House of Blues

by Julie Smith

"For my project. A profile of a heroin dealer."

  "Are you awake? Does this mean I can turn on the light?"

  "I guess I am."

  She groped for the table lamp. "There isn't that much heroin here. Only in spurts. It's all cocaine. Mostly crack."

  "A really nasty crack dealer."

  "I can't think where you'd find one. They're usually such sweethearts."

  He said, "I won't ask what you've been out on."

  But of course he was dying to know—he was trying to be discreet.

  "You'll read about it in the paper. You know Hebert's? Somebody walked into the owner's beautiful Garden District home and blew him away during dinner. Three others missing."

  "Kidnapped?"

  "God, I hope not. Considering how this isn't going to help anyone's nerves, even without that."

  "Paranoia—for my film. White urban paranoia."

  "Why not?"

  "No good. No real excuse to come back to New Orleans—I could do it anywhere."

  "It's worse here."

  She wanted him to come back. He lived in Los Angeles, and she was missing him more and more lately. She had let him walk out of her life a few months ago, or rather, had provoked a fight with him, out of her own insecurity.

  And then he'd walked out.

  She didn't realize how big a hole he was going to leave. How big an ass she'd been.

  Stupid and cruel. It hurt to apply the words to herself, but they were true and she knew it and she couldn't think about it without feeling her face go hot.

  How could I?

  To this day she wasn't sure. She just knew she'd been scared to death and acted out of panic.

  In the end, she flew to Los Angeles and begged, something she could never have imagined she'd do. She had simply turned up at his door, having no idea whether or not she'd be welcome.

  He didn't say a word, just broke into a smile of such unmistakable delight she'd laughed, and he hugged her so hard she felt petite for once in her life.

  He was a film editor now and very successful, but he missed his first love, the one he'd had before Skip—making his own documentaries. Hence, urban paranoia.

  "How about a day in the life of a cop?"

  "I don't know if you could really capture the passion." She captured a part of him.

  "I'm sure you're right. Police work is so exciting."

  "But sweaty."

  "I could rise above that." He was starting to. "The only thing is, I don't know enough about it."

  "Maybe you could find a cop and just—you know—pound a confession out of her."

  "With a blunt instrument?"

  "It's a thought."

  He shook his head. His hand closed around her breast. "Maybe I'd just squeeze the truth out."

  "She might have to frisk you for weapons."

  "What would she do if she found one?"

  "Put it in a real safe place."

  * * *

  She awoke refreshed.

  The night before, after canvassing the neighbors, she'd checked the hospitals and even run rap sheets on Reed and Dennis. Neither had a record, despite Dennis's drug history.

  What remained in the way of background checks were calls to Eileen Moreland, Skip's friend at the Times-Picuyune, and to Alison Gaillard, known privately to Skip as proprietor of Gossip Central. The only clips Eileen could find involved nothing more exciting than Hebert appearances at charity functions, and Reed and Dennis's wedding. There wasn't even a clip file on Grady.

  "No problem," Skip said to herself, dialing with delicious anticipation. "Alison will dish the dirt."

  Alison could come up with amazing stuff even when a family was obscure. The Heberts were nearly as visible as the Neville Brothers—she'd know everything down to the hairdressers Reed and Sugar went to.

  "This is Alison," said her machine. "John and I are having our first vacation since the baby was born. You're crazy if you think I'm saying where we are."

  Skip actually held the phone in front of her face and stared at it. "Well, damn you, Alison Gaillard."

  When she'd recovered from the shock, she decided to go see Nina Phillips, who'd already been a good source and probably had a lot more in her.

  She was shown through a couple of heavy swinging doors, around a corner or two, and into a complex of offices—three or four, it looked like. Probably one each for Arthur, Sugar, Nina, and the chef.

  Nina was on the phone, ordering the day's supplies. Sugar was sitting beside her, making her life miserable, as far as Skip I could see.

  Nina indicated a chair. "A case of almonds," she told the phone. "A case of anchovies; two cases beef base, two cases lobster base; one case crab boil; four tubs Creole mustard; ten cases vegetable oil; four sacks rice; twenty-five sacks rock salt."

