The Axeman's Jazz

as loud as he pleased.
    She answered the door in a towel, having just stepped from the shower.
    “Oh me-oh my-oh,” said her guest. “It’s Venus of de bayou.”
    “As a matter of fact, Dee-Dee, it’s the second time I’ve been called a goddess in twenty-four hours.”
    “Do tell.” He offered his early evening joint, which she waved away, and strode in, closing the door.
    “Your version was better. The other person said all women were goddesses.”
    “Well, some are more so. May I nuzzle your neck?”
    “By all means.”
    After a brief caress, he said, “What news of your oafish swain?”
    “I’m cheating on him tonight.”
    “With me, you mean? I don’t recall asking.”
    “I wish, Dee-Dee; don’t I wish. I’ve got a date with a character named Abe.”
    “Abe what?”
    “I don’t know. I met him in a twelve-step program. First names only.”
    “My dainty darling, no! You can’t be going out with some anonymous meeting-cruiser! There’s a killer on the loose, or haven’t you heard?”
    “Worse news, he’s not only a suspect, he’s a creep.”
    “Oh, Jesus, I just had a flash. A truly horrible thought came over me. You’re absolutely sure you don’t know this man’s name?”
    “Actually, I think I do. He left it on the machine when he called to confirm.” She thought back. “It’s Morrison.”
    “Oh, no! Worst fears confirmed. Abe Morrison. Awful Abe to everybody on Gravier Street.”
    “You know him?”
    “This is for your job? Is that what this is about?”
    “It’s not for my health, Dee-Dee. Dress me, will you?”
    He flung open her closet. “Black,” he pronounced. “For deepest mourning.”
    “Dee-Dee, it’s the middle of summer.”
    “This!” He pulled out a calf-length sundress, khaki green with a dropped waist.
    “Why this?”
    “It’s olive drab. The color of his personality.”
    She went in the bathroom to slip it on. “Okay, Dee-Dee, I’ve got five minutes. Tell me who the hell he is.”
    “In my opinion,” he shouted through the closed door, “he’s quite capable of serial murder. Even mass murder. Easily capable.”
    Oh, shit.
Abasolo would be covering her, but they both could have used a little advance warning.
    “What the hell do you mean?” She burst out the door, ready to pick him up and shake the information out of him.
    But he burst out laughing. “Officer Darling, you’re so cute when you’re terrified.”
    “I mean it, Jimmy Dee.”
    “My, my, she means it. Okay then. Maybe I overstated the case a tiny little bit. Maybe the world’s primo pompous bore isn’t
necessarily
a killer. But I’ll tell you one damn thing—forced to remain in his company for long,
you
might become one.”
    She’d agreed to meet Abe at the bar in the Monteleone. Back in the shadows, she could make out Abasolo, sipping a Coke. And there was Abe—in a sport coat over an open-necked shirt.
    She’d never have thought to wear a dress, would have automatically thrown on some sort of summer pants outfit if Jimmy Dee hadn’t been clowning, but the dress was the right thing, she saw. Abe not only smiled when he saw her, he nodded—nodded several times, almost imperceptibly, but he very definitely did it. She felt like a blue-ribbon heifer at a 4-H show and reflected that it was a new experience—no man had done this to her before.
    Probably because I haven’t dated that much.
    He said, “You look perfect. I like a skirt that swirls.”
    It was weird, but better swirling skirts than leather dog collars. And it was soon explained. He was into Cajun dancing.
    They went to Michaul’s, a warehouse of a restaurant with a live Cajun band and a dance floor as big as a bistro plunked down in the middle. The band was hot and skirts were aswirl. A mural of bayou scenes surrounded communal tables spread with blue-and-white checked cloths. Ceiling fans turned, though the AC was blasting. Bales of cotton hung from the ceiling, along with an authentic pirogue. A portrait of a rare swamp animal—an “Ali-posa-fisha-coona”—seemed perfectly plausible at a place that offered drinks like a “nutty Cajun (Amaretto daiquiri).”
    “Trust me,” said Abe. “The food’s great. Women always get that look when they first walk in here—like maybe it’s a place for the LSU-Ole Miss crowd.”
    “Do they?”
    “Yeah, but they end up loving it.”
    “A funny thing. I’m getting the feeling I’m part of a mile-long parade.”
    “Hey, we’re adults.”
    “What’s