Big Easy Bonanza

psychotherapy toward one end and one end only—the reversal of the son’s theckthual preferenthe.” He did the spitting viper again, turning on Tubs and actually spewing saliva at her.
    “Bravo, Sir Larry—”
    “Lord Larry.”
    “Lord Larry. Or whoever you are. Joanne Woodward, maybe, in
The Three Faces of Eve.
So I take it you murdered your father to get him off your back.”
    “Of course not. It would have been to save my portion of the St. Amant fortune before he could make good on his terrifying threat.”
    “To disinherit you.”
    Henry nodded.
    “Tell me, how long had he been making the threat?”
    “Oh, ten or twelve years, I guess.” He kept his voice nonchalant, not wanting her catching on to when he was serious and when he wasn’t.
    “So. Did you kill him?”
    “How could I? I was at the Boston Club.”
    “I thought you took a walk. No one saw you for a while. About half an hour, as a matter of fact. Plenty of time.”
    “How would I get through the crowds?”
    “Tell me something, Henry—how did you get to the Boston Club in the first place?”
    “Drove. You wouldn’t expect the small but regal Bitty St. Amant to walk, would you?”
    “But you live here in the Quarter—you could easily have walked.”
    “I picked up my mother so we could all go together.”
    “Picked her up?”
    He sighed impatiently. “I walked there and drove her car back. Passengers were my mother, sister, and Tolliver Albert.”
    “And where’d you park?”
    “The bank parking lot—Dad’s space.”
    “The bank is about two blocks away from the Boston Club. And well off the parade route. Right?”
    “Right.”
    “So all you’d have to do was lift your mother’s keys—you had to get the key to Tolliver’s apartment anyway—shoulder your way through two blocks of crowds, and drive down any street but St. Charles. Is that right?”
    “Are you saying I did?”
    “Asking, Henry. I’m asking if you did.”
    “Well, what gives you the fucking right to ask?”
    She fumbled in her purse for her badge, held it up, and grinned that superior grin of hers. “You’ve forgotten I’m a civil servant?”
    “You’re not on this case. I’ve talked to the guys who are—O’Rourke and Tarantino.”
    “Oh, but I am on the case. O’Rourke, Tarantino, and Langdon. We’re a team. Call them up if you don’t believe me.”
    Why the hell had he let her in? The idea of shocking her with his outfit suddenly seemed incredibly childish. At least now his question was answered—he knew why she was asking about LaBelle, which, goddammit, she was doing again.
    “O’Rourke, Tarantino, and I were wondering if you know a LaBelle Doucette.”
    ”Never heard of her—”
    “Yes?”
    God! He’d almost said, “Never heard of her black ass.”
Watch your honky ass, Henry.
    “Maybe you’ve seen her, then.” Skip described her.
    “Uh-uh. Who is she?”
    “Someone who visited your father both at home and at work. I can’t tell you anything more than that.”
    “Because you don’t know or because you don’t want to?”
    She shrugged. God, he hated cops.
    She said: “Do you know what a Colt 44.40 is?”
    “A gun, I presume.”
    “An old one. And your father had a gun collection. I’m wondering if he owned a couple.”
    “You’re asking me? The homo—”
    “—theckthual?” she spat, along with him. “Stupid idea. Right. I’ll bet you don’t know anything about baseball either.”
    “Will that be all, officer?”
    She stood up. “I think so. And I’d like to thank you for your cooperation. See you in church.”
    She strode to the door and left without throwing him so much as a glance.
    See you in church? Shit!
    He looked at his watch. Double shit. He hiked up his skirt and started unfastening his garters, fumbling in his haste. Fuck Tubs Langdon and the cellulite she walked in on. He had a run in his goddamn silk stockings.
    Was there time for a drink before the funeral? There would have to be. They couldn’t start without him anyway. His hands were still shaking as he got out the ice and other stuff for a vodka martini. He tossed half of it down in a swallow and shook his head to clear it.
    There. Better. He had twenty minutes to get into a suit and up to Bitty’s house. Carefully now, he began to unfasten his other stocking and apply himself to the new problem as well. LaBelle. How the hell did Tubs know about LaBelle? Could Marcelle have told her? But how could she know? He didn’t think his