House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  "He just pooped in the kitchen."

  She brushed a handful of sticky curls back from her face and started silently counting, but she only made it to three. If she ever got this mad on the job, she hated to think what could happen.

  "You take that creature out of here, and by the time I get out of the shower he better be Rin Tin Tin and you better have my kitchen clean."

  "Okay, okay. I just have to get his leash."

  As she wasn't about to walk by those fast—snapping teeth, that meant she had to wait another century or two before she could go into her own home. When she did, the smell of fresh dogshit greeted her.

  She stayed in the shower about half an hour—at any rate, longer than she ever had, because the water was starting to go tepid, which it never had before.

  When she came out, she pulled on a light cotton robe and lay down on the bed, feeling slightly better, especially since she heard sounds that sounded like cleaning up down below.

  In a while Steve joined her. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you didn't like dogs."

  She sat up. "I don't like dogs? Excuse me—there's a big difference in not liking dogs and being attacked in my own home."

  "He's for Kenny. For that little problem he has."

  She was bewildered. "What?"

  "He needs a friend. So I got him one—a nice fuzzy one."

  "Wait a minute. You think you can cure Kenny of bed-wetting by siccing Cujo on him? What do you plan to do—scare the piss out of him?"

  "I just think having a dog will make him feel secure."

  "Haven't you noticed that animal is vicious?"

  "He just doesn't like you, that's all."

  "Doesn't like me! He nearly tore my throat out. Well, look, let's say for a minute that he's just the most precious little pooch and Kenny loves him to death. What do you think Jimmy Dee's going to think?"

  "Jimmy Dee?"

  "Yes, Jimmy Dee. The kid's uncle and guardian. Have you noticed how absolutely fabulous he made that house, just for those kids? How do you think he's going to like the last of the timber wolves leaping up on the dining room table and scarfing the pasta?"

  "Jimmy Dee," Steve said again, as if he'd just heard of him for the first time.

  "Did you get that thing from the pound?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Okay, well, Kenny's going to ask that too. So here's how it's going to go—assuming we don't have to pump Napoleon's stomach to get Kenny out. Meaning this is the best case scenario. "Kenny and Napoleon fall in love. But Jimmy Dee says he can't have the dog. So then he knows Napoleon's got to go back to the pound, where he's going to meet a horrible end. How do you think that's going to make him feel?"

  "God, you're being nasty."

  She was, and she knew it. But somehow she just couldn't stop. "Nasty! I just came home to a mouth full of teeth and a kitchen full of shit. Anyway, I can't get over how thoughtless you were about this."

  "Thoughtless! Nobody else is doing anything for Kenny."

  "That isn't fair and you know it."

  "You have the nerve to tell me—oh shit, listen."

  Skip heard children's voices. "Where'd you put Napoleon?"

  "In the courtyard. Tied up. Don't worry."

  By now the dog had set up a racket. Without another word, Steve went tearing downstairs. Skip stopped to pull on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

  She arrived in the courtyard to find a young man on the ground with Sheila bending over him, Steve holding Napoleon and looking grim, and Kenny staring wide-eyed, holding out a hand for the dog to sniff.

  Napoleon's tail began to wag. A pink tongue came out and licked Kenny's hand. Gaining confidence, Kenny began to pet the dog's massive head. Napoleon snuggled into the caress as if he'd died and gone to heaven.

  Sheila said, "You're sure you're okay?" and began helping her friend up.

  The boy looked as if he had the flu.

  "What's happening?" said Skip.

  Sheila put a hand on her hip, outraged. "He attacked Emery."

  Emery. Sheila's new boyfriend—or what passed for a boyfriend in the eighth grade. She'd better try to make amends, Skip thought, and held out her hand. "I'm Skip. He doesn't like me either."

  The boy managed a weak smile, but Sheila scowled.

  Steve had by now let go of Napoleon's collar, and Kenny was caressing his chest and back, petting him all over as reverently as if the dog were a unicorn with whom he'd been granted an audience. Emery continued to stare round-eyed at the animal.

  Finally, he blurted, "I think I'd better go home."

  "But Emery," Sheila said, and her eyes locked with his. She saw the futility of protest and stopped in mid-whine. "I'm sorry this happened." She sounded so polite and grown-up, Skip was bowled over.

  Sheila walked him back to the street, and when she returned, she hissed, "What is that animal doing here?" Her eyes meant war. Skip couldn't believe this was the same Sheila who only the night before had asked Steve not to go back to California. Now she hated him. Steve glanced guiltily at Skip. "He's a provisional pet. I mean, he could be a pet if Uncle jimmy agreed."

  Kenny stared at Steve like an actor in one of those movies in which island natives think a shipwrecked man is god. "You got him for us?"

  "Well, a boy needs a dog, don't you think?"

  Sheila said, "Do you know what you just did to me? I'm probably never going to see Emery again." Tears were starting.

  Steve grinned. "Napoleon really didn't like him, did he?"

  She started to sob. "I didn't want a dog, I wanted a cat."

  Kenny stared at her, astonished.

  "I don't see why I can't have a cat."

  A voice came from the side of the house. "Anybody home?"

  They heard metal against metal as Jimmy Dee unlocked the gate. Napoleon started barking as if the Huns were invading. Steve grabbed his collar again.

  They heard Sheila say, "Uncle Jimmy, if Kenny can have a dog, why can't I have a cat?"

  "If Kenny can what?" Jimmy Dee came into view and proved the third person that day who reminded Napoleon of someone. The dog strained against his collar until he choked, slobbering, barking, growling, and showing his shark-sized teeth once again. Skip prayed Steve would be able to hang on.

  "This is Kenny's?" said Jimmy Dee.

  Kenny said, "Isn't he beautiful?" and Skip wished fervently that she'd die in the next two minutes.

  Steve did lose his grip, and Napoleon launched himself toward Jimmy Dee rather like a Patriot rocket, but he stopped about an inch away from Dee-Dee's face.

  Showing the famous grace under pressure, Jimmy Dee, unlike Skip and Emery, did not lose his cool.

  "Would someone," he said, "please call the zoo?"

  Kenny understood instantly that heaven, which had arrived so unexpectedly, was about to be snatched away. He sank down on the flagstones and simply stared at the ground. Skip thought she'd never seen anyone look so miserable.

  When she thought things couldn't get any worse, he said, "He's going to die, isn't he?"

  12

  Jim Hodges was quite a bit older than Skip, which could have intimidated her but didn't—hadn't, right from the start. Skip was young, she was from Uptown, and she already had an enemy in Homicide when she was transferred in. Because Frank O'Rourke never missed an opportunity to make her feel green, incompetent, and out of place, she was wary at first, had been wary a long time—but she'd always been okay with Hodges.

  He wasn't a great conversationalist, wasn't the kind of cop who loved to tell stories and jokes—in fact, he didn't socialize much, even in the office. It might have been because he was one of the few black officers in the detective bureau. Or maybe he was just that way. Cappello was; so was Skip herself.

  "Do the job and go home," Cappello had told her once. "Don't take it with you. You'll be a better cop for it."

  Whatever the reason, Hodges was one of the best—cool, quick on his feet, there when you needed him. Skip found him a genuinely nice man as well�
�a kind man. But maybe that just went with being a consummate professional; thinking about