Jazz Funeral (18 page)

Was she psychic or something?

“Mine does,” she said. “Thanks for your time.” As she clicked off the porch, he thought,
She’s not a cop; she’s something else
.

“Wait a minute—can I see your badge?”

“Sure.” She reached into her purse. She was a cop. One who knew zazen from Vipassana and all of Faulkner’s titles. And she might or might not be psychic, but she sure as hell wasn’t dumb. She was the first woman he’d ever met who made him nervous.

He sat down and thought about that; meditated on it. No, she wasn’t. In his teens, they’d all made him nervous. If he had to be out in the real world, they probably still would. But here in the ivory tower it was different. Better. They all wanted to please him.

And he’d worked hard for it.

But still. The way she stood, that defiant don’t-fuck-with-me way—it was intriguing. This was a woman who really didn’t give a shit whether he noticed her or not.

It was not only intriguing, it was scary.

Steve was lying on Skip’s brand new, light gray and white striped sofa, a long-neck Dixie balanced on his bare chest. He wore a pair of khaki shorts and nothing else. The AC was off, the windows open, and the ceiling fan spun lazily. It was just twilight, but he had turned on one or two lamps, so that the whole room, with its cantaloupe walls, glowed invitingly. Coming in, key still in the door, Skip felt a great surge rise up from her chest and, to her horror, fall out of her eyes. She shut the door and turned around quickly, jerking off her suit jacket, so Steve wouldn’t see the tears.

“Hard day catching felons?”

She kept taking off clothes, the sudden rush of tears gone, but the rush of soft feeling remaining—love, gratitude, whatever it was. Perhaps, she thought, it was simple aesthetic pleasure.

She was down to bra and panties now. She walked over and plopped down beside him, bending over for a big beery kiss. He could hold her with only one arm, the other being occupied with the beer. He circled her waist and let his fingers brush her back like feathers, coming to rest down around the dimples. She said, “What’d you do all day?” She didn’t think she’d ever felt so completely at peace.

“My job,” he said. “It turns out just because Ham’s dead doesn’t mean Second Line Square is. I’ve got a contract with the foundation, and they said go ahead and fulfill it.” He sat up so that they were nearly eye to eye.

“Who did?”

“The board of directors.”

“So you’ve been out at the fairgrounds.”

“Yep. Saw Taj Mahal and Marcia Ball. And some local bands.”

“Good stuff?”

“Uh-huh. Hungry?”

“Exhausted, mostly. But we could have gumbo. I made some and froze it.”

“But did you thaw it?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Let’s go out.”

She was about to protest that she was too tired, but how often did Steve Steinman come to town?
You gotta get it while you can
, she thought. “Okay. But low-key.”

“The Gumbo Shop.”

“Done. A shower first, though.”

“I think I might drink me a beer and listen to some tunes.”

She slipped into the shower as he was putting on an Alan Toussaint tape. She was loving the sense of easy domesticity.

He’d picked up all his clothes and things. And all hers.

That’s why it seems so nice in there—because he’s made it nice
.

She hadn’t expected that.

Jesus, he wants to go out, we’ll go out. He wants my right arm, he can have that too.

The crowded feeling was starting to wane. This contented feeling was probably dangerous as hell. Couldn’t last—had to turn ugly. Or just disappear, along with Steve.

All the more reason to go with it.

Laissez les bon temps roulez.

It was a phrase for tourists, or so she’d thought till it popped into her head.

Well, hell, I’m a tourist in this country
.

Being in love was a new thing for her. She didn’t know what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t this softness, this unaccustomed sweetness, as if life was a pillow, a pillow trimmed with meringue lace that you could eat at will, and it would miraculously form itself again, always as delicate and intricate as it had been before.

She put on off-white shorts and last year’s JazzFest T-shirt, a black one dotted with musical instruments, horns mostly.

Emerging, she saw that Steve had likewise covered his chest, and had slipped on sandals. His T-shirt was from Disneyland.

“I forgot to tell you. Jimmy Dee called.”

She grinned evilly. “Should we ask him to join us?”

“How about if we muddle along by ourselves?”

But as they walked to the Gumbo Shop, he said, “Jimmy Dee said he needed to talk to you.”

