House of Blues

those. I've spent a
little time with him now." She shook her head again. "I
don't know. I just don't know."
    "Hey, you're fadin'; talk to me."
    "It's some black, dark feeling, like the worst
has already happened. I get it when I'm around him. I even get it
when I think about him."
    "Ah. Depression."
    "Not depression. More like pure evil."
    Abasolo gave her a squinty-eyed look and didn't speak
for a while.
    Finally he said, "Maybe we should go back to
gardening."
    She felt slightly betrayed. "You asked."
    They were getting near New Orleans East now. This was
where she thought Delavon had met her the time he had her kidnapped.
But they weren't on the way to the pleasure dome, or whatever it was.
Augustine Melancon had specifically said it was a house, the house in
which Delavon lived. Probably he had a stash house somewhere as well.
    Skip had asked questions about the house—who lived
there, how big it was—but Melancon didn't know. He said when he
picked up Delavon, he waited in the car. That was all he knew. The
part of New Orleans East where they were going was a neighborhood in
decline. It boasted blocks and blocks of scuzzy condos and lots of
brick fourplexes with barred windows. Some of the condos were so
poorly constructed they were literally falling apart. In some cases,
trim that had fallen off lay on the ground; in others, gutters hung
down.
    The condos were disheartening, but downright
heartbreaking were the tiny, neat little houses that were also
falling apart—and also barred. It was hard to picture Delavon in
one of these. Skip imagined the occupants as honest, hardworking
people—postal employees perhaps, laborers, hospital workers—beset
by neighborhood conditions they could do nothing about.
    Drug dealers in the Superstore parking lot, and in
the doorways of the condos.
    The flash of gunfire at night.
    Terror that the kids would end up in gangs, or on
drugs. Dead.
    But the fact that Delavon lived in one put a
different light on it. Maybe they were all the tidy, prim lairs of
vicious criminals who emanated the evil that had so spooked her in
Delavon's presence. In that case, who watered the lawns and took care
of the flowers?
 
She pulled up in
front of a red brick one, so tiny it looked like the prototype for
the one in the three pigs story, snug and impervious to lupine
huffing and puffing.
    It had a well—kept lawn and beds in which zinnias
and marigolds flaunted themselves like drag queens. In the back there
were very likely sweet peas and vegetables. Probably the lady of the
house sent one of the kids out every Sunday to get a couple of ripe
tomatoes, maybe some cucumbers as well, to slice up for lunch, to go
with the chicken and the rice and the fresh peas and the fresh corn,
and all the other vegetables she'd prepared.
    What lady? What am I thinking?
    It was as if she'd fallen into a trance, forgotten
what she'd come for.
    Abasolo said, "How do you want to play it?"
    " It's your call."
    He shook his head. "You're the one who knows
him."
    "Okay. We should use that. I'll knock. You stay
a little behind me. If he comes to the door, we take him. If he
doesn't, we play it by ear."
    "By ear's fine. Love by ear to death." She
glanced at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but she saw only a
long-legged, languid, utterly relaxed, precision-tuned cop. The sight
made her feel better. She removed her gun from her purse and put it
in her pocket.
    The uniforms were waiting for them. Abasolo sent one
to the back, told the other to stay in front.
    It was nearly ten o'clock. The house was well—lit
and she could hear the drone of a television.
    She banged on the door.
    A little girl opened it, smiling. Her face fell when
she saw Skip. She was about seven, wearing pink jeans, a Little
Mermaid T-shirt, and rubber thongs. "I thought you were Uncle
Eric," she said.
    " I'm here to see your daddy."
    " My daddy don't know you." Good smells
wafted out the door—dinner smells, a couple of hours old.
    " Shavonne. Shavonne, who's that?" called a
female voice, and then an older woman stepped into view.
    She was overweight and her hair had a white streak in
it, but her skin was unlined, her face round and strong, her heavy
breasts waiting pillows for anyone needing a hug. She held herself
with dignity, and could have been the model for a statue of an
African deity; Yemaya perhaps.
    Skip felt a tug in her chest. This woman looked as if
she taught Sunday school. More women's voices fluttered softly on the
air,