House of Blues

just look violent—they are."
    "Have you heard from him, Silky?"
    Sullivan stared at her quizzically. "I'd have
told you if I had."
    " Where do you think he is?"
    " You think I know? I'd go get him if I knew."
    " Tell me about your business arrangement."
    "I put up the money because I had it. We pay
ourselves salaries, but any profit above that goes to me until I'm
paid off. After that we split."
    " How about insurance?"
    She shrugged. "We've got some."
    " Any life insurance?"
    " Life insurance? Why on earth would we need
that?" Skip didn't speak for a moment, and Sullivan apparently
realized the irony of what she'd said. "Oh, God." She
brought one hand to her mouth and bit it.
    When she'd gotten control, she said, "We don't
have life insurance. "
    " Dennis probably knew some pretty questionable
characters when he was using. Maybe you know them too."
    "Are you kidding? I grew up on First Street. I
did my drinking where it was socially acceptable."
    "Did he tell you about his other life? As an
addict?"
    "Not much." Something in her face closed
down.
    " Look, I'm trying to find him."
    " Detective, I can't help you. If I could, I
would, but I really can't. Sober people usually don't talk that much
about that part of their lives—the thing they've left behind."
    " I thought that was what AA meetings were all
about."
    " I could tell you what Dennis went through
emotionally—if that's what you mean. But I wouldn't. We have a
saying: 'What we hear in the rooms stays in the rooms.' "
    "I'm more interested in the people he knew then.
Who he hung out with and where."
    " I'm sorry. I really don't have the least idea."
    Skip handed her a card. "Let me know if you
think of anything?
 
 
    5
    Dennis's parents lived in an old neighborhood near
Mercy Hospital, perfectly respectable but not prestigious—"yatty,"
a friend of Skip's called it; full of the working-class whites known
as "yats" to white-collar New Orleanians.
    The family homestead was a neat house that could have
used paint but wasn't yet an eyesore. It looked as if its owners
cared but had put off painting for a year too many. In the yard were
bushes pruned into roundish shapes, suggesting attention; so the
peeling paint was probably a function of economics. The house was a
bungalow style with trellislike ironwork pillars that held up the
porch. Four steps led to a little waist-high gate of the same
fanciwork—perhaps there had been a dog once, but there was no
barking now, so it seemed an oddly superfluous luxury. At the rear of
the porch there was an old-fashioned screen door. It was a peaceful
structure that reminded Skip of small houses in sleepy country towns.
When she identified herself, Mrs. Foucher drew in her breath.
    " He's dead. Dennis is dead, isn't he?"
    "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten
you. We have no word of him yet. I'm just here to ask you some
questions. I'm trying to find him."
    Mrs. Foucher had a tissue in her hand that she had
squeezed the life out of. She was overweight and her face looked as
if it was probably sad even when no one was missing or dead. "Truly?
I thought he was dead. Milton, I thought he was dead."
    Her husband said, "It's all right, Josie. It's
all right now." He put an arm around her shoulder and turned to
Skip, holding open the screen door. "Come in, dear lady. Permit
me."
    The formal, old-fashioned mode of speech sounded
strange to Skip's ears.
    They're such ordinary white people, she thought. But
the town was full of families like this—some members "white,"
some "black." Mrs. Foucher was the lighter, with
gray-streaked brown hair, and her husband had darkish hair, also
graying, which he wore with a moustache.
    Skip was surprised that both the Fouchers were home,
though it was a Tuesday. Perhaps they were out of work, or one of
them was. Or perhaps Dennis's father had stayed home to await news of
his son. "Could we give you some coffee? You are a blue person,"
Milton said. "I know you understand how Josie feels. We are
happy to have you in our house."
    He used no contractions and he enunciated each word,
speaking in discrete phrases and projecting so strongly that if he'd
been a preacher he could have reached every ear in the congregation
without benefit of microphone. She wondered if he was a lay preacher
who just liked to practice; also whether he was a raving lunatic.
     " A blue person," she ventured. "Is
that what you call a policeman?"
    "Oh, hardly. I would hardly call a young lady a
‘man' of any