Big Easy Bonanza

and he got abusive. That’s it. I haven’t done a damn thing to antagonize him.”
    “You called him an asshole.”
    “Jesus! That was a reaction.”
    “Well, don’t react to him, okay? He’s one of my best men, and I can’t afford to have him upset.”
    “I guess I’ll have to steer clear of him.”
    “Stay on this another day anyway. Get that stuff the guys asked for.”
    He lowered his head to his paperwork, not bothering to dismiss her.
    She liked Duby. He had an easy manner and a diplomatic way about him—it was no wonder he’d come as far in a difficult department as he had. In the dark suits he always wore, he looked more like a lawyer or a banker than a cop. He was a graduate of UNO. Skip was at ease with him because he seemed familiar to her. And because it was his job to put people at ease—difficult people, egos at odds with each other. But what had just happened was blatantly unfair.
    O’Rourke was going to get away with treating her any goddamn way he wanted to just because—face it—he was the more valuable officer. By doing nothing, she was “throwing him off his stride.” Putting herself in Duby’s shoes, she could see his point. In his eyes, O’Rourke was half the team that would eventually break the case. Skip was a harmless fluff of lagniappe the chief had asked for. He didn’t expect anything one way or another from her; but if she got in O’Rourke’s way, however innocently, she was a liability to him. So what she had to do was start looking valuable. She was starting to think she’d made a mistake by keeping LaBelle to herself. And yet, he’d pissed all over her idea about Stelly—it was probably too early to mention LaBelle. All she knew at this point was that Chauncey had some reason to be angry with the woman, certainly not that she’d killed him.
    She sat down at a computer and asked it for LaBelle’s rap sheet. For good measure, she also asked for sheets on Henry, Marcelle, Bitty, Tolliver, and Chauncey. She was looking over the printouts when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
    “Hey, Skip.” It was Tarantino.
    “Hey, Joe.” He smiled and sat down.
    “Listen, don’t pay any attention to Frank. He’s got a bug up his ass.”
    “So I noticed.”
    “It’s not about you. It’s personal problems. Even I can’t stand him right now. Usually he’s a great guy, really.”
    “Frank O’Rourke and Vlad the Impaler.”
    “Who?”
    “Another really great guy. He doesn’t like me, Joe. It’s that simple.”
    “I know, but it’s nothing to do with you.” He looked embarrassed. “It’ll blow over. Give it time.”
    She smiled again. The guy was adorable. “Okay. I’ll try to be nice.” She applied herself to the rap sheets.
    “Whatcha got?” Tarantino looked over her shoulder. Bitty’s sheet was on top, showing several arrests for drunk driving. “You know what? We forgot to get sheets on our four guys.”
    Was he a bit too innocent? She felt wary again. “I can save you the trouble. Chauncey, Marcelle, and Tolliver are completely clean. Bitty’s got this”—she tossed it over—“and Henry got busted for drugs once. Marijuana.”
    She slipped his sheet and LaBelle’s into her purse and stood up. Tarantino said, “Can I see Henry’s sheet?”
    “Sure.” She pulled it out. “Keep it, why don’t you?”
    She didn’t look at LaBelle’s sheet until she was safely outside in her car. Tarantino looked like a doll, but Charles Manson had fooled people too. Anyone that close to Frank O’Rourke couldn’t be all good.
    There were no surprises—just routine busts for prostitution, drugs, and shoplifting.
    Glad it was still daytime, Skip drove to Tremé, to the address Jeweldean Sanders had given her. Except for police officers, not that many white people ventured into Tremé—except to go to the Municipal Auditorium, where the fanciest Mardi Gras balls were held, or to Louis Armstrong Park, but ever since a tourist had been murdered there, there had been fewer carefree park-goers.
    Nothing in the neighborhood seemed to have seen new paint in the current century. When a window broke, which seemed to be often, boarding it up was frequently the best the residents could manage. Except for a few new brick ones, the buildings were as lovely as any others in New Orleans—or would have been if they hadn’t been falling apart.
    There were a lot of people on the street, unemployed people, probably. Skip felt the stench of poverty in the air, its