The Axeman's Jazz

didn’t merely touch it lightly as she had touched his, and it
was
sexual, was the first of many little moves he’d make if their acquaintanceship continued. Curiously, she found herself relieved—if he was attracted to her, it made him a supplicant in a mild sort of way, gave her a little edge. “You could really blow things for me.”
    She leaned back, hoping it made her less threatening. “I don’t understand.”
    “I’m undercover here. Nobody in New Orleans knows I write these things.”
    “But it was in the paper. I remember.”
    “You remember?”
    “What’s so weird about that? You’re an author I admire and I saw a piece about you. That’s why I read it.”
    “Listen, lady, if you remember, you’re the only one in this godforsaken place who does.”
    “I take it you’re not happy here.”
    “Jesus! Are you sure you’re not a psychologist?”
    “I just hate to see people unhappy, that’s all. Go ahead; call me codependent.”
    “Okay, okay. But don’t change the subject. Can I trust you?”
    “With your bank account, probably not. Not to attack you in a candlelit room, maybe not. Not to lie to you—not entirely. But to buy you breakfast, sure. I said I would and my word’s good.”
    He smiled. “You’re not stupid. I like that.”
    “Hush my mouf’, honey, all us Southerners are stupid.”
    “I meant can I trust you to keep a secret.”
    “Ah. You don’t want anyone to know you’re Alexander Bignell.”
    “Right.”
    “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”
    “You just said your word’s good, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. This can’t go any further.”
    “Of course not.” She shrugged as if the matter was of no more importance than the plot of a movie.
    “I’m writing a book about the twelve-step programs.”
    Skip sat up straight. “Of course! That’s the only thing that makes sense. And you’re free to come and go as you please because all anyone knows is your first name.”
    “So how about it, kid?” He grabbed her wrist again, squeezed this time, a bit more intimately. “Can I trust you?”
    “Certainly. I gave you my word.”
    “I’ll buy breakfast, then.”
    “Don’t be silly. I gave
my
word on that one. But I still need to get a couple of things straight. I was wondering—isn’t there some kind of rule that what’s said in the groups doesn’t go outside them?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t give a damn about that.”
    “Wow. Hard guy.”
    “Look, if I think these things are crap and they’re just ripping people’s feelings off because they really don’t do a damn bit of good and just get your hopes up, then why would I give a good goddamn what their rules are?”
    “How do you know I’m not a dedicated twelve-stepper who’ll betray you?”
    “You just said I could trust you.” He smiled again, obviously relaxing, and the smile had more than a hint of sensuality in it. “Besides, I’ve got a feeling.”
    Right. A feeling a little judicious attention is all you need to get me on your side. And I think I know what sort of attention.
    She said, “Well, you’re right. The other night was my first meeting.”
    “You had the look of a virgin.”
    “Had is right. I was about twelve at the time.”
    He gave her an appreciative look. “Women in New Orleans don’t talk like that. You want wit and spirit, go to New York.”
    “You’re looking in the wrong places, sweetheart. The wit and spirit of the Southern woman are famous throughout the land. But you’re not going to find either one in Al-Anon. Those people take themselves seriously.”
    “Sometimes they can be funny.”
    “I thought you thought nobody in the whole town is funny.”
    “Jesus, this is a shitty town!” He spoke with such sudden violence that Skip jumped. He noticed and tweaked her arm again. He was touching her entirely too much. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    “What’s so bad about my hometown?”
    “Everything’s bad about it. It’s a smelly backwater without an intellectual for five states around.”
    “Yeah, but it’s got charm.”
    “Shit! It’s got falling-down buildings, cholesterol instead of food, and brimstone instead of weather.”
    There were times when she felt like that herself. But this morning she’d gotten up early to have the city’s trademark breakfast by the river, and a slight breeze ruffled her hair, drying the sweat. She felt good; at peace with this place. Even, for the moment, at home.
    “So why are you here, Mr.