House of Blues

just everywhere, aren't you?"
    "I sho' try to be."
    "Then you must know where Dennis Foucher is."
    Delavon made a show of looking at his watch, which
was a Rolex, Skip noticed.
    "Well, no, not at this precise moment. But I
sold him some shit about a hour ago."
    Skip wheeled. "Goddamn you, Delavon." She
had no idea whether it was true or if he was playing with her.
    "Hey, I can't be everywhere at once. How'm I
s'posed to know where somebody is I saw a hour ago?" He paused.
"But listen, I'm a good guy. You want me to find him for you?"
    The man was maddening. "Yeah. I want you to find
him for me. 'Cause you're a good guy and a damn good citizen. Because
virtue's gonna have to be its own reward, you know what I mean?"
    "Miss Tall One, you think you hot stuff, don't
you?" His features had become a hard and nasty mask. "You
think you get anything you want just 'cause your daddy a doctor.
Well, let me tell you somethin', girl. You got a few things to learn.
Things don' work that way. You think this where I live? This idn't
where I live. I had to borrow this place from a friend. Had to leave
my bi'ness and come over just to satisfy you. And Delavon don't like
being inconvenienced. "So you see you owe me already. You owe me
just for comin' over here."
    It was all she could do not to blurt: How the hell do
you know what my daddy does?
 

    15
    When she came out of the building, O'Rourke wasn't in
his car. She had been inside only ten minutes—he wouldn't have come
for her yet, and she would have passed him if he had.
    She knew he wouldn't have left for a trivial
reason—whatever else he was, O'Rourke was a good cop; even Joe
Tarantino wouldn't put up with him if he weren't.
    He'd been made.
    She remembered Delavon's phone call: "Well, now,
that's mighty int'resting. I think this be lesson time."
Delavon's life was probably full of interesting discoveries that
called for painful "lessons," but she was pretty sure this
one involved her. He'd gotten a little nicer—right after he hung up
the phone—no doubt luxuriating in the knowledge that he had the
upper hand for the moment.
    Without stopping to call for backup, she headed for
the rear of the building. Delavon would leave that way, she felt it;
he'd expect her to wait for backup, and he'd be long gone by the time
it arrived.
    He wasn't there, but O'Rourke was, stomped and
beaten, maybe dead. "Dammit, O'Rourke, don't be dead."
    He had a weak pulse.
    " Okay, hang on. You're going to be fine."
    Reluctant to leave him, she shouted until somebody
looked out a window.
    "Call 911," she said. "Get the police
and an ambulance."
    She noticed she was holding O'Rourke's hand, and she
continued to hold it until he woke up in the emergency room.
    He said, "Langdon. Goddammit, am I going to
live?"
    "Of course. You're too ornery to die. But just
in case, can I ask you something?"
    " What?"
    " How many wives have you got?"
    "I'm too ornery to get married." He had
gotten married once, to a police officer; she was the one who had
dumped him.
    "What happened?" she asked.
    "Couple assholes pulled me out of the car and
beat me up. Took my badge and gun."
    Delavon, I'm going to get you.
    She had left the district officers to get a
description of Delavon's car and any available eyewitness accounts,
but she knew they weren't going to turn up anything. Even Jeweldean,
her friend, wouldn't identify the neighborhood mugger. No one here
was going to turn in a heavy-duty gangster.
    She headed for the assessor's office, where she
learned the building was owned by a Reginald Vicknair, who lived in
Pontchartrain Park, a high-end black development. He had an office on
Gravier Street.
    Arriving there, she saw that it was occupied by a
well-known law firm.
    Vicknair was as she expected—dignified,
middle-aged, in every way comfortable—looking; perhaps a little
smug. He wore glasses and a smile that seemed practiced. "How
can I help you?"
    "I need to know the name of one of your
tenants."
    "May I ask why?"
    "Certainly. A police officer got beaten up
outside the building."
    " And you suspect my tenant?"
    "Let's say I need to talk to him—or her."
    He sighed. "Very well. What apartment?"
    " Seven."
    His eyebrow went up. "Mr. Smith."
    " First name?"
    "John."
    " I see. What does Mr. Smith look like?"
    " Black, about twenty-nine or thirty. Medium
skin—darker than mine, say. No scars or anything. Perfectly
nice-looking fellow. Medium—uh, height and weight."
    He could have been Delavon.
    "By the way, how