“He did?” That was unlike Dee-Dee. To call instead of dropping by.

“He sounded a little upset.” That was very unlike him. To show weakness in front of Steve; in front of her, for that matter. But maybe it was nothing. Maybe she’d forgotten the rent.

“I’ll call him when we get back.”

Steve patted her backside. “Did the little woman have a good day?”

Skip sighed. It was a gentler lead-in than usual, and he’d waited longer—a lot longer—but there was no getting around it: He remained fascinated with her work. Would pump her avidly for details. Though now that she thought of it, not so avidly as he used to. Usually it made her tired to talk about it after doing it all day, but on the rare occasions when he kept his distance, she quite enjoyed it—when she didn’t feel like she had to perform and maintain discretion at the same time. And tonight she had something to say.

“A hellish day,” she said. “Except for the last part. I keep worrying about Melody. What do you think of a nineties’ kid who’s got a thing for Janis Joplin?”

Steve shrugged. “She’s got good taste.”

“But Janis died.”

“So did John Lennon—it happens to everybody, haven’t you heard?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just got a weird feeling she’s got a self-destructive streak.”

But Steve wanted the good stuff. “About that last part you mentioned. Was that by any chance the part where you had a little talk with Nick Anglime?”

“Now how’d you know that?”

“Well, who wouldn’t if they could? Besides, I saw the way you just happened to manage to speak to him last night.”

“That was for your benefit.”

They got to the restaurant.

“They do a nice gumbo.”

“Good. I’ll have that and the shrimp etouffee.”

“Just the gumbo for me.” When they’d ordered, she said, “First I ran around all day listening to people’s lies.”

“Everybody lied to you?”

“Well, let’s put it this way—they told their own versions of things.”

“So how can you tell when they’re lying? Do your palms itch or what?”

“I’ve got a better system.”

“Check out their stories? Even I could do that.”

“Okay, then. I get this weird feeling right behind my left ear. You want to hear about Nick Anglime?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“Well, he lives in a baronial manor.”

“What would you expect? It’s on Audubon Place.”

“The place isn’t Southern at all, it’s more European. It’s stone, for one thing. And inside, it’s like a museum. All beveled glass and dark wood and Oriental rugs and Tang Dynasty porcelain.”

“Wait a minute—how do you know the porcelain’s provenance?”

She gave him a grin. “I made that part up. But it sure as hell didn’t come from Pier 1. Even the walls were works of art; little designs painted on. Stuff on stuff. And colors so rich and deep you could sink in if you touched them.”

He nodded.

“And hung with sconces and mirrors and very dark art. European, I’m pretty sure, but I didn’t recognize any of the artists. And the ceilings were three-dimensional.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t know—carved or something. Vaulted. Like ceilings in Italian palaces. Oh, and some were painted too—maybe frescoed for all I know. And the floors were marble—those that weren’t parquet. I didn’t go in the kitchen, but I guarantee you there’s no linoleum in there. Probably Spanish tiles.”

“Excuse me. The witness is speculating.”

“It’s like he has so much money, he has to invent things to do with it. Travel all over the world to find things to buy.”

“Well, how’d it look?”

“What do you mean?”

“Gaudy or nice?”

“Aren’t we snotty tonight.”

“Well?”

She shrugged. “Both, I guess. It’s fabulous. It’s a sultan’s palace.

“It’s got some
harim,
I bet.”

“I don’t know. He might be an ascetic in some ways.”

“I beg your pardon? The guy’s living in a stately pleasure dome.”

“Well, that’s it—it’s stately. More sedate than anything else. He’s got kids living there too. Don’t ask. You’ve been to Buddhist centers, haven’t you? They’re always beautiful. Very well thought out, but formal. Churches too.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t see anything ascetic about spending all that money.”

“I only said ‘in some ways’—I guess I meant about the women. He just doesn’t seem wildly sexual. And anyway, he’s a spiritual seeker.”

“That doesn’t preclude sex, but I’m too fascinated to argue the point. Keep going.”

“Claims he sits zazen.” Something was bothering her. She paused, but it didn’t come clear. “I can’t tell you why, but I don’t get the impression he’s a wildly committed Zennie.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure. The weird ear feeling, I guess.”

Steve slurped gumbo. “He seemed like a dilettante?”

