Big Easy Bonanza

political.”
    “Oh, I know I said that. I just wish I believed it. But listen, there might be a chance—maybe this woman didn’t kill Daddy and if she didn’t, Skippy…”
    Marcelle thought she might cry. She caught her breath and held it a second. “Oh, Skippy, listen, if it wasn’t her, can you please, please keep it secret—about her, I mean?”
    “Secret? I don’t understand.”
    “From the newspapers, I mean. Oh, please, please. Because, Skippy, listen, it wasn’t just that he was having an affair, it was something else. Something I wish you could be real, real discreet about.”
    “I’ll do the best I can. What is it?”
    “She was black.”
    Chauncey St. Amant, friend of the downtrodden, had sexually exploited a young black woman. Marcelle had been living with it for weeks. She was disappointed in her father, certainly, but ultimately she thought what he did to relieve the terrible despair of living with Bitty was his own business.
    However, public knowledge of such a liaison would make a laughingstock of her father’s memory. She thought it ironic that in the 1980s, interracial love affairs bore more stigma than they had in the 1800s. And in Chauncey’s case, there was much more than snickering at stake. Marcelle had admired her father for his courageous stand on racial matters more than for anything else.
    Yet she was glad she’d told Skip. Chauncey’s less tangible contributions—the subtle ones having to do with reshaping attitudes—might be in jeopardy. But surely nothing could undo his real work—his affirmative action program, his support of the arts, the things that had helped actual individuals whom one could know and talk to. Nothing could change the election of Furman Soniat.

The Woman
    SKIP LEFT FEELING slightly giddy at having stumbled so easily into Marcelle’s confidence. She remembered what Ring Laidner had once said about Ash Wednesday—that he felt like “Rex in a state of Comus”—and smiled. She had never felt more alive. There was something about death that was different from the little deaths of alcohol and drugs—it didn’t numb you out, it made you operate on all cylinders.
    She was pretty sure she could find Chauncey’s mistress. Of course the two stars, O’Rourke and Tarantino, probably could too, but she’d gotten the tip and she could run it down faster because she knew people. She was exhilarated. She wanted to do this by herself, not as third wheel on the team, and she could. She felt it. She’d do it today, but first she needed to go to headquarters to check out a few things—and make sure the stars understood that she was really on this thing. Also, she needed to make friends with them—she didn’t know these guys at all except by name.
    O’Rourke was fortyish and a heartthrob—sandy hair, cute mustache, nice buns. Married to a sergeant who worked in sex crimes. He seemed a little on the taciturn side.
    Tarantino was ten years older, give or take. He was dark, clean-shaven, and overweight in that peculiar pear-shaped New Orleans way—giant shoulders, chest and belly (with emphasis on the belly), but regular-size legs and arms, un-fat face. She didn’t know if it was in the genes or what, but half the men in town were built like that.
    They were there—both of them—when she arrived. Tarantino rose and shook hands. “Skip. Glad to have you. We can use another hand.”
    Not to be outdone, O’Rourke rose too. “Good to see you, Langdon.” He’d been to church—still had a smear of ashes on his forehead.
    “I’ve been at the St. Amants’,” Skip said. “I thought we could bring one another up to date.”
    Tarantino said, “Good idea. Sit down, sit down.” He waved at an empty desk. “Use Chuck Bennett’s desk, why don’t you? He’s on sick leave.”
    Skip sat. “The clothes are a wash,” Tarantino continued. “Anyone could have gotten them anywhere. But they probably came from one of those cheap stores near the flea market—or at least the skirt might have. It’s new, but all the cheap stores have it. Same with the wig and gloves. A guy at one of the costume stores remembered the shirt, but they had it three years ago.”
    “What size are they?”
    “Good question.” He shrugged his mammoth shoulders. “Medium. The shirt’s literally a man’s medium, and the skirt’s a twelve, which I’m told would probably fit a fairly hefty woman or a medium guy. And it wouldn’t have to fit—you could leave it open in the