House of Blues

controlled fury.
    The back of her neck prickled.
    This man is dangerous.
    She took deep breaths to stay calm.
    Ruby said, "Sidney's using the phone."
    " It's all right. I only have a couple of
questions anyway. " She glanced at her watch. "So long as I
call in in five minutes."
    She wondered if Evie was in the house. It was seeming
likelier and likelier.
    She stared at the window. Behind her someone righted
the lamp—not Jacomine, she was sure. He had probably activated one
of his robots with a little hand command.
    "Is something wrong?" said Jacomine.
    "I just wanted to make sure my partner found a
parking place."
    "You got a partner out there? Why, bring him in.
Bring him in right now and let's give him some tea."
    "Mr. Jacomine—"
    " Errol. Please."
    "We really didn't come here to have tea—I'm
trying hard to impress on you that I have a job to do." No way
was she drinking a drop or eating a crumb.
    " We didn't mean to do anything wrong. We meant
to make you feel welcome." His eyes were hard, brown little
pebbles.
    "Thank you. I appreciate that. I'm wondering if
you know a woman named Evelyne Hebert, nicknamed Evie."
    Behind her, she heard the sound of breath being
sucked in. Jacomine's face twitched ever so slightly.
    "I do."
    "Do you know where she is?"
    " No, I don't. Evie was a member here for a
while, but she left us about a year ago."
    " Did she live here? In this house?"
    " Another one. We have several for our people to
live in. Especially those dealing with addictions."
    " She must have left a forwarding address."
    "No. Evie's departure was rather sudden."
    "What happened, Errol?" Not strictly her
business, but maybe he'd answer anyhow.
    "She decided this wasn't the path for her."
    "It sounds as if there were bad feelings around
it."
    "She's still one of our people and we still love
her."
 

    21
    Skip went immediately to the office and ran a records
check on Jacomine. He had only minor traffic infractions, but she was
willing to bet there was a sealed juvenile record somewhere. This was
the kind of guy who chopped up his grandparents.
    She needed to know more about him. She called Ramon,
in Intelligence, and posed her question.
    "Jacomine. Sure, I know about him, haven't met
him personally. Good reports on him. He takes in people who're pretty
desperate and cleans them up. Has a pretty good following.
Mixed—black and white, a lot of families. Runs a day-care center,
all the right civic liberal bleeding-heart bullshit."
    " Something's funny with him. The guy's a creep."
    " He does pretty good work for the community.
That's all I know about him."
    "He's got some kind of little fascist army
going."
    "I thought I was the expert."
    "When he stands up, everybody stands. All the
followers. You know what I mean?"
    "What's wrong with that? That's just showing
respect for their leader."
    "He knew a lot of stuff about me; he'd
researched me."
    "Aw, you're famous. Don't be so paranoid."
    It was curious, she thought, the way human beings
never wanted to think ill of each other, the way they excused each
other's misdeeds by professing to know someone else's intent—as if
that mattered. It was a cliché the way relatives of a murderer said
he was a good boy, he never did mean any harm.
    Neighbors closed their eyes and ears. "Well,
yes, we knew they beat their children, but they were good parents,
the kids were always clean and well-fed. They were just doing what
they thought was right."
    She hated the word "good"; it was a license
to kill. Cindy Lou was right: when people thought they were "good,"
they thought it was okay what they did, and so did their families and
friends. At the latter, she wanted to shout: "Who cares what he
meant? I don't give a shit what they thought. It's what they did that
keeps me on the job."
    To Ramon she wanted to say, Open your eyes.
    But what was the point? Jacomine had no arrest record
and hadn't committed any crimes in her presence.
    He knew more about Evie than he'd told, though.
    She arrived at the office Monday morning with a list
of things to do: look up the property the Following owned; try to
find disgruntled members; or better yet, ex-members.
    She sat at her desk and thought.
    Might as well talk to the ones I already know. She
drove back to the little house in Metairie and knocked. The man who
answered was a stranger, burly and face-tattooed, looking as if he'd
just been released from Angola. Better not start with him.
    "Is Nikki Pigeon in?" It was the one name
she