Big Easy Bonanza

taking her eyes off the street, determined somehow to psyche out the person’s presence.
    “Get in!” His voice was urgent. “There he is!”
    A car was pulling out of a place no more than a few yards ahead, burning rubber. She knew in an instant what had probably happened. He had rolled under his car to the street side and crouched to open the door, which he’d fixed not to trigger an inside light. She had simply been looking away when he slid carefully into the driver’s seat.
    Skip jumped into Steve’s car, now so furious (at herself more than Steve), so full of adrenaline, and so caught up in her mission that the consequences of a high-speed chase in a private car didn’t even occur to her.
    Shitfire, he was fast. He led them around absurd twists and turns that got him only as far as North Rampart before he was stopped by a light. He turned left and then right onto Elysian Fields. Here in the Marigny was a good place to force him off the road. Steve tried, but the guy was nervy and fast enough, he apparently thought, to lose them in the labyrinth of small twisty streets here. He turned right onto Burgundy and then the wrong way on Frenchmen Street. They nearly hit a car at Washington Square Park.
    Skip held her breath until they were on Esplanade again, going toward City Park, a straight shot. She knew their quarry wouldn’t keep going straight for long, but she hoped he would until they could catch him at a light. She had a feeling lights were going to be his Waterloo. He was stopped at one now.
    Undaunted, he went back across Rampart into Tremé and turned right onto North Claiborne, obviously meaning to get on the expressway. And if he made it they were dead. Damn! He did make it, with a U-turn on Touro. The ramp here went on forever, and tilted; the way Steve was driving Skip felt as if she was on a carnival ride, sweaty palms and all.
    “What the hell,” said Steve, “are we going to do if we catch him?”
    “Radio for help?” She let a beat pass. “Oops, forgot—wrong car.”
    Steve’s face was set, and he didn’t answer. She was glad she had been flip. There was something about this long ramp that was helping her recover her equilibrium, both within herself and in her relationship with Steve. In this situation he had to know who was boss—it could save both their lives.
    She said in a softer voice, “We may be able to force him off the road—it was good that you tried that on Elysian Fields. Frankly, it’s probably our best shot.”
    “I’m glad you know what you’re doing.” She saw that perspiration was running down his nose. His adrenaline rush was wearing off.
    “Are you okay?” she said.
    “Fine.”
    But she wasn’t sure he was. To calm him, she continued to talk. “What kind of car do you think that is?”
    “Top-of-the-line Toyota—I forget what they call it. About an ’85, I think.” His voice was coming back stronger now that they were in an area where be felt competent.
    She said, “You didn’t get a glimpse of the license plate, did you?”
    He shook his head, apparently reluctant to continue, wanting only to concentrate on his driving. He was beginning to feel like a weight to Skip—she supposed this was some version of “smelling fear.” But she knew it would do no good to try to persuade him to abandon the chase, and he wasn’t yet so frightened he would make bad decisions.
    They flew past the LSU Medical Center, past the Superdome, and onto South Claiborne. Suddenly the Toyota turned onto Washington and they were going through the projects. It seemed so quiet here, so desolate somehow. Skip shivered, suspecting she had a touch of white paranoia, something that hadn’t even touched her in Tremé. She wondered if the driver ahead was experiencing it too—or if he was even white. Steve floored the accelerator, but still the Toyota kept well ahead. They were on Washington for miles, it seemed, and then the Toyota hit a light. In keeping with his strategy, the driver turned left, onto St. Charles.
    Skip couldn’t stand it. “This is absurd!” she screamed.
    “What’s absurd?” Steve spoke softly, as if trying to calm a hysteric.
    Oh, great. Now he seemed back in control, and the way he’d gotten there was to imagine he had to be masculine and take care of a woman who was losing it. “Don’t be so condescending,” she said. “I’m not losing it. I’m just frustrated. Don’t you see what we’re doing? We’re going back