Jazz Funeral

against that little Cajun gal? There ain’t one hair of her gorgeous head that looks like Lacey Longtree. I’d love to catch up with Ms. L., I sure would, but I’m just afraid you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. You know how these singers are—the beauteous Ti-Belle’s probably so full o’ drugs she doesn’t know her name.”
    “Well, look, I’ll send you a copy of her prints by Federal Express.”
    “Hey, I thought New Orleans was supposed to be the Big Easy. Go to JazzFest, have some popcorn shrimp. I can wait till Monday, no problem.”
    He was so dismissive, he reminded her of her least favorite sergeant and she was a little thin-skinned about O’Rourke right now. He was the one she was really mad at. She was furious that he’d had the gall to tell her what to do. He’d said not to let Ti-Belle out of her sight—that she’d lead them to Melody.
    But if Ti-Belle knew where Melody was, she’d have already found her. She might have killed her daddy and she might have killed Ham, but she no more knew where to find Melody than Skip did. It was a waste of time.
    They went to Nick’s, of course. About an hour later they came out again.
    They drove across the bridge to the West Bank, a place many New Orleanians had never even been. It was like never having had a hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s—a matter of pride. When they ended up in Marrero, Skip began to develop a new respect for O’Rourke.
    Marrero didn’t even look as if it belonged in Louisiana—it could have been a seedy part of California, maybe. Everything was new here, meaning built in the last couple of decades. Every ceiling was low. The whole town looked made for dwarves. On Fourth Street there were mingy little nightclubs that looked more like hamburger stands.
    Not far from there, blacks lived in a housing project, cheek-by-jowl with blue-collar whites in mobile homes. On weekends they could rim into each other at some of the bars on Fourth Street and bang each other upside the head with pool cues. If things got dull.
    To Skip, even the project wasn’t as depressing as the nasty little lanes lined with cheap bungalows, many of them prefab, a lot of them neat, some falling down, and every single one with heavy-duty bars on every single window. People owned these places, called them home. One of the streets was named Silver Lily. It made you want to cry.
    Nick and Ti-Belle drove to a gun store. Skip parked and looked in the window while they bought a gun. A handgun. Ti-Belle was the one doing the talking, testing the thing for heft—and eventually the one paying. Skip couldn’t for the life of her think of any plausible, legitimate reason why Ti-Belle Thiebaud would need a handgun. Uptown ladies carried them, fearful of getting mugged in their front yards, if you thought that was legitimate. But Ti-Belle didn’t live Uptown. Nick did, but since Audubon Place had a gate at the entrance, it was hardly a paradise for muggers.
    They made no more trips, just drove home and went to bed about nine-thirty—or at least the lights went off then. Skip went home depressed. She hadn’t seen Steve all day, hadn’t talked to him, and didn’t think he’d be there.
    But he’s on a big project, Skip. It’s nothing to do with you.
    Maybe it is.
    She couldn’t stall that second nagging little voice.
    Her apartment was stuffy and unwelcoming. She opened the windows and turned on the ceiling fan. The soft light from the lamp spilling on a new purchase, an antique English table, was pretty on her new sofa, her melon walls. But she couldn’t get comfortable. She wanted a joint.
    Hell, I want Steve.
    Failing Steve, she wanted a joint.
    But Jimmy Dee wouldn’t be too bad either.
    She picked up the phone. “Dee-Dee, I need you.”
    “This is getting to be a habit. What is it, angel? Bear bite?”
    “The bear’s out. I need conversation.” She paused. “And drugs.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “Uh-oh what?”
    “You’ve been Little Miss Nancy Reagan lately. Something must be wrong.”
    “Get over here, Dee-Dee, and bring a big fat joint.”
    He came in holding it out to her. “What’s the prob?”
    They sat together on the couch, companionably passing the joint. “Probs plural. I’m beat. I hate this case. I’m worried silly about the kid. Cappello’s on sick leave and O’Rourke’s my sergeant.”
    “Oh, my poor tiny thing. Not the dreaded O’Rourke!”
    “I could kill him.”
    “And the bear? What about him?”
    “The bear.” Skip