Death Before Facebook

Dee would come charging through the door and hand her one, right about now. But of course there was no smoking at Chez Scoggin anymore—Jimmy Dee didn’t know all that much about being a parent, but he had caught on that you didn’t do drugs around the kids.
    She was meeting Cindy Lou for dinner in a few minutes. She put on black leggings and a long green sweater that she felt matched her eyes. She thought Jimmy Dee might approve if he was still in the mode of barging in to dress her when she went out.
    She felt as if she looked pretty good, pretty damned acceptable, till she saw Cindy Lou, who had on jeans, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. People at the restaurant were whispering to each other, trying to remember what show they’d seen her on. Skip knew because it happened all the time. Sometimes they waited till Cindy Lou went to the ladies’ room and then they buttonholed Skip: “Who is that woman you’re with? I’ve seen her in commercials, but she’s got her own show now, doesn’t she?”
    When they were seated (which didn’t take long; the maitre d’ seemed as friendly as anyone with a star on the premises), Cindy Lou said, “Have you heard from Steve?”
    “I’ve heard a little too much from him.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I don’t think he’s going to be moving to New Orleans. He’s sort of hinting around that things are really great in L.A. right now.” She didn’t meet her friend’s eye, but sneaked a peek to see if she looked alarmed.
    She didn’t. “Well, good. When he gets here, he’ll have some money.”
    “Hey. Whose side are you on?”
    “He’ll be here. The guy’s crazy about you.”
    Skip didn’t answer. If a guy was crazy about you, he didn’t get your hopes up and then disappoint you. Did he? But she didn’t feel like arguing. “You’re the shrink.”
    “I mean it you know. This guy is a gem. Things happen with people. Maybe he can’t move here now, and that’s just bad timing—nothing to do with his level of commitment. You’re thinking about that, aren’t you? I know you.”
    Skip nodded.
    “Give it some time, girl. You’re disappointed and therefore you’re pissed and I don’t blame you—I would be too. But do me a favor, okay? Count to ten. Give things time to shake down.”
    Skip was pissed and not only at Steve.
Little Miss Shrinky-Poo
, she thought. How dare she? The way she runs her life.
    Cindy Lou caught her look. “Oh, chill out—the music’ll do you good.”
    It was true. She knew it, and when they walked into The Blue Guitar, one of the hot new spots that were popping up like weeds in the warehouse district, she was like a teenager again—a person who hadn’t yet settled on murder as a career.
    Jeez. Think about it. Murder as a career. Cindy Lou’s right, it takes more out of me than I think.
    In her younger days (which weren’t all that far away) she’d spent a lot of time in joints like this, swigging illegal Dixie and listening to the blues, which, she believed, had been invented just for her. Nothing else so perfectly described her miserable little life; and nothing could make her feel so alive.
    She wished Sheila were old enough for this.
    Cindy Lou said, “Let’s get a couple of Abitas and grab those spots over there.”
    It was the kind of place where you stood, preferably as close to the stage as possible.
    “Make mine a Dixie.”
    “Hey, good-lookin’.”
    Skip felt herself grabbed from behind. A strange black man had his arm around her.
    She was tensing up, about to give him the shove he deserved when something rang a bell. “Tyrone?”
    “Ms. Skip? Officer Skip?”
    “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
    “How’m I going to forget you? There we are playing the JazzFest, biggest crowd we ever had, we’re trying to figure out what we did right, and you come onstage tryin’ to arrest us all.”
    She laughed. That hadn’t been what happened at all, but she was pleased to be remembered.
    “Are you talking to the famous Tyrone Boucree?” Cindy Lou had gotten the beers and now handed one to Skip. She turned her full wattage on him.
    “Cindy Lou Wootten, Tyrone Boucree.”
    “Buy you a beer?” said Cindy Lou.
    “Well, no, I think Skip owes me one after nearly scaring me to death at JazzFest. In fact, I think she ought to buy the whole band a round.”
    “I would, but half of them are underage.”
    “I’ll have a Dixie,” he said.
    Skip turned to get his beer, knowing perfectly well he just