Jazz Funeral

never do a thing that dumb—it might interfere with her goddamn motherfuckin’ career, and we’d just hate that, now wouldn’t we? Nothin’ in this world is so fuckin’ almighty precious as Ms. Thiebaud’s brilliant career, and you can be damn sure she ain’t gonna forget it long enough to stab her boyfriend. Her boyfriend who’s about the most important dude in the state of Louisiana in the music bi’ness.”
    “So you weren’t with her Tuesday. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’. Can I buy you a drink? I’m so shocked and surprised by all this nonsense, I almost forgot my manners.” For the first time, he was looking at her, narrowing his eyes a little, registering her femaleness.
    For all his bombast and pseudo-country accent—she noticed it came and went—she liked the guy. She sensed he had done lifelong battle with a streak of sadness in himself, and hadn’t won the war yet. People like that tried so hard to stave it off they were usually fun. She felt like bantering a little with him. “Now tell me something, Johnny—if I were a male cop, you wouldn’t offer me a drink, would you?”
    “Why I sure would. Would’ve a long time ago. I was just so distracted by your petite loveliness, I lost my head.”
    She emitted the obligatory chuckle. “I’d never guess you were Irish.”
    “Russian on my mother’s side.”
    She could see it, she guessed. High cheekbones and deep-set, smoldering eyes. That could be Russian. She said, “Johnny, you wouldn’t kid me, would you? You really weren’t with Ti-Belle?”
    “Let me tell you something.” To her amazement he sounded almost sober. There was an angry note in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve known Ms. Ti-Belle Thiebaud a long damn time. A long damn time. I’ve been cleanin’ up messes for her almost as long as she’s been singin’. And I am not fuckin’ doin’ it anymore.” He stuck a forefinger in her face, almost touching her nose. “You got that?”
    “I think I got it, partner. Raincheck on the drink, okay?” As she left, Skip clapped him on the shoulder. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt drawn to him, wanted to help him in some odd way she couldn’t define.
    Out of the dark, out of the air-conditioning, in the sunlight and the late spring humidity, she felt depressed and wondered why. There was something about Johnny that seemed hopeless, she thought. Perhaps he was simply what he looked like—a man well on the way to killing himself with booze—and that was what had gotten to her.
    She needed some gossip of the sort Alison probably didn’t know, and Ariel seemed a likely source. What, she wondered, were the chances of Ariel’s having a free moment? She called the festival office, fully expecting to be referred to the fairgrounds. But Ariel herself answered, sounding out of breath.
    “Oh, Skip. I was just going home. I feel like I’m gon’ die.”
    “Going home?”
    “Well, going by the Brocatos’. It’s the only chance I’ve had all day.”
    “Could you give me a few minutes? I’m in the neighborhood.”
    “Sure. I’ll just pass out for a while. Wake me up when you get here.”
    The JazzFest office was painted a kind of grayish-lilac with rose trim—a muddy color, not entirely successful. But the reception area, converted from what had once been the Old Reliable Bar, was a cheerful peach. A young black woman who looked good in it told her Ariel was upstairs.
    A ratty old carpet covered the stairs, contrasting in that wonderful New Orleans way with a handsome curving banister. Upstairs was the usual maze of offices. Ariel wasn’t in hers but in Ham’s, which was large, comfortable, and hung with JazzFest posters. She wasn’t resting either, but talking on the phone. It was twenty minutes before she got off.
    She grabbed a linen jacket. “Quick. Let’s get out of here.”
    They went to the courtyard of the Maison Dupuy and drank Cokes as the fountain splashed. “It’s soothin’ here,” Ariel said. “Ham and I used to use it as an escape.” She smiled, leaning forward. “A working escape, of course. Briefcases everywhere, ink stains on our fingers, papers flyin’ in the wind—still, it beat the office every now and then.” She paused, struggling for control, and when she spoke again, her voice came out a squeak. “I still can’t believe he’s dead. I just can’t believe it.”
    “Ariel, listen. You want to help me find the