House of Blues

to be my backup."
    "Yeah, but there's a little problem. You're
white po-lice. Face it, Skip. It's the only way to play it."
    "We could both stay in the car."
    "We can't park close enough to see what's going
on. Turau's going to be in the Conti Breezeway, but that doesn't mean
Dennis has to walk in from the street. He could enter the project at
one of the other breezeways, for instance. Or he could drive in."
    The Iberville's "breezeways" were park
areas between rows of red-brick buildings now grim with age and abuse
and neglect—and memories, probably, and the busted-up dreams of
busted-up families, or families that had never happened, that had
started out as pregnant teenagers and grown into young mothers of
three or four, strung out on crack and turning tricks to get it.
    Children should have played in the breezeways, and
did, sometimes. They should have functioned as village greens. But
dealers dealt in these open spaces, and blood flowed there. Almost
every day the Times-Picayune reported the body of a young black male found in the courtyard of one
of the city's projects. If someone wanted to kill you, he had a clear
shot here.
    Once you were actually in the breezeway, you were a
sitting duck. This was Skip's problem with the plan. She really
thought about the "disguise" she'd suggested so
facetiously, but people would never have left her alone, would have
tried to talk to her. She'd have been made in about thirty seconds.
    "What are you going to say? Who are you?"
    "Are you kidding? I'm looking for James. My
brother. Let's stop here a minute."
    He pulled up at a convenience store on Rampart. "Wait
for me."
    Skip waited, annoyed at the way he seemed to be
taking over her assignment. He came back with a bottle of
Thunderbird. "You drive awhile."
    Skip took the wheel while he perfumed himself. He was
wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt, but his hair was short and neat. At
least he didn't wear glasses.
    "James, he stay at Placenta house. You know
Placenta? She stay over there, don't she?"
    "Jim, give me a break. Nobody's named Placenta."
    "I swear to God. I heard it in Schwegmann's the
other day. Little four-year-old kid."
    " It's an urban myth, like Nosmo King."
    " The kid named for the No Smoking sign? That's
my nephew."
    "Listen, I don't care if you did hear it in
Schwegmann's. Rename James's girlfriend just this once. Please?"
    "Okay, she Magneeta. Magneeta, she stay with her
nanan, and her name, uh, let me think . . . I think her nanan named .
. . uh . . .ain't she the lady stay over there? You know, the one
with all them kids? She 'bout this high and she got a real pretty 
smile."
    "Magneeta. Holy shit. Magneeta."
    "You just white po-lice. What do you know?"
    "Jim, I don't like this."
    "Here's a good place. Park here."
    She knew it was a good place; he didn't have to tell
her to park. But the longer she didn't park, the longer she put off
his getting out of the car. For the first time in her life she had a
bad feeling. She didn't even want to look for Dennis. She wanted to
go home and forget the whole thing.
    But she didn't say it to Jim, because they were
grown-up police officers and they were going to do their job.
    She parked. "Got your phone?"
    " Got it."
    Jim was out of the car, and in another minute he was
gone; out of her sight.
    This could take hours. How the hell can he do the
Magnecta routine for hours? She thought of what he'd say if she asked
him: "I'm a pro."
    That made her laugh—the whole Eddie Murphy zaniness
of it. Actually, this wasn't like the usually dignified Jim. She
remembered that he used to work Narcotics and realized why he was so
eager to get in there—he was having the time of his life.
    She began to relax a little.
    She rethought strategy. They could wait here forever
for Dennis, who might not ever show. Or they could just talk to
Turan. But what would that do? Even if Dennis did make a buy, how the
hell would Turan know where to find him? It's not up to a dealer to
find his clients, it's up to them to find him.
    She was in a funk of indecision and doubt when the
phone rang. For some reason, she punched the "Indiglo"
feature on her watch: it was nearly midnight.
    " Call for backup. Something's going down."
    "Dennis?"
    " Two guys with AK-4-7s. Stay where you are."
    " The hell I wil1."
    She called for backup and got out of the car, knowing
she probably shouldn't if he said she shouldn't, but she couldn't be
sure—the situation could change from second to second.
    He'd had to get