Mean Woman Blues

Dinner and a party? That’s the whole thing? That’s no conflict.”
    “A.A., I just can’t do it. I couldn’t look Jimmy Dee in the eye.”
    “Langdon, look at me. This is your old buddy, AA. They love you out in TV-land. Christ the
mayor
loves you. You can do it, and you’re gonna do it. You’re gonna get a search warrant and if you find anything, you’re gonna slap the cuffs on him and bring him in. This city needs that, you understand? We need a victory. We need a bigger budget for more recruits. We gotta get better equipment. How do you think we’re going to get it? Here’s how: You’re going to be our little Cemetery Angel.”
    “You don’t get it: People love Neil Gibson too. It’s going to be divisive.”
    “Who loves him? Rich, white, Quarter rats? Everybody else is gonna hate him.”
    “Oh, hell. It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t if he was guilty; he was just like anybody else, no matter whose friend he was. “All right, A.A. Whatever you say.”
    She got the warrant, served it, found stolen art, and marched her pal Neil down Chartres Street in handcuffs. It was one of the worst moments of her career.
    She got the two others too— William Marks and Michael Layburn, also prominent antique dealers. Layburn was the biggest catch of all: A well-known preservationist, he was particularly active in Save Our Cemeteries.
    Whether A. A. gave them the nickname or they made it up, the media did dub her the Cemetery Angel.
    She could have died.
    Almost the worst part was losing her decorator. Jimmy Dee just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore; she had to make do with the burly straight guys. One of them picked up Dee-Dee’s idea for Mardi Gras beads and music, though he chose marching tunes instead of Bach. Despite Skip’s own conflicts, the Madonna Market opened on such a festive note that she was able to muster up the requisite smile wreaths.
    She dressed carefully for the occasion, in a plum-colored pantsuit that brought out her green eyes. Her job, she figured, was to be a hostess. It wasn’t all bad. People cried when they found their lost possessions; some of them hugged her.
    It was nearly noon when a young woman approached her with a picture of a lost statue, a little boy who looked too sweet to be real, dressed in some kind of elaborate, maybe Victorian, outfit. She was nearly frantic. “I can’t find Billy. Billy just ain’t here.”
    This was the down side. A lot of the stolen stuff would never be recovered. But there was something unusual about this young woman: She was the only black person in the place. Skip noted this only in passing— no time to worry about it now— and grabbed another officer, one of her burly decorators. “Hey, have you seen this statue?”
    He screwed up his face. “I think so. It sure looks familiar.”
    “Got any idea where it might be?”
    “Let me look in the back.” Seeing the avid look on the woman’s face, he made his escape.
    Skip was trying to think of something comforting to say to her when she felt someone’s presence, someone listening just over her shoulder. It was Kevin O’Malley, a new kid from the
Times-Picayune
, whom Skip had just met. He was trying to horn in on the conversation. Seeing his notebook, the young woman took the opportunity to glom on. “Hey, you a reporter? Could you help me— just listen a minute. I can’t find my mama’s Billy. Please talk to me. Maybe you could publish this—” She held up the picture. “Maybe somebody know where he is.”
    The kid lit up. He’d found exactly what he wanted, or thought he had. Skip felt slightly uneasy about the woman, but Kevin was a big boy. If the woman’s story rang false, it was up to him to figure it out. Skip left the two of them alone and moved on. It was only a tiny vignette in a very long day, forgotten in an instant, remembered only when she saw the next day’s paper.
    Once again, the
Times-Picayune
made a hero out of her. The paper ran plenty of pictures of crying people, so overcome by finding their wandering statues you’d have thought they were all Michelangelos. As a sidebar, it also ran a piece about people who’d been disappointed, including the young woman looking for “Billy.” The reporter had granted the supplicant’s wish and published Billy in all his glory. If Skip hadn’t been so cynical, it would have brought a tear to her eye.
    But cynic that she was, she didn’t give it a thought until that afternoon, when she got a call from