Jazz Funeral

wanted me, Dee-Dee darlin’.”
    “Well, listen to Little Miss Double Entendre. You didn’t used to have such a filthy mind.”
    She accepted a hit of his joint, something she seldom did lately. “I’m just trying to keep a stiff upper lip.”
    “Uh-oh. The bear growled?”
    “He went to another cave.” She handed back the joint, catching Jimmy Dee’s look and considering the tone she’d set with her earlier remark. “Oh, hold it, I didn’t mean—”
    He puckered his lips, clowning. “Tell it to Dr. Freud, tiny one.”
    “I didn’t mean another woman. He’s not like that.”
    “Listen, you don’t have to convince me. He’s not my boyfriend. If that isn’t it, what’s wrong?”
    “He wanted to be alone. I think he’s getting tired of me.”
    Dee-Dee grabbed one of her feet. “Oh, who could be tired of a great big gorgeous thing like you?”
    “Why’d he go away, then?”
    He started massaging the foot. “Darling, do you speak English? He said he needed time alone—why make it complicated?”
    “That wasn’t exactly what he said. He said he wanted to give me time alone.”
    “How thoughtful. For a bear.”
    “Well?”
    “Well, what?”
    “What do you think?”
    He shrugged. “You do look kind of peaked. Shouldn’t you be hopping into bed—with the big case and all?”
    “Do both feet, Dee-Dee. That reminds me—I never saw you last night.”
    “Oh, but I saw you. I got there about the time you were cozying up to Nick Anglime. You had bigger fish to fry than ol’ Jimmy Dee.”
    “Never.” She gave him a pat. “What’d you call me about, anyhow?”
    “Well, I wanted to tell you a couple of things.”
    She lifted an eyebrow.
    “Including something I shouldn’t.”
    “Ummm. Let’s get married.”
    “Listen, I got bad news today.”
    Her foot, flexing happily in his grasp, went dead still. She could feel her hands get cold. Jimmy Dee was HIV negative and celibate lately—too depressed to get it up, as he put it—but he was still getting tested every six months after several decades of doing whatever he damned well pleased. And then doing it again. (Or so he told it—she personally thought he’d be dead if he’d really led the life he described—probably of fatigue.)
    Seeing her expression, he said, “Oh, my dear, it’s not me.”
    “Jesus, Jimmy Dee! Don’t do that to me!” She smashed a pillow in his face.
    “You sweet thing, your true feelings are coming out. Leave the bear for me.”
    “Oh, Dee-Dee, you ass.” She said it because she loved him and he was half her size and gay; in a way, it was tragic they could never be a couple, and now and then it got to her—particularly at times when she was already inclined to feel sorry for herself. “What’s wrong?” she said.
    “My sister’s …” A gurgle came out of his throat. He struggled for control.
    She had had cancer several months ago, had had her spleen removed. Skip said, “The cancer’s back.”
    He nodded. He had gone to Minneapolis to be with her for the surgery. He was her only adult relative, he’d said at the time, but more than that Skip couldn’t get out of him.
    “I can’t do this,” he said.
    “It’s okay, Dee-Dee. You don’t have to say anything.” She tried to catch him, to give him a hug, but he stood up, avoiding her.
    “There’s more.” It came out a croak.
    Skip moved back on the sofa, giving him room, and patted the place beside her. He sat down and swallowed, staring out the window, not looking at her. He swallowed again, finally said, “I don’t think I can talk about it.” His voice was thin and high.
    “Later, Dee-Dee. Another time.” He let her pat his knee. Touching seemed okay, just not closeness; she could understand it. He reminded her of children—of herself as a child—batting away at well-meaning adults dispensing comfort.
    “Drink?” she said. “Cognac? It’s supposed to revive you.”
    He nodded, smiling a little, still unable to speak.
    She brought him the cognac and poured a little for herself. She knew he was depressed—any gay man in New Orleans who wasn’t had to be kidding himself—and she knew he smoked so much pot to keep reality at bay. Hell, she was depressed herself. She took a healthy sip, savoring the richness, rolling the brandy on her tongue, losing herself in the pleasure of it.
    In a few minutes Dee-Dee said, “The epicurean cop at home.”
    “Beginning to go slightly cross-eyed.”
    “I’m going to tell you something