House of Blues

intimidate.
Skip read it as a simple loss of temper.
    " You know how I got here." She couldn't
bring herself to say the word kidnap. "Who's messing with who?"
    Delavon sat up on his makeshift throne, dignified,
back in control. He held up a hand like a traffic cop. "Let's
don't get off on the wrong foot, tall one. Peace in the valley, man.
I brought you here for two reasons, first one bein' I gotta thank
you."
    "Thank me for what?"
    " Nothin' happens Delavon don't know about. He
know what you done for Jeweldean. Today and other times. Hey. I gotta
get you to sign my guest book." He spoke to one of the houris.
    " Kenyatta."
    The woman, whose outfit was mostly yellow, rose
without using her hands, like a dancer, and walked to a small table
of white rock or concrete shaped like an Ionic column. On the table
was a book covered with green leather. Kenyatta beckoned.
    Skip stood her ground.
    " Go on," said Delavon.
    Kenyatta offered her a pen and a clean page.
    "Every celebrity get their own page," said
Delavon. "Can't have you knowin' what other white po-lice been
here; now can I?"
    "I don't feel like playing games right now."
    " Aw, go on. Do it for Delavon. Maybe I do
somethin' for you someday."
    "Maybe you will." Skip signed "Scarlett
O'Hara," and turned back to Delavon. "What's the other
reason?"
    "You tell Delavon."
    " I'm gettin' lost here. If you brought me here
for two reasons, you must know what they are."
    He leaned forward and touched his chest, a wronged
man. "I just want to help you, that's all. Just want to he'p
you. You tell me what I can do for you, I do it."
    Suddenly, she realized she could say "Find
Dennis Foucher," and he would. But she'd owe him for the rest of
her life.
    " Why would you help me?" she said.
    "I been hearin' 'bout you. I know who you are."
    It was possible. With more than four hundred murders
a year, and thirty-five detectives to work them, Skip ended up with
about fifteen cases a year. Most of them involved drugs; many,
teenagers. Any or all of them might involve Delavon's gangsters—or
his friends or sons; maybe his enemies. He could have heard of her.
    "What have you heard?" she said.
    " I heard you treat people nice. With respect."
    "I try to."
    " And I heard you he'p out Jeweldean now and
then."
    "So you want to do me a favor."
    " Tha's what I said, idn't it?"
    She felt silly, standing in her linen slacks and
T-shirt like a supplicant before a king. She wanted to regain
control. "Okay. Come on down to headquarters with me."
    He slapped his chair arm hard. "I tol' you not
to mess with me!"
    Good. He'd lost it again. She struggled to hold back
a grin. "I'm not messin' with you. I thought you wanted to
help."
    "You got somep'n to ax Delavon, you ax him
here."
    "You know a guy named Dennis Foucher?"
    "I know Dennis."
    " I'm wondering if you've seen him in the last
few days. Or heard from him."
    " He was in a shootout, now wadn't he?"
    " That I can't say. Maybe you know."
    "Nooooo. Delavon don't know nothin' 'bout that.
Don't know nothin' 'bout that."
    "Have you seen him, Delavon?"
    " No, sir, Delavon hadn't seen 'im. And why
hadn't I seen 'im? 'Cause Dennis prob'ly be needin' some illegal
drugs, that's why. And Delavon don't fool with that shit."
    Right. You probably run an orphanage.
    "I know that Dennis Foucher. He a hard-core
heroin addict. I know what they like. They get clean, then they want
that sweetness back; they want them lovin' arms aroun' 'em jus' like
it used to be. But you know what? It never is like it used to be. He
gon' cop some dope, he gon' decide somethin' wrong with the quality,
he gon' complain; he gon' make life miserable for somebody. But then
he gon' buy some more shit, 'cause he gotta have that feelin' like
bein' wrapped in cotton candy. Warm spun sugar, man."
    Delavon was staring into space, carried away with his
own poetry, probably seeing it in Old English script on a thick white
page, one of many, bound in red leather.
    "Sounds like you know a lot about it."
    "Delavon know these assholes. Look at me. I'm
tryin' to make things better for people. People come to Delavon, I do
'em favors. They think I be involved in illegal activities, but tha's
not who Delavon is. I made some good investments, I got some money,
and I know things. Right now I know the man your boy makin'
miserable. He be Turan."
    "Turan who?"
    He hit the chair arm again. "I don' know nothin'
'bout no last names. How come you white po-lice always has to have
last names? Turan. Tha's all you