The Axeman's Jazz

just realized I’m a fan of yours.”
    “Uh, well, I don’t quite…”
    “You’re Alexander Bignell, aren’t you? I know you from your book photo.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding. You’ve actually read one of those pieces of shit?”
    “All of them. Even
Fake It Till You Make It
. You’re a complicated guy.”
    “Well, listen, I’m flattered, but I gotta go now.”
    “When can I get my book signed?”
    “I don’t do that shit anymore. I’m just plain Alex and I’m codependent, okay?”
    “You know, I really think your argument’s…” She was acutely conscious of the expectant silence as she searched for the right word—strong, but not gushy; oh hell, gushy…. “I think it’s kind of, well—brilliant, really.”
    “You know, Skip, you might be a cut above the average Bayou babe.”
    “And then again I might be a shameless flatterer interested only in your body.”
    “I like shamelessness in a woman.”
    “Are you free for breakfast tomorrow? I really do want to get my book signed.”
    “Breakfast, hell! What about my body?”
    She closed the deal but hung up sweating, and not because of the weather. Flattery didn’t come anywhere near natural to her.
    She tried Missy again, got her. “Missy, I loved what you said last night. I was wondering—I’m not exactly new in town, but I’ve moved back after some time away. I haven’t made any friends yet, and you and your friend looked so nice. I just wondered … I mean, are the two of you ever free for coffee?”
    She made her voice small and pitiful. Missy the perennial rescuer came running immediately—she was meeting Sonny for coffee at three the next day, and Skip could join them.
    Abe was the easiest of all. “Listen, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I really think you’re attractive, and I wondered…” He asked her to dinner the next night.
    That done, she called Cappello and told her where she stood. “Langdon,” she said, “a date? Breakfast, no big deal, but dinner? What are you hoping to find out?”
    “I don’t know. Have you got any better ideas?”
    “Sure. Routine background checks.”
    “I’m doing those too.”
    Cappello sighed. “Don’t wear yourself out, Skip.”
    Skip had known she’d react like that. She wondered herself if this was creative police work or just plain goofy. But who cared? As long as she didn’t wear herself out, it really didn’t matter. It beat sitting home feeling helpless.

ELEVEN
    TALKING TO DI, Skip had said, “I can’t think of anywhere to meet except the Napoleon House.”
    And Di had said, “I hate the Napoleon House.”
    “Where shall we meet, then?”
    “There isn’t anyplace else.”
    There were hundreds of other places, but no one in the Quarter could ever think of one that was half as convenient, and secretly even Di probably liked it. Even with as much wear and tear as its customers put on it, it retained its graciousness. It was a serene corner, never mind the peeling plaster (or maybe that was the best part). Except for the fact that alcohol was most assuredly served there—by the barrel, it seemed—it was probably as good a place as any for two ladies on a spiritual path to meet.
    Di, twenty minutes late, arrived apologetic—someone had wanted to talk to her. A male someone was Skip’s guess. She couldn’t tell Di’s age, but knew she’d have admirers at ninety.
    “Let me buy you a drink.”
    “I never drink, but…” Her eyes fluttered as she saw Skip’s Pimm’s cup, icy sweat dripping down the glass, its slice of cucumber crisp and erect. “You know what, I think I’ll have a glass of wine. I have one about every six months.”
    Skip smiled. “And hamburgers too, I’ll bet, if you’re like most people. Not much red meat, but every now and then the tiniest treat.”
    “Oh, no. I eat only live foods.”
    No way I’m taking that bait, thought Skip. “I know what you mean,” she said, hoping she sounded as if she did. “Listen, it was nice of you to see me tonight. I’m not feeling too good about things.”
    She let a beat go by, to give her companion a chance to beg her to pour her story out.
    Instead Di gave her a big smile and a pat on the forearm. “Oh, don’t be down—everything’s getting so much better! Listen, we’re really, really onto something in these groups of ours and I just know they’re going to work for you. Don’t you feel it? Did you feel it last night?”
    It seemed such a wildly inappropriate