House of Blues

does he pay his rent?"
    " He's only been there a couple of weeks."
    "What else do you know about him?"
    "He has a nice car, I remember that—a Lexus, I
think. That was one reason—I hate to admit it—I didn't check his
references. He had nice clothes, a nice car, and he was clean-cut. I
thought he'd be fine."
    "What does he do for a living?"
    "I can't remember, but I can call my wife. Those
records are at home, of course." He got his wife, made the
request, and said to Skip, "He's a salesman. For a company
called Amglo Products."
    "Address?"
    He spoke to the phone. "Honey, is there an
address?" He scribbled something and handed it to Skip. "I'm
getting a sinking feeling," he said. "Let's look it up."
    It wasn't listed.
    Skip glanced at her watch. It was about five. By the
time she could get back to Gentilly, people would have started
getting home from work.
    She knocked first on Mr. Smith's apartment, but got
no answer. Then she talked to everyone else in the building. No one
had ever seen Mr. Smith, not even when he moved in. His next—door
neighbors had never heard anything either.
    Skip remembered how there hadn't been a sound system,
how Delavon had been called on a cellular phone. It was her guess
there wasn't any Mr. Smith, there wasn't any Amglo Products, and Mr.
Vicknair's tenant, whoever he was, Wouldn't even be back fOr his
furniture.
    She had no way back to Delavon, except Biggie. But if
she took Biggie to headquarters and sweated him, he wouldn't talk and
she'd lose him as a semi—informant. She wasn't willing to do that
yet. She had one other hope: O'Rourke might be able to pick out a mug
shot of one of his assailants.
    She went home exhausted, remembering that she hadn't
seen Steve all day, that he'd be there for her.
    But he wasn't.
    The house was empty and seemed dark, though the
evening was bright. She had been thinking about Jim on the way home,
and the tears were near the surface. As soon as she put her key in
the door, realizing the house was empty, she relaxed enough so that a
sob rose up out of her. Blinded by tears, crying loud now, she wanted
nothing except to get in the shower, perhaps to wash her grief away.
    She threw off her clothes as she climbed the stairs,
and slipped behind the shower curtain, turning up the hot water, even
though it was June, and stood there until she was cried out.
    Opening the bathroom door, she thought she heard a
noise.
    "Steve?"
    The noise came again, almost like a cry. Pulling a
terry-cloth robe around her, she found her gun and crept down the
stairs. The noise was coming from the kitchen, pretty steadily now,
and she was beginning to have a suspicion; the gun was making her
feel silly, but she kept it anyway, just in case.
    She opened the kitchen door and something soft
touched her leg. Her suspicion was correct—another animal. Not
Napoleon because he would have barked; probably a lion cub or a
ferret—small but potentially destructive.
    Actually it was another dog—or at least a
dog-to-be. At the moment, it was little more than a handful of white
fur with one black eye and one black ear.
    "Oh, you angel," she blurted, putting her
gun on the counter and reaching down for the puppy. It was shaking.
"Oh, Mama's widdle baby's terrified; never seen a great big ol'
gun before. Poor widdle baby animal."
    It settled into her hand as if she really were its
mama. She was just getting it calmed down when the door burst open.
"Hello—oo—oo," Steve singsonged.
    He never does that, she thought. But hold it—I
don't do babytalk either. The kids—both Sheila and Kenny—were
with him. She had a moment of thoroughgoing gratitude that they
hadn't come home in time to catch her.
    "Did you find Angel, Auntie?" Sheila was
beaming, as if she'd been chosen class president. "Isn't she the
sweetest? Come to Mama, baby." She reached for the puppy.
    " Angel. That's what I called her."
    "She's my dog." Kenny grabbed for her too.
Angel yelped.
    "Hey. Hey," said Steve. "She's
nobody's dog yet. Don't forget about Uncle Jimmy."
    Kenny's attention wandered to Skip's gun. "Hey.
Were you going to shoot her or what?"
    Skip pocketed the gun. "I thought she was
Napoleon."
    She regretted it as soon as she'd said it. Kenny's
eyes brimmed at the memory of the big dog.
    Setting down a grocery bag of pet supplies, Steve
ruffled his hair, causing Skip nearly to gasp. She'd never seen him
do such a thing. When he'd arrived a week ago, he'd been pretty much
of a dyed-i -n-the-wool