House of Blues

I don't
see you two working together right now." Skip could almost see
her shaking her head.
    "Hey, I'm a pro. I can live with it. What's he
going to do? Not do his job just because he hates me?"
    "I can't send him." They were both
sergeants. "It'll be up to him. And I'm not exactly in his good
graces right now."
    "Sylvia, this is about Jim."
    "I know. I'll call you right back. Look, I've
got some good news."
    " You've got to be kidding."
    "Fazio brought in Augustine Melancon. The kid
whose mug shot you picked."
    "No!"
    "Swear to God—the bad guys don't win all the
time. Lineup's tomorrow at four. That okay with you?"
    "Sure." She gave Cappello the address
Delavon had given her and then brushed her teeth, hoping the
morning—time ritual would somehow make her more alert.
    She was pulling on white pants when the phone rang:
"He's on his way. He'll park in front of the building."
    " Tell him to come get me if I'm not out in
fifteen."
    The building was in a part of Gentilly where there
weren't all that many white people, which could make it hard for him,
she thought. But he was there, in a beat-up car she recognized as one
of those assigned to Homicide. He was scrunched down, hunched over,
and wearing a baseball cap.
    What a weird job, she thought as she climbed the
steps. Here I am, entrusting my life to my biggest enemy. And the
amazing thing is, I actually trust him.
    Delavon answered the door himself "Hey, Tall
Beauty." He had changed her nickname; not a good sign, she
thought. A little flirtatious; presumptuous.
    " Hey, Short Ugly."
    He laughed. "Now you know you don't mean that.
Come on in."
    It was a Sharper Image kind of apartment as far as it
went—all chrome, glass, and leather, but very sparse. Skip didn't
see any sound equipment, which she thought strange. The kind of man
who'd have this kind of furniture would have a fancy stereo system.
    "You heard what happened last night?"
    "You get right down to business, don't you?
Can't I give you a drink or something?"
    " A policeman was shot, Delavon."
    "Now ain't that too bad."
    "He died."
    "Um-um." He shook his head in mock sorrow.
    "He was black. African-American. Do you care at
all?"
    "Hey, 'member we talked about Gus Lozano?"
The mob boss.
    "I remember. Who shot my partner?"
    "Now, how would Delavon know a thing like that?"
    " I think you set me up, asshole. You sent me
there. Was I the one who was supposed to get whacked?"
    Delavon found a piece of furniture to smack. That
seemed to be his style. "Jim Hodges's death was a accident!"
    "Now, how would Delavon know a thing like that?"
    Delavon laughed. "Delavon know everything.
More'n you know, I bet. Bet you don't know Gus Lozano's dead."
    "I don't give a shit. Jim Hodges is dead"
    "You real sure you don't give a shit?"
    She wasn't. She was already starting to regret having
said that. She had a moment to think about it while Delavon answered
his cellular phone.
    " Well, now that's mighty int'resting," he
told the caller. "I think this be lesson time." He hung up
and looked at Skip inquiringly, almost benignly.
    " Okay, okay. Tell me about Lozano."
    "All I know is he's dead, if you believe the
word out on the street. New guy prob'ly killed your partner."
    " Oh, come on. Turan was too small-time for that
kind of crap."
    " Mob be everywhere. Don't you know that?"
    " It is not, Delavon. The mob's practically dead
in New Orleans."
    " Ah-ha. Now you gettin' to the crux of the
matter. Mob practically dead—Gus Lozano actually dead. Think those
two facts be related?"
    " Probably not." She didn't think the mob
was going to have somebody killed for inefficient business practices.
Stealing, yes. But not incompetence.
    " Prob'ly so. New guy's takin' over lots o'
little operations. Gon' be runnin' much tighter ship." He
shrugged. "What I hear, anyway. Hear he flexed muscles last
night. Turan got real unlucky; your partner got in the way."
    Skip was pretty sure the person she'd seen was no
Mafia enforcer. He was certainly not Italian, and probably not even
an adult. But to keep the conversation going, she said, "Who is
this new guy?"
    "Thought maybe you'd know."
    "What'll you trade me for it?"
    "Might have somethin' for you. But don't call
me, I'll call you."
    Skip stood up. "You'd better call me if you've
got something. A cop got killed, Delavon—have you grasped that
yet?"
    He smiled again, the genial host seeing his guest to
the door.
    "Hey, I heard about your run-in with that babe
over at Maya's place." .
    " You're