House of Blues

the expert," he said.
    "I just don't understand it," she said.
"He's never done that before."
    The more Grady thought about the incident, now, his
computer before him, the more confusing he found it. Some of it was
predictable—his father's cruelty, his mother's strange thought
patterns—but he couldn't see that writing it down was going to
solve anything.
    However, he had a deal with himself.
    He sat.
    And then he wrote.
    As long as he wrote he was fine, but when he stopped
to think about it, he got so anxious it was nearly all he could do
not to reach for a beer to calm down.
    He understood these things—the confusion; the
anxiety. He was used to them. What he didn't understand was how it
was possible to be like Reed.
    Never confused. Impatient with those who were.
    Perfect.
    Why couldn't it have been me?
 

    11
    First thing in the morning, Skip trooped up to
Narcotics, where she found her pal Lefty O'Meara chewing on his
habitual unlighted cigar and just hanging up the phone. A smear of
shaving cream decorated his right ear.
    " Hey, Skip. You're gonna make me work—you've
got that look."
    " I just want to know if you know somebody.
Heroin dealer named Turan."
    "Oh, Turan. He's dealin' boy? I thought he was
into girl."
    "What's going on here? Am I in Vice or
Narcotics? This guy's not a pimp, he's a dealer."
    Lefty laughed. "Funny, ain't it? I heard some
guy make a buy like that the other day—‘two boys and one girl.'
'Member, you heard it here first."
    " Girl's coke?"
    " Yeah, I guess. Turan used to be a girl kind of
boy. What's this heroin shit?"
    "You're supposed to be the expert."
    O'Meara shrugged. "Who knows about these dudes?
Come on, let's get his record."
    They moved over to the division's one computer and
O'Meara fed the monster a name: Turan Livaudais. It spat stats: Turan
had a lot of arrests and one conviction; from the dates, he'd been a
bad actor all his life, which, according to the sheet, was only
twenty-four years along.
    " Let's see the address," said O'Meara, and
frowned. "Nah, that can't be right. I've got to make a couple of
calls. I'll call you in ten."
    "Thanks, Lefty. I really appreciate it."
    "By the way, did you ever find Delavon? I axed
around—couple guys heard the name, but nobody knows who he is."
    "We talked, but I forgot to get a list of his
aliases."
    She was sure O'Meara'd get the address; it was the
kind of cop he was. He was still a patrolman, had probably never even
taken the sergeant's test, or maybe couldn't pass it for one reason
or another. But he was one of the best policemen in the
department—competent but not flamboyant. If he said he'd do
something, he would.
    She spent the next hour on the phone, calling
everyone she knew who knew who anyone else was who might know
anything about Dennis, or drugs, or even Reed. It was a highly
tedious and unproductive exercise, but it had to be done.
    About ten o'clock, desperate to hear a friendly
voice—and also needing to talk about something—she called Cindy
Lou and asked her to lunch. She was just starting to wonder what had
happened to Lefty when he called.
    "Hey, I got your address. Sort of."
    "What's this ‘sort of'?"
    "Iberville Project. That's the best I can do. He
deals out of the Conti Breezeway, always after ten o'cIock at
night—could be any time, like one A.M., two A.M., you never know."
    " Oh, happy day." She was already exhausted
from her late evening at Maya's.
    She had gotten past that, and was thinking how
conspicuous she was going to look, hanging around the Iberville, when
O'Meara said, "You know about the Tidewater Building?"
    "Know what about it?"
    "You can see everything in the Iberville from
the roof."
    "Lefty, you're a prince. I owe you one."
    She got some coffee and hit the streets with the
picture of Dennis and Reed. By twelve-thirty she was hot and
discouraged. She headed for the Thai restaurant where she and Cindy
Lou were meeting.
    Cindy Lou was a little late and, by the time she
arrived, a bit bedraggled, unusual for her. "Too damn hot,"
she said. "I should have stayed in Detroit."
    "I hear it's lovely in summer too."
    " I think I'm having a beer."
    "What's wrong? Something's wrong."
    " Nothing's wrong." She spoke so sharply
Skip said nothing.
    "Yeah, something is. I had a message on my
machine last night. He's going back to Detroit."
    " The guy? The one you like?"
    "It wouldn't have worked out, right? How could
it? I mean, no sex; come on."
    " It seems a little cold to leave a