Big Easy Bonanza

As if she wasn’t a cop.
    “Leave my house, please.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m talking about your rudeness and disrespect.”
    For once O’Rourke looked confused; for a split second he wasn’t his usual arrogant self. He said, “Joe?”
    “Skip’s upset. Why don’t I stay with her awhile?”
    “We came in your car. How am I gonna get back to the damn hospital?”
    Tarantino stared him full in the face. “Walk, maybe. It might cool you off.”
    O’Rourke stomped out of the apartment and down the uncarpeted stairs like a herd of buffalo.
    Tarantino turned to Skip. “Like I said. Sometimes the bastard even gets me upset.”
    “He hates me.”
    “Yeah, he really does. But don’t take it personally.”
    Even through the pain, that struck Skip as funny. She started to laugh but found that made the ache worse and stopped, rubbing her head. Catching Joe’s eye, she saw he looked hurt.
    He said, “You know, this is pretty hard for me—with you guys hating each other like this.”
    “Do I provoke it, Joe? Do I even react to it nine-tenths of the time? All I fucking well do is refuse to take any more abuse every third day or so.” Her voice rose with every word; and as it did, the throbbing increased. She ended with a moan.
    “Oh, poor baby,” said Joe, in a voice that bespoke years of tending children. “Let me get you something.” He went into the kitchen, gasped when the skitter of roaches began, and opened the refrigerator.
    While he poked around, Skip tried Steve again. This time no answer.
    Tarantino came back popping the top from a Diet Coke, which he thrust into her hand. “Drink this.”
    “Do you have kids, Joe?”
    “Two.”
    “I thought so. Does Frank?”
    “One. A little girl.”
    “I pity the poor child.”
    Tarantino hunched his shoulders in frustration. “He’s got problems, Skip. I can’t tell you any more. I’m sorry.”
    She leaned over and covered his hand with hers. “Listen, thanks for being on my side just now.”
    “Ahhh—he pissed me off.”
    Skip picked up her purse and counted her money. “Yeah, it’s all here. I didn’t mind counting, I just didn’t want to be ordered to count—you know what I mean?”
    “Sure.”
    “So if I wasn’t robbed, I must have been hit because of something to do with the case—is that your theory?”
    Tarantino nodded. “We think you know more than you’re telling.”
    “I do. I just wanted to hang on to it awhile—I didn’t want you guys to waltz away with it.”
    “Skip, I swear to you, I’ll see you get the credit you deserve.”
    For a moment she felt the distrust she’d decided to abandon. He kept talking. “You’ve got to come clean for your own safety. It looks simple to me. You know something, somebody knows it, they think you’re the only person who knows it, and they tried to take you out. Have you thought about that? Somebody really tried to kill you.”
    She said nothing, wondering whether it was true.
    “Tell me what you know, kid, okay? Let Uncle Joe get you out of this.”
    “I tried to talk about it, and everybody pissed all over it.”
    “You did?”
    “Remember what I said about the secretary?”
    “That’s all it is?”
    “No, there’s a little bit more, but let me sleep on it. Can we talk tomorrow?”
    “Sure.”
    She followed him to the door, and as she was about to close it, she found herself saying, “Joe? Take me somewhere, will you?”
    She was consumed with guilt for having stood Steve Steinman up. Normally she wasn’t even given to guilt, an emotion she considered wimpy at best and self-destructive at worst. But now she felt it, felt the need to be free of it, like a compulsion.
    On the way to Cookie Lamoreaux’s, Tarantino left her alone with her thoughts. The image of herself popped into her mind, pacing her tiny apartment, holding cold cloths to her head, crying, unable to sleep. I’ll go to Jimmy Dee’s, she thought, knowing she needn’t go through that. But the picture of herself sleeping happily in the vast antique bed in Jimmy Dee’s spare bedroom wouldn’t come. Even here she paced and cried. The image told her what the guilt was—a cover for her loneliness and fear.
    Even through the throbbing, there was satisfaction in that. I always knew guilt was phony. And then:
God, what an arrogant bitch!
    The lights were out at Cookie’s rambling old house—an inheritance he couldn’t really afford to maintain. Tarantino said, “You sure you’ll be