Crescent City Connection

to wince. “But I take your meaning. Yeah. I’m okay.”
    “It didn’t bring back…”
    “It did. How could it not? But it was LaSalle, Sylvia. Not me. I watched him do it, and I knew he had to do it. It’s a different deal. You know?”
    “I needed to check.”
    “I appreciate that.”
    “I hear you were good with the kid.”
    “Sometimes you get a second chance.”
    Skip’s leave of absence had involved a shooting as well; but the dead man had a daughter, who witnessed it.
    Skip could work now; she no longer had nightmares, nor saw the girl in every child who crossed her path. Today she’d proven she no longer fell apart at shootings where there were children.
    But she was glad Cappello hadn’t asked if she was depressed. She was. She didn’t think she’d be human if she wasn’t.
    And it wasn’t only about Herbert. There was hardly a thing about the day that wasn’t depressing. She couldn’t wait to get home.
    She frowned. Actually, there were certain things about home that depressed her as well. One thing, anyway. A big thing, about a hundred and fifty pounds’ worth.
    It barked as she approached. Barked and snarled.
    “Napoleon, take it easy, boy. Come on, now, I’m your pal.” In a pig’s eye.
    At least the dog didn’t come any closer.
    He belonged to Steve Steinman, her long-distance sweetheart, who was visiting from California. Steve yelled down from the balcony. “Napoleon! Take it easy, boy.” The dog shut up and wagged his tail.
    Skip said, “You’re a dog magician.”
    “He likes people who like him.”
    “Don’t be mean. I feel awful.”
    “Be right down. Napoleon—stay.” But as soon as Steve stepped from Skip’s slave quarters into the courtyard, Napoleon leaped up lovingly, spilling the beer he’d brought for Skip.
    “Dammit. Maybe you’re right about this creature.” His T-shirt was soaked.
    “Napoleon! Hey, boy! Hey, boy. Come on.” Thirteen-year-old Kenny Ritter had dashed out of the Big House that also opened on the courtyard. “Want to go for a walk? Steve, can I take him for a walk?”
    “Please do,” said Skip. “Across I-10.”
    “Oh, Auntie.”
    “Now here’s my baby.” Angel, a black and white fluffball, frolicked at Kenny’ s heels. Napoleon sniffed at her rear end. Skip said, “You leave her alone or I’ll kill you,” and Kenny smiled, used to her. He left with the dogs.
    Steve said, “Cappello just called. She said either call her back right away or just watch the news.”
    “That’s weird.” Skip plopped into a dark green patio chair. “I think I’ll opt for the news.”
    “I was hoping you’d say that.” He massaged her neck.
    “That’s better. I swear to God that’s better.”
    “We’re here to serve.”
    “How about you go be a cop for a while.”
    “Uh-uh. I’d rather watch you suffer.” He was a filmmaker who’d become a film editor but never got over his first love. Right now he was back in New Orleans working on what was getting to be a long-term project: a documentary about kids who’d been shot—and, as Skip liked to say, the kids who shot them.
    “You came to the right place. I’ve had a hell of a day.”
    “Can you tell me about it?”
    Sometimes she couldn’t, but this was different.
    “Why not? It’ll be on page one tomorrow.”
    When she had finished, he looked worried. “You … uh … dealing with this okay?”
    “You sound like Cappello.” There was a reason for it. She’d had a near breakdown after shooting the man who tried to kill her.
    She patted Steve’s knee, trying to reassure him. “Yeah, I’m dealing with it fine. Except, of course, for the part about the grandma. That gets to me.”
    “Do you ever think about Shavonne?” Shavonne was the little girl who’d watched Skip blow her daddy away.
    “Oh, yeah. I don’t even want to stop thinking about her—I don’t think it’d be right to forget. I mean, I don’t dream now—don’t look so worried—but I try to keep tabs on her. I check up on her now and then, sometimes even …” she hesitated.
    “What?”
    “You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”
    “Tell me.”
    “Oh, well. If you’re here long enough you’ll find out anyway. I take her little presents sometimes. Little surprises—anonymously, of course.”
    “You’re right. I think you’re crazy.”
    Skip felt her face get hot. She said nothing.
    “But crazy good, of course. Crazy in a very sweet way.”
    “You really think it’s nuts?”
    “Of course not.