Lousiana Hotshot

there’s a reason I’m saying all this.” He was nervous. She heard it in his voice, and it amazed her. By day, Darryl Boucree taught high-school kids and by night, he played music all over the city. It took a lot to make him nervous. “All this talk about secrets is starting to get to me.”
    “Fine. I won’t talk about it. Forget I ever said anything.”
    “Hold it; you’re not getting it. I want you to talk about what’s bothering you. Like I said…” He seemed to be having trouble getting it out.
    “Yes?”
    “I want to protect you. I want to help you. But I’ve started to feel like I’m not all there for you.”
    Was it reassurance he wanted? “Darryl, no one could have been more kind and understanding…”
    He stopped walking, turned toward the water.
    He was standing with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, braced against the breeze. He looked like a god. She had an image suddenly of a man standing just like this, hands in pockets, the wind blowing as it was now, only he was a white man and so his hair moved when the wind blew, and he was smoking a cigarette and the wind blew the smoke as well. It was a kind of déjà vu, perhaps something she’d seen in a movie, and it was inexpressibly sad, the man remembering something he’d lost.
    She knew in that moment that this was not the kind of sadness she saw in the eyes of men who could never be cheered up, that at least some of his sadness had been caused by her, and that she was capable of causing it again, and that any person who could cause this man to feel this way was not worthy of him.
    “Darryl, I swear to God I’ll never be such an asshole again.”
    “Get off that, will you? What I’m trying to say is that you were onto something the other night— there’s a reason you’ve never met my daughter.” He frowned. “How to say this? She’s kind of a handful.”
    “You mean a brat?”
    He looked hurt, and she remembered how she’d just seen him and what she’d realized. She could have kicked herself.
    “It could be more than that— she’s being tested. For now, let me just say she’s difficult.”
    Talba knew what she should say— even wanted to say— but now, under pressure, it was a fight to get the words out. “Could I meet her?”
    He nodded, slowly, solemnly, then he grinned.
    That gave her courage. “Do I have to?” she said.
    He swatted her on the backside. “Yep. You do.” He was smiling like his old self.

Chapter 21
    Eddie had it out with Angie over the weekend. She was tougher than Audrey, tougher than Tony. Hell, face it, she was tougher than Eddie.
    But, knowing it was coming, he developed a strategy— he’d just say, yeah, yeah, she was right, and he didn’t know what got into him, and it must have been temporary insanity, and then when she ranted on, he could act hurt and say why was she so mean to him?
    It worked, too, up to a point. At least it freed him for thinking up anything to say to defend himself. Because it wasn’t a strategy at all— it was really a decision just to lie down and take it. That was how it was with Angie. She wasn’t a lawyer for nothing. She had things to say, she was going to say them— usually two or three times. Listening was no picnic— but on the other hand, it was the only alternative to fleeing the country.
    So that was how his Saturday went. Sunday, he went to Mass with Audrey, and, afterward, they took a drive. This was something they never did together. But he found himself suggesting it, and then there they were off to the Gulf Coast to have lunch. Audrey was like a girl, she was so happy— happy that the last ten years had been wiped out and things she’d thought were true weren’t and never had been. Happy that her baby boy was back. Even happy with Eddie. She had forgiven him big-time.
    They ended up gambling in one of the casinos and-what-the-hell, spending the night there and, most amazing of all, having a nightcap and making love. Really doing it, not just Eddie getting off, which was what it usually felt like anymore— as if Audrey weren’t there at all. Like she was just a prop.
    All of which is to say, that was how he missed the eleven o’clock news, which it was his religion to watch. He picked up the paper Monday morning with a twinge of guilt, but it was nothing to what he felt when he actually saw what he saw— a picture of Aziza Scott, missing person. She hadn’t come home from work Friday night; her ex-husband had reported her