Jazz Funeral

gay, and women were forever fixing him up with their single friends. The swish act he affected with Skip was for her personal amusement.
    They headed for Decatur Street, Jimmy Dee keeping up a running commentary on the passing carnival. “Don’t you just love the fashion statements?” He pointed out a kid in spiderweb panty hose.
    “I can’t conceive of having fashion sense at sixteen.”
    “No offense, my sweet, but I can’t conceive of your ever having any.”
    “I don’t know, Dee-Dee, under your tutelage—”
    “Green, purple, and orange hair—look sharp now.”
    “The vampire he’s with—do you love the black nails?”
    “But the 666 tattoo is too beastly.”
    The vampire’s face had been whited out with something like Kabuki makeup. She had black around her eyes and her lipstick was bruise-colored. Her outfit had to have taken days to think up and weeks to put together. Skip thought she was a bit too short to be Melody, maybe too heavy, but she couldn’t be sure. If she wasn’t Melody, she was still somebody’s kid, and if she was a runaway, her next door neighbor wouldn’t recognize her. How did you find one kid in this mob? The bar they liked, the most nondescript on the whole street, except that it had a few video games, was starting to fill up. They didn’t seem to be interested in drinking, just milling. And quite a few of them were already unsteady on their feet—though not from alcohol, was Skip’s guess. Quaaludes maybe.
    She and Jimmy Dee walked up and down the street, around Jackson Square, over to Bourbon, back again. The night was eerie; the air was heavy as always, but this time with millions of bodies, flying termites swarming the lights. They walked side by side, incapable of making eye contact if they didn’t want to be mowed down by the crowds. Skip realized later the side-by-side setup had been a rare opportunity for Jimmy Dee, giving him the distance he needed.
    He said, “You know what I told you last night?” and she felt a tightness in her belly, knowing what this was costing him.
    “About your sister?” She glanced at him briefly, but he looked away.
    “Yes. You know how I said there was more?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Well, this is it, Skippy. She’s going to die—my only relative except for two. I’m going to have to go back and help her through it.”
    She longed to give him the gift of her eyes, to show him how he’d gotten to her, but she didn’t dare. He’d hate it. She said, “I kind of thought it was something like that.” She didn’t even say she was sorry. She didn’t touch him.
    “And that’s not even the heavy part.”
    Now she did turn to him, so surprised she forgot discretion.
    But he said, “Look—a street band. White punks on dope.”
    Young white punks, playing illegally late. They were hardly older than Melody—two guys and a girl, but the girl wasn’t Melody for sure; way too heavy. They were fairly mediocre, really; nothing different about them.
    Jimmy Dee said, “Y’all need a singer.”
    The drummer rolled his eyes. “Oh, no, not again. You want to audition?”
    The girl said, “He’s a lot more my type than the last one.”
    “What last one?”
    She shrugged. “One-day wonder. Fantastic voice—we made more money with her in one night than we do in a week by ourselves.” She gestured at the guitarist, a blond, good-looking guy. “But Mr. Stud back there scared her off. So—what do you want to sing?”
    Skip said, “Skinny girl? Purple and blond hair?”
    The girl, the bass player, opened her mouth, but the lead guitarist did something, pinched her maybe. Skip was about to pull out her badge, but Jimmy Dee’s instincts were better. He toyed with a twenty-dollar bill. The girl looked at the bill and then at the blond. “She’s gone, Chris, okay? She’s not coming back.” She turned to Jimmy Dee. “Her name’s Janis,” she said triumphandy. “Is that who you’re looking for?”
    He smiled as if she’d given the right answer. “No. Not even close.”
    “Oh.” She was downcast. “Well, maybe it wasn’t her real name. I know—I’ll tell you what she looked like before we did her over.” She never took her eyes off the bill.
    Jimmy Dee tore the bill and gave her a half.
    “Real skinny, blue eyes. Lots of curly black hair.”
    Skip brought out the picture. “Is this her?”
    “I’m not sure. It doesn’t look that much like her.”
    But the drummer said, as if just realizing it, “She’s the girl