  She hung up and, without looking at Skip and Sugar, made another call. "Hello, Mr. Daroca; Nina at Hebert's. I need four cases of shrimp, please, sir; a hundred pounds of crawfish; fifteen pounds of alligator; fifteen pounds of frog legs; five gallons of oysters; seventy pounds of pompano fillet, and . . . let's see, I think that's it."

  She paused to listen for a minute. "No. No crab today."

  Sugar shook her head violently.

  "Just a minute, Mr. Daroca."

  Sugar said, "What do you mean no crab? We have nine crab dishes on the menu."

  "Jumbo lump crabmeat's eighteen-fifty a pound."

  "So? Pompano's nine-fifty. Would we serve tilapia or drum as the catch of the day? Of course not—a restaurant of this caliber serves pompano."

  "If I bought crab at that price, we'd have to charge so much for it, no one would order it."

  "Well, can't you get imitation crab?"

  "Your husband always said, 'This is Hebert's, Ms. Phillips. You order crab remoulade, it better be crab.' "

  "We'll just do half and half," said Sugar. "Nobody'll know the difference" Her expression said she was absolutely confident no one had ever had such a clever idea.

  "Reed tried that about five years ago. You know what happened? The chef walked out."

  "Can't we just get a new chef?"

  Nina closed her eyes and picked up the receiver again. "Mr. Daroca, I'll have to call you back." She glanced briefly at Skip, apparently deciding she didn't mind if she had a witness. "Sugar, you've had a bad shock. I know you must feel you have to take up the slack, with Arthur and Reed gone, but you've really got to give yourself a break. You shouldn't be here, stressing yourself out at a time like this." She brushed hair off her forehead. "God knows I wouldn't be if I had any choice."

  "Nina Phillips, don't you patronize me."

  "I'm not patronizing you, I'm just trying to do what's best for the restaurant right now."

  "It's not your restaurant."

  Skip wondered how Nina was going to answer that one. Sugar was apparently one of those people who specialized in the unanswerable. Her own mother was one as well.

  Nina brushed at her hair again. "Sugar, honey, I know you want to do what's best, but you have to remember, your husband was raised in this business. Reed went to Cornell to learn how to run a restaurant; I've had five years' experience here, and five before that over at Dooky Chase's. You can't just walk in one morning and take over a multimillion dollar business."

  Sugar looked as if she couldn't decide whether to destroy the room or cry. It was a small child's anger and hurt Skip saw on her face.

  She must have been some mom, Skip thought. A giant—sized four-year-old.

  Nina's voice was very gentle. "Now, I'm going to talk for a minute with Detective Langdon. When I'm done, I need to be able to make my groceries."

  Sugar looked briefly at Skip. Her eyes were furious, but the hurt and humiliation in them far outstripped the anger. She turned and left on noisy high heels, yet Skip thought "stalked out" too dignified a term for her exit. She thought she heard a sniffle as the older woman passed.

  Nina was too frustrated for discretion. "She's like a five-year-old. She suddenly decides she
's something she isn't, and no one can tell her different. Life's been pretty easy for a couple of years, ever since she became an artist—never had a lesson in her life, but at least she didn't bother anybody. Now she's an expert on the cost of crab—can you imagine?"

  "Sorry it's a bad time, but I really need to ask you some questions."

  Nina was suddenly all business. "Of course. I apologize for all this."

  "First of all, do you mind if I have a look around Mr. Hebert's office?"

  Nina hesitated. Was it her call? Skip could almost hear her wondering. Finally, she sighed, evidently deciding she was in charge. "Go ahead. But I'll stay with you."

  As Skip began going through papers, Nina reached for the phone and dialed. "Grady Hebert," she said. "Your mama's been down at the restaurant creating havoc. If you don't keep her out of here, there's not going to be any Hebert's."

  She hung up, presumably having vented her spleen on a machine.

