Big Easy Bonanza

strangling oppressiveness, as dense as smoke over a forest fire.
    LaBelle lived in one of the few newish brick buildings in the neighborhood. This one looked nearly as much like a jail as it did an apartment house. It was a no-frills box with windows so tiny they were hardly worth bothering with. The space that could have been a yard had been paved over for parking. The building next door was burned out.
    Aware of how conspicuous she looked, a white woman in a suit, she rang LaBelle’s doorbell. Getting no answer, she rang the bell belonging to the building manager, the man named Calvin with whom Jeweldean Sanders “did business.” Once again, she got no answer. She wondered whether she could be seen from inside.
    Well, she’d recognize LaBelle if she saw her. She parked her car on North Villere and settled down to wait. Within fifteen minutes she’d been propositioned by two men, warned away by a worried old woman, and panhandled by several children. She was there nearly an hour before the robbery attempt. Three young men surrounded the car and asked for her money. Hell. It was nearly impossible to keep a low profile on the damn street. Reluctant to identify herself as a police officer—and get known in the neighborhood—she simply started the car and took off, narrowly missing one of the would-be highwaymen but wishing in some dark comer of herself that she hadn’t, that she’d hit the son of a bitch.
    Shit. You practically had to be black to do surveillance in the goddamn place. And even that might not help—a lone woman would probably be noticed and approached no matter what she looked like. A couple of guys might work out if they were black and looked as if they were doing something you’d do in a car, like drinking. But much more than an hour, and even they’d be noticed. There were just too many people out and about. Maybe she could talk Calvin into letting her use his apartment. She’d taken his name from his mailbox—Calvin Hogue. She’d see if he had an arrest record. Maybe he could be bargained with.
    For now, though, she couldn’t think of anything else to do. She could hardly go back to North Villere—and anyway, Steve Steinman was expecting her at the Bon Ton. Thinking about it now, she realized she’d never really intended to go; hadn’t thought she could take time out. It looked as if she had no choice, though. And anyway, maybe he’d drive her back to Tremé after dinner. They could see if there was a light in LaBelle’s window.
    Skip doubted she entertained clients there, though. Not if she catered to whites. More likely, she took calls and met them in hotels. Probably even had a beeper so she didn’t have to sit by the phone and wait.
    Back in her apartment, she looked at her watch. Nearly two hours till her date. Plenty of time to primp. Kicking off her shoes, she fell in a heap on the unmade bed. Jesus, a date! Officer Skip Langdon didn’t date. Occasionally she spent a couple of hours drinking with someone with whom she later had sex, but she hadn’t been out to dinner with a nice young man since college. Had she? Well, there had been once in San Francisco….
    It occurred to her to wonder why she lived this way. Was it because of her size? Too tall and too big; not a really great combo for attracting men. But that wasn’t all—she didn’t like the men she knew in New Orleans, the ones she’d known all her life from subscription dances, and there wasn’t anyone else in the whole damn town, except policemen who were wary of her, and married Cajun bartenders. Was that it? Thinking about tonight, the lack of enthusiasm she felt for it, she thought that wasn’t it at all. She just wasn’t in the mood.
    “Yoo-hoo! Officer Darlin’!” It was her landlord and neighbor, Jimmy Dee Scoggin, standing outside her door doing his come-hither falsetto.
    Smiling, she opened up. “Dee-Dee Doll, it’s been forever.”
    He swept past her, handing her a joint as he walked. He was about five feet nine, spare, and already gray. The way he lived, he’d come by his hair color honestly. “Well, look at us, just
do.
God, that’s an awful outfit. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
    Closing the door, Skip stared at the joint in her hand, trying to make up her mind. “I
have
been to a funeral, Do-Do.” Oh hell, why not? Shrugging, she took a toke and passed the joint back to Jimmy Dee.
    He lay down on her bed. “Oh. Chauncey St. Amant’s, I guess. Well, la-di-da.