Big Easy Bonanza

the last minute, and rushed out still pulling on whatever garment she’d chosen instead.
    Skip went back to North Villere. The burned-out house was going to have to be her surveillance post. But it was boarded up and removing the boards was bound to draw attention. She circled it, hoping to find a window that couldn’t be seen from the street. When she found it, it was obvious someone had been there before her. Looking in, she saw they were still there—three teenage kids dividing up a haul of ones and fives.
Shit!
They’d probably just knocked over the corner bar. She could call for backup, but that would draw attention she didn’t need.
    Through the window she said, “Hey, Frito banditos—where’d you get the green stuff?”
    They looked up slowly, cool and aloof as cats. One of them had on an orange T-shirt. He said, “We run a stud service, mama. You want a poke?”
    She held up her badge, “Try again, stud.”
    “Uh—lemonade stand?”
    His two buddies collapsed in giggles.
    “Shut up!”
    Silence.
    “What are your names?”
    “James Guyton.”
    “Albert Tree.”
    Orange-shirt said, “Ralph Leonard.”
    “James. How much money is that?”
    James wore a baseball hat turned backwards. He looked at the floor like the baby he still was. “Eighty-fi’ dollar.”
    “Where’d you get it?”
    “We sold somethin’.”
    “What?”
    “Somethin’.”
    She yelled, “What, goddammit?”
    Ralph said, “Keep quiet, James.” He started to walk toward Skip, who was leaning in the window. She pointed her gun. “Freeze.”
    Ralph stopped and very slowly put his hands up. “Hey. I wadn’t gon’ do nothin’.”
    “Stand back. Okay, who’s got some ID?”
    James Guyton threw her a driver’s license. “Good. You still live at this address?” He nodded. She put the license in her pocket. “Okay, guys, here’s the deal. You’re not going to jail, and you’re keeping the money. If you stole it, mail it back. You’ve got three days. If I hear about any $85 robbery in this neighborhood and the money doesn’t get returned, I’m coming after you. Understand?”
    They nodded, mystified but smart enough to humor an oversized woman with a gun. “If I don’t hear anything, I mail the license back. That’s what I’m doing for you. Now here’s what you’re doing for me. Kick out that window over there, leave through it, and don’t come back.”
    “Then what?” said Albert Tree.
    “Behave yourselves and don’t get in any more trouble.”
    Ralph asked, “That’s it?”
    “That’s it.”
    Without stopping for further conversation, they followed instructions. The window she made them kick out had been boarded up and now provided a pretty fair view of LaBelle’s building. Sitting on the floor across the room, chin tilted up, she could just see the door. The scorched smell of the place was god-awful.
    She tried sitting with legs folded, legs jack-knifed, in the lotus position, and hugging her knees. She stretched, paced and did toe touches. She watched a near-violent domestic argument and what could only have been a drug deal. She saw three fairly young children go into the building and one older man. She would have killed for a Coke. After a while, the rumblings of her stomach were louder than the street noise.
    The need to urinate was what finally made her leave. She knew a million stories about stakeouts that had gone awry when the cop looked away long enough to tie his shoe or something; she also knew what her orders were. But she was damned if she was going to drop her jeans and pee in a corner of a burned-out house.
    While she was out she had a hamburger and came back ready for another few hours of hell. First she looked in LaBelle’s window, just to make sure she hadn’t returned. The sweater was still on the bed. She rang the bell, got no answer, and rang Calvin Hogue’s. A male voice came over the intercom. “Yeah?”
    “Police,” she said.
    The man who met her at the door was fortyish, wearing an undershirt and khaki pants. He had a scar on his right cheek and eyes with yellow whites.
    “Jeweldean Sanders tells me you know LaBelle Doucette.”
    “Know her to see her, tha’s all. She pay the rent on time.”
    “Has she lived here long?”
    “Six months, maybe. She travel a lot, though. She be gone a lot anyway. I think she works conventions, tell you the truth.”
    “She must be doing well.”
    He shrugged. “She still live in this dump.”
    “Does she ever have any