  Skip searched quietly, found nothing that meant anything to her. When she was satisfied, she said, "I'rn puzzled about something. Mrs. Hebert isn't acting very bereaved. How did she and Arthur get along?"

  Nina thought about it. "I guess they more or less hated each other. But she probably still misses him."

  Unless his death was a hit. It wouldn't be the first time.

  "I've got to tell you, this is how she is, though. She runs around in circles so she doesn't have to sit down and think about anything. The more upset she is, the crazier she makes everyone else."

  "I really came to talk about Dennis. You're pretty sure he's really off drugs?"

  "He's a pillar of AA. Has been for years." She glanced quickly at Skip. "Believe me, I'd know if he was using again. Reed would tell me. And she wouldn't put up with it for a minute. That was part of the deal when they got married."

  "It seems like a pretty odd match."

  Nina shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no. Reed got him off drugs—does that tell you anything?"

  "Should it?"

  "She's the classic codependent; just loves helping out. I should know. It's a common complaint."

  "What drugs did he do?"

  "Heroin."

  "Coke?"

  She shook her head. "Don't know. Only know about the heroin. And alcohol; lots of it."

  "It's hard to imagine." Skip had blurted it; she instantly regretted it.

  "What do you mean? You're a cop; you've seen it all."

  "Reed sounds like such a competent woman. It's hard to understand the attraction."

  Nina sighed. "Well, there are books and books on it. Or you could go to Al-Anon, if you're really that interested. She's a dynamo, and he needs one to get him going."

  "He's weak, you mean."

  "I guess so." She hesitated. "I don't know if you can really say a person who's kicked a habit like that is weak. But he's certainly no ball of fire."

  "Do you know what his old haunts are? Places he liked to hang?"

  "I never asked, to tell you the truth."

  "Who would know?"

  "Well, you could go see his family."

  "I'd like to meet his business partner as well."

  "Ah. The lovely Silky Sullivan."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Nina nodded. "Uptown girl. You know how they go in for nicknames. She must have been Susan or something and next thing you know she was a horse."

  Skip couldn't help smiling. It really was a very New Orleans name—there'd once been a cop named that, an Irish Catholic who converted to Judaism.

  She got the necessary addresses and phoned the Sullivan-Foucher enterprise—known as Lush Life—but got no answer. The Uptown girl now lived in the Faubourg Marigny, in a charming double shotgun newly painted light blue with teal trim.

  No one answered Skip's ring, but she persisted. It was a good five minutes before a woman in jeans came to the door, dirt up to her elbows.

  "Sorry," she said, when Skip had identified herself. "I was out in the back. I'm so upset about Dennis I took the day off. Come with me, will you?"

  Sullivan walked the length of the house and stepped into the backyard, where she found a hose and washed off the dirt. She was nearly as tall as Skip, who was an even six feet, but Sullivan was a good deal thinner. She was lanky and angular. Skip couldn't banish the impression that she had the feel about her of a thoroughbred—that her name, probably applied when she was a baby, had somehow come to fit. Her short hair was brown and shiny-indeed silky; her skin was porcelain.

  "How can I help you?"

  "You know what happened last night?"

  "I know Arthur was killed and everyone else is gone, if that's what you mean. I'm nearly out of my mind." Skip thought her eyes grew wet as she spoke.

  "You're close to the family?"

  "To Dennis. And of course Sally's adorable, but I hardly know Reed. I mean, she's always been very nice, I guess I've known her since Icebreakers"—seventh grade subscription dances—"but we never had much in common."

  "And Dennis? How do you know Dennis?"

  She turned slightly pink. "I'm not supposed to say."

  Skip said, "AA. I know about that."

  "He was the one who got me into it. He really helped me a lot.

  I mean—a lot." She shrugged. "We were both into plants, so we finally went into business together. Oh, God, what's going to happen to me now?"

  Skip wondered what their financial arrangement was. "Did Dennis put up the money?"

  "No. I did. But he's indispensable—I can't run this thing without him. I've been on the phone all day—do you have any idea what happened over there? At Arthur and Sugar's?"