“A little. I don’t know. He seemed tired. Burned out, I guess, but not from drugs. At least not recently. Just…” She spread her arms helplessly. “… tired of life, maybe. I can’t explain it. I thought he was going to be mesmerizing, but he hardly has any personality at all.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Well, not that you can get at.”

“Hold it here. Baby, this is Nick Anglime we’re talking about. That’s the closest we’ve got to Elvis himself in terms of star power. Are you telling me that you, Detective Margaret Langdon, are so sophisticated you just weren’t impressed one little bit?”

“Impressed!” She started to giggle. “Omigod. Impressed!” She laughed till tears ran down her face and had to be wiped by the more alert Steve. Other diners stared, and the waitress brought a glass of water. Steve merely waited.

“Impressed!” she said, when the power of speech returned.

“Skip. You’re more tired than I thought. You want to go home?”

She still couldn’t stop laughing. But finally the thing spent itself, and she drank her water. “Was I impressed?” she said. “I nearly wet my pants. This is Nick Anglime we’re talking about. He doesn’t have to have a personality. Listen, I stammered, I fished for words, I couldn’t meet his eyes. Are you kidding? Impressed! I’ll tell you about impressed. It was all I could do not to roll around on the floor and beg to kiss his ring or something.”

“Well, I’m glad he wasn’t mesmerizing or anything.”

“Okay, okay. Maybe he was just a tiny bit mesmerizing. I mean, aside from the fact that he’s an extremely good-looking dude, there’s something else. It’s that he’s withdrawn. By not giving you the slightest notion who he is, he makes you want to know. The more withdrawn he seems, the more fascinating it is in a weird kind of way.”

“You’re sick.”

“Well, think about it. He’s the nearest thing to God in the pop culture pantheon. So you go in all ready to sit at the feet of greatness, and you don’t get greatness.”

“And that just makes you want it all the more. I guess I can see it.” He was staring down at the bill, probably figuring the tip.

Shyly, she stroked his first two fingers. “You want dessert? Bread pudding?”

“Are you kidding? I just ate the equivalent of three meals. Anyway, we’d have to go to the Palace Cafe for that. You’re way too tired.”

“No, I’m not. I want to walk through the Quarter.”

“What for?”

“I want to look at street bands.”

“Look at? Doesn’t one usually listen to them?”

“I want to check out runaway teenage singers.”

“Melody!”

She tried not to look smug. “Sure. Where would you go if you were sixteen and knew a tune or two?”

He looked at her with respect. “That’s brilliant.”

“My weird ear thought of it.”

He looked jazzed. “Let’s do it. But no bread pudding. Beignets.”

They walked to Royal, and over to Jackson Square on the way to Cafe du Monde, but didn’t see a sign of a teenage singer. Over their beignets, Steve said, “I’m going to go to Cookie’s tonight—give you a little time to recover.”

“What?” She’d heard it, but she didn’t want to believe it.

“I thought I’d go to—”

“I meant … why?”

He touched her hair. “Look at you. You’re beyond bushed.”

He’s seen me with a concussion. Could I look worse than that? I must be a hag.

Desperate to register a protest, yet not knowing what to do, she said nothing. It had been such a perfect evening, how could this be happening? He was the one who needed time alone, that was obvious. It was a first in their relationship—he always wanted to be with her, never slept at Cookie’s, even when he was officially staying there. It was a first, and it was probably the beginning of the end. He’d had enough of her already, couldn’t take her in large doses, and the irony was, she was falling more deeply in love every second.

But of course she knew that it wasn’t irony at all—or at least not irony in microcosm. It was the greater irony of the tolerance difference between the sexes. She’d heard about it, read about it, endured endless complaining about it from women friends.

But I never thought it could happen to me. I was so cautious. I let him take the lead in everything. I didn’t dare let myself feel anything until I was sure about how he felt. I did everything right, dammit!

Alone at home, feeling like a deflated balloon, she called Jimmy Dee.

“And where,” he said, arriving joint in hand, “is that terrifying bear of a man. You did call me for protection?”

“I thought you wanted me, Dee-Dee darlin’.”

“Well, listen to Little Miss Double Entendre. You didn’t used to have such a filthy mind.”