The Axeman's Jazz

for a big friendly smile; it felt more like a baring of teeth. “Sorry, Mother; rules is rules.”
    Her dad said, “Oh, come on, Skippy. You know it won’t go any farther.”
    Skip was close enough to childhood to be resentful. For nearly two decades you had to follow rules you didn’t even know existed half the time, with nasty consequences if you didn’t; then suddenly the enforcers turned criminal.
    She breathed deeply. “It’s not really dinner-table talk.”
    Mrs. White, who lived up to her name perfectly, with pale skin and prematurely gray hair that looked more blond than otherwise, said, “Ooh, then, by all means tell us. I never miss ‘Murder She Wrote.’ ”
    Dear God.
    “Well, a baby died. He was born addicted to crack, and he was in the hospital for months and then the mother took him home and he was back in the hospital the next morning with half a dozen broken bones.” It had been her case, but it was three months old.
    A flush, only partly from his bourbon and water, spread over Camille’s father’s face. “They should pack them all up and send them back to Africa.”
    “It was a white family.”
    “A what?”
    “White, Mr. White.” Half of it had been.
    She looked around at the downcast faces of her parents and Camille, the furious one of Conrad. “I’m sorry. Police work just isn’t pretty.”
    Her mother’s mouth pursed. No one said anything.
    The waiter hovered. “Ready to order?”
    Skip said, “I really have to go.”
    They all said good-bye, perfectly polite except for her dad, who seemed once again to have tuned out her existence. Camille insisted on walking her out.
    “Listen, I’m really sorry about my dad. I hope you won’t think we’re all that way.”
    What on earth can Conrad have done to deserve this paragon? Do you suppose he can fuck?
    She hugged Camille and wondered if they could be friends.
    After a quick change at home—to khaki slacks and a white shirt—she once again rang Mr. Palmer and Mr. Davies, Linda Lee’s most immediate neighbors. Mr. Davies, the one who traveled, thought he’d seen Linda Lee once, but he wasn’t really sure. He’d certainly never heard any noise from her apartment. Mr. Palmer had spoken to her once or twice and thought her very nice; he was horrified she’d been murdered—that’s the kind of city it was nowadays—but couldn’t shed the slightest glimmer of light.
    Plenty of people in nearby buildings hadn’t been home that afternoon. Skip tried them now. Most were home and none knew anything.
    It was only eight-thirty and she’d practically wrapped up her entire investigation. She went over to Mama Rosa’s and got a meatball sandwich. What Joe had said was right—it probably wouldn’t be the least bit productive to show Linda Lee’s picture around, but neither would going home and turning on the tube. She couldn’t believe this woman hadn’t known anyone in the neighborhood. Somebody, somewhere, must know her, know
something
about her.
    First she went into every place that was open within a six-block radius—and got nothing. Okay, she’d come back tomorrow, when more places were open.
    Next, bars. She tried to put herself in Linda Lee’s place.
    Where would I go if I were new in town, didn’t know anyone, and wanted a drink?
    Home.
    Okay, that suggested wanting something more than a drink. Just to get out of the house maybe. What else? Local color? Company? Music? Guys?
    If guys, then what? A quick and dirty lay? True love?
    True love! Who’d go to a bar to find love?
    But the answer was all too obvious. Someone with no place else to go. Someone with no other ideas and very little imagination. Someone stupid. Linda Lee might easily have been the first, and even the second. She might have been stupid too. But with those books about relationships, Skip didn’t think she’d have gone out looking for cheap sex, and probably not love either. More likely she’d wanted a change of scenery, some conviviality, a little noise, maybe some music—anything but the same four walls and the dead quiet, a quiet she knew wasn’t about to be cut by the sound of a ringing phone.
    So almost any place would do. Someplace nearby, convenient, would be the obvious choice. Good. There were probably no more than eight or nine hundred bars in the Quarter.
    Pat O’Brien’s was perfect—colorful and completely safe, full of tourists, lots of activity, and a beautiful courtyard. No one could be lonely at Pat O’Brien’s. But