Death Before Facebook

wanted some time to stare at Cindy Lou.
    When she came back, he said, “Did y’all come to see us?”
    “Uh-uh. We thought the Nevilles were here.”
    “When our lead singer grows up a little, we’re going to give them a run for their money. Right now, it’s kind of hard, playing in places where they serve alcohol.” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Uh-oh, I gotta go do it. Y’all stick around. I’ll buy you a beer.” He went off toward stardom.
    “Cindy Lou, he’s married, and not only that, he’s Joel Boucree’s father and Joel’s Melody’s best friend.”
    Melody was a kid from another case, a kid toward whom Skip felt extremely protective.
    “You don’t get it about me. When I say I have bad taste in men, I mean abysmal. Tyrone Boucree is preceded by his reputation; the nicest guy in town, right? I think New Orleans Magazine singled him out.” She wrinkled up her nose.
    “Was that the problem with the Saint?”
    “God, no.” She shrugged. “Maybe shrinking other people’s taking its toll. I’m just kind of tired of the game, that’s all.”
    “Have you got a radio or anything? I’ve got to get a weather report.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I think hell just froze over.”
    Cindy Lou turned slightly away, to hide her smile, Skip saw, and the band started up. The two women edged closer to the stage. For the next hour and a half, Skip was in a trance, moving with the music, part of the human motion machine that now filled the club, forever swelling, bouncing and bobbing, jukin’ and jivin’, in a collective world of its own.
    Cindy Lou was right. She did feel better.
    “That was fabulous.”
    “Let’s go outside.”
    The Blue Guitar boasted a courtyard, a place where you could sit and talk and cool off. Even in November, it felt good.
    “Omigod, look over there.” Skip pointed at the bar.
    “What?”
    “Melody. Buying a beer.”
    “She’s only seventeen, huh?”
    “Not even that—unless she didn’t invite me to her birthday party.”
    “So what are you going to do? Bust her?”
    “I’ve got to do something.” She started walking. “Melody!” The girl tried to hide her beer. “Haven’t you heard? There’s cops in here.”
    Melody gave her a wan smile. “Hey, Skip.”
    “Come on. Let’s have a hug.”
    She got one, a warm one, except for the cold bottle that pressed against her back.
    “Haven’t seen you since…”
    “July.”
    Skip had taken her a small gift. She wanted to stay in touch, but wasn’t sure how to do it. “Hey, do you babysit?”
    “Not much. Why?”
    “I’ve got kids now.” She told her about Jimmy Dee and his two wards.
    “Wow, weird. Can I meet them?”
    “Sure. I’ll call you. I’ve got to tell you something, though. You’re breaking the law.”
    Melody flushed.
    “Who’re you here with?”
    “Some friends from school.”
    “You’re all breaking the law.”
    “We have to leave, huh?”
    “It’s a school night, anyway.”
    “Can’t I stay a minute? Just to introduce my friends to the guys?” The Boucrees.
    “Honey, I’m a police officer. What if you said, ‘Can’t I just rob that old guy over there?’ ”
    “It’s not the same thing.” She started to pout.
    Skip was miserable. Here was a kid she was crazy about, about to impress her friends by knowing the Boucrees, and instead she was getting them thrown out of the club. Skip truly felt for her. But before she could say a word, a genie appeared out of nowhere—a coffee-colored one, tall and reedy, about thirty or thirty-two, with close-cropped hair and a pair of eyes that didn’t miss a thing. But still, they were soft, kind eyes; eyes that could take a joke and give one back. She’d noticed him onstage and been impressed.
    “Hey, Melody. I’m s’posed to be lookin’ for this big good-lookin’ tall woman. Wouldn’t be this one, would it?”
    Skip liked his looks, his wiry energy, but she hated lines; obvious, unimaginative lines, at any rate. “Not unless you’re giving away money,” she snapped.
    “Is your name Skip? You’re supposed to be with a bourbon and Diet Coke.”
    “I beg your pardon?’
    “A skinny little black bitch. ’Scuse my French; I used to be a bartender.” As if that cleared it up.
    He was looking at Skip now, and his expression had changed. “I mean, I didn’t mean your friend’s a bitch. It’s just a… you know… bartender humor.”
    “Oh.” She couldn’t decide whether to continue being outraged