a compliment, maybe two, and done it while she was in the middle of being mad at him.
    He said, “You should be at a ball tonight.”
    Skip was embarrassed. She changed the subject, slipping back into her professorial mode and letting the moment pass. “
You
should be. A Carnival ball is like nothing you’ve ever seen. Rex and Comus are held in the Municipal Auditorium, which is divided in half for the occasion. They’re the most important balls, so they’re held on Mardi Gras night.”
    He slipped back with her, once again teacher’s pet. “Do they take the seats out for dancing?”
    “Uh-uh. They sink the stage so it’s flush with the floor, and that’s where they dance. That way no one falls off.”
    “But what about the rest of the place? People dance in an empty auditorium?”
    “Far from it. Spectators spectate.”
    “Do they sell tickets or what?”
    “Perish the thought. You have to be invited. If you’re very special, you get a callout, which means you can dance. But only ladies get callouts.”
    “My head’s spinning.”
    “Okay, it’s like this. If you were invited to Comus, say, you’d have to wear white tie and tails. Or at least black tie. You’d get to sit down and watch a bunch of guys in funny costumes dance with ladies in evening dresses. You might recognize the ladies, but of course all the men would be masked. The ladies with callouts would be seated in a special section. They’re wives and friends of the families of members. They’d just sit there until a member of the floor committee came to escort them to their partners for their one dance—two at the most.”
    “And they wouldn’t even know who the guy was?”
    “If your husband’s partner’s a member, that’s probably who it is. But no one tells you.”
    “So theoretically you wouldn’t even know who you were dancing with.”
    “Right. It’s a little on the