Big Easy Bonanza

ran into a man holding a go-cup. She couldn’t believe it—a go-cup at a funeral. Something foul-smelling—scotch, probably—splashed all over her suit. When the shock wore off, she stopped staring at the Rorschach on her breast and raised angry eyes to the mischievous blue ones of Cookie Lamoreaux.
    “Sorry, officer.”
    “Cookie, you’re incorrigible,” she whispered.
    “Hi,” said a whispered voice behind her. She turned around to see Steve Steinman, looking supremely uncomfortable in a pair of summer khakis—probably just right for L.A.—tweed jacket, and knit tie. Could the tie be choking him? He certainly looked as if it was. He leaned into her ear and said, “Good to see you. Did you see who’s here? John Hall Pigott. The movie star.”
    She nodded and continued toward Marcelle. Steve followed, catching her arm, nodding to whomever Skip nodded, finally saying, “Where do you want to go?” She pointed toward Marcelle. Steve took her hand and led the way as if he was her date.
    The service ended and they had to go against the tide of people trying to leave. Without being prompted, Steve was acting as a buffer between her and the members of the dread Uptown crowd who were bearing down, wanting to talk small talk, maybe even pump her about the case. He was politely sending them away, drawing Skip toward her goal. This, she thought, must be what it’s like to have a boyfriend—a presentable, socially adept guy you could take out in public, not some married semiliterate. She liked the sensation quite well, and thought,
Well, fine. If he wants to use me, just fine. Right now I’m using him, and I like it a lot.
    “Oh, God,” she said, “faster. There’s my yuppie brother.”
    He pulled her into a sort of clearing. “Marcelle,” she called.
    Marcelle was no longer alone. She was surrounded. But at Skip’s call, she broke away and threw her arms around her. “Oh, Skippy! It’s hard.”
    “I’m so sorry. I know it is.”
    A loud yowl went up—André. Marcelle disappeared, leaving Skip feeling peculiarly touched. She wasn’t sure why she felt so compelled to comfort this woman she hardly knew— and had never really liked—or why Marcelle had responded as if Skip was a close relative.
    Relishing the thought, she relaxed and chatted with old acquaintances now, introducing Steve, feeling oddly proud of having him with her and much more comfortable than usual with these people. The social amenities seemed so much easier to get through when there were two people to do the work. She hoped Tarantino and O’Rourke were getting an eyeful of her in her Uptown element, eating their hearts out, watching her receive earfuls of helpful gossip and red-hot tips. She had a meeting with them that afternoon, and she had no idea what she’d report.
    Steve said, “Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
    “I was supposed to call you!”
    “Forgot, didn’t you? No problem. The Bon Ton, eight o’clock.” He left before she could refuse, using his huge body as a battering ram to get through the crowd.
    She watched her parents, in a knot of their own acquaintances, stare curiously after him. Her father, as usual, glanced away when she looked at him. Her mother’s eyes held big, reproachful tears. Neither of them tried to speak to her.

4
    If it hadn’t been for LaBelle
… For once the simple nurturing act of watering his orchids wasn’t working. Tolliver had started raising them because even mild fiddling with his few houseplants had opened up a new way of feeling to him. It wasn’t like the buying and selling and stroking and worship of antiques, which was stimulating. This was restful. It was like going into a trance, some satisfied place where you could forget what had gone before and just be here, watering these plants, playing in this earth. It wasn’t the sort of thing a sophisticated person talked about in public, but people didn’t mind discussing the blossoms he produced and they frequently used the word “magic” in reference to them, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. Which was, of course, that nothing could have been more basic, more natural, more predictable, and less “magical.” He might have bought “mystical,” but he knew the word wouldn’t come up if he lived to lunch at Galatoire’s on his hundredth birthday.
    Today the magical-mystical process refused to swallow him up. His hands shook and he kept spilling water. He went through the normally loving acts