Big Easy Bonanza

Club. Somethin’ nasty anyway. I b’leeve it’s the Do-It Club. Do-It’s the name I seem to remember—Lord help me.” Her voice was draggy and tired and a little scratchy.
    Skip knew the Do-It Club as well as she knew any of the hole-in-the-wall clip joints on Bourbon Street. It employed the usual near-nude dancers whose faces said they’d rather be in Philadelphia, and LaBelle, from Sheree Izaguirre’s description, sounded perfect for the part.
    Skip looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. A little early for the Do-It Club, and she was hungry, the three o’clock muffuletta having finally worn off. In her one food cupboard (the minuscule kitchen had two, but she kept dishes in the other) there was a can of tuna packed in water and another of split pea soup. Since there was no bread for a tuna sandwich, it had to be the soup. She wanted a beer with it but didn’t dare smell beery for the meeting to come—a possible meeting with a murderer, she thought with a little thrill. This could really be it. Could she eat with this much adrenaline pumping? Yes, but she couldn’t taste.
    Did she have to change clothes again? She supposed so. She might have to make an arrest, and it would be tacky to do it in jeans—give the department a bad name. She changed again into the slacks and blazer, tucked her gun into her purse. It was still early, but too bad, she was too nervous to wait any longer.
    Seen from the street, the Do-It Club was a black gash in the wall, lit occasionally by the harshness of a spotlight shining on naked, fatigued flesh—merely another money-maker being shaken, business as usual on the tawdriest street in the country. If you looked closer, you saw a runway for the dancers, a bar, a few miserable tables—at some hours, a crowd of party animals as well, barking and pawing the ground and howling at the moon.
    Skip elbowed past the surprised-looking young barker. Jesus, the place was the eighth circle of hell. It smelled like spilt, sour beer, weeks-old vomit, urine, sweat, and filthy concoctions from the Tourist Trap School of Bartending. And that was before you even got to the smoke. What was it the EPA talked about? Ambient air? This air was ambulatory. To her horror, Skip started coughing.
    “What’ll it be? “ asked the bartender. “You know how many people come in here and start coughing?”
    “About fifty percent, I guess.”
    “About seventy-five. You a cop or what?” Skip stared at him. He was about six inches shorter than she was and a couple of years younger. He was olive-skinned with dark eyes, and he had a very specific accent—not an accent so much as an inflection—kind of a nasal monotone. He wore a blue Oxford cloth shirt.
    “I might be,” she said. “You went to Holy Name, Jesuit, and now Loyola. Right?”
    He gave her five, a gesture she hated. “Hey! Awright! Now I know your rank. Detective, huh?”
    “Uh-uh. I’m one of those psychics the cops keep on staff to find bodies and things. Here’s how you pegged me—the only women who’ve ever been in here have either been cops, hookers, or drunken tourists. I’m dressed wrong for a hooker and I’m sober, so I must be a cop.”
    “The atmosphere in here’s interfering with your psychic powers.” He leaned over the bar. “Officer, your purse is open.”
    Skip’s hand flew to close it, one finger lightly brushing the exposed gun. “Thanks. Jesus, that could have really been trouble. Let me buy you a drink, okay? By the way, I’m Skip Langdon.”
    “Eddie Macaluso. You want a drink too?”
    “Just a Coke, please.”
    “I’m going to have to advise you against that.”
    “Against Coke? Are you a health freak or something?”
    “You can have it, but I’ve still got to charge you seven-fifty for it.”
    “Good God. Give me a Dixie.”
    “Seven-fifty for that too.” He shrugged and waved at the dancer of the moment. “Hey, you’re paying for the show.” He gave her the Coke she’d ordered originally; she tasted rum in it, decided she didn’t know what to make of Eddie Macaluso, and pushed it away.
    For the moment, she watched the overweight redhead in the leopard G-string. The woman had stretch marks on her pendulous breasts and probably track marks on her arms. From the looks of her watery eyes, her brain had taken a quick trip to the outer ring of Saturn, where it was finding no more joy than in the noisome confines of the Do-It Club.
    She turned back to the bartender. “Eddie, tell me