  This was Skip's least favorite kind of a question. "Sorry, it's under investigation. I really can't discuss it. Tell me—how has it worked out? Your business, I mean?"

  "Well, it's only been a few months. But so far, fantastic. Just being around Dennis is like—I don't know—being born again."

  "That's pretty strong."

  Sullivan had been examining one of her plants. She turned to stare at Skip. "I must sound crazy. Let me start over. I come from a family of macho men—everybody's got to prove how big and mean he is. There's a sweetness about Dennis; a sort of quiet gentleness that's the most soothing thing I've ever been around."

  She's in love with him.

  Skip said, "You'd never guess it from his picture."

  Sullivan laughed. "I know. You should see him—piercing, scary eyes; and that brooding look. There was an Irishman in the woodpile somewhere. I know because half the Sullivans have it. Only they don't just look violent—they are."

  "Have you heard from him, Silky?"

  Sullivan stared at her quizzically. "I'd have told you if I had."

  "Where do you think he is?"

  "You think I know? I'd go get him if I knew."

  "Tell me about your business arrangement."

  "I put up the money because I had it. We pay ourselves salaries, but any profit above that goes to me until I'm paid off. After that we split."

  "How about insurance?"

  She shrugged. "We've got some."

  "Any life insurance?"

  "Life insurance? Why on earth would we need that?" Skip didn't speak for a moment, and Sullivan apparently realized the irony of what she'd said. "Oh, God." She brought one hand to her mouth and bit it.

  When she'd gotten control, she said, "We don't have life insurance. "

  "Dennis probably knew some pretty questionable characters when he was using. Maybe you know them too."

  "Are you kidding? I grew up on First Street. I did my drinking where it was socially acceptable."

  "Did he tell you about his other life? As an addict?"

  "Not much." Something in her face closed down.

  "Look, I'm trying to find him."

  "Detective, I can't help you. If I could, I would, but I really can't. Sober people usually don't talk that much about that part of their lives—the thing they've left behind."

  "I thought that was w
hat AA meetings were all about."

  "I could tell you what Dennis went through emotionally—if that's what you mean. But I wouldn't. We have a saying: 'What we hear in the rooms stays in the rooms.' "

  "I'm more interested in the people he knew then. Who he hung out with and where."

  "I'm sorry. I really don't have the least idea."

  Skip handed her a card. "Let me know if you think of anything?

  5

  Dennis's parents lived in an old neighborhood near Mercy Hospital, perfectly respectable but not prestigious—"yatty," a friend of Skip's called it; full of the working-class whites known as "yats" to white-collar New Orleanians.

  The family homestead was a neat house that could have used paint but wasn't yet an eyesore. It looked as if its owners cared but had put off painting for a year too many. In the yard were bushes pruned into roundish shapes, suggesting attention; so the peeling paint was probably a function of economics. The house was a bungalow style with trellislike ironwork pillars that held up the porch. Four steps led to a little waist-high gate of the same fanciwork—perhaps there had been a dog once, but there was no barking now, so it seemed an oddly superfluous luxury. At the rear of the porch there was an old-fashioned screen door. It was a peaceful structure that reminded Skip of small houses in sleepy country towns. When she identified herself, Mrs. Foucher drew in her breath.

  "He's dead. Dennis is dead, isn't he?"

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. We have no word of him yet. I'm just here to ask you some questions. I'm trying to find him."

  Mrs. Foucher had a tissue in her hand that she had squeezed the life out of. She was overweight and her face looked as if it was probably sad even when no one was missing or dead. "Truly? I thought he was dead. Milton, I thought he was dead."

  Her husband said, "It's all right, Josie. It's all right now." He put an arm around her shoulder and turned to Skip, holding open the screen door. "Come in, dear lady. Permit me."

  The formal, old-fashioned mode of speech sounded strange to Skip's ears.

  They're such ordinary white people, she thought. But the town was full of families like this—some members "white," some "black." Mrs. Foucher was the lighter, with gray-streaked brown hair, and her husband had darkish hair, also graying, which he wore with a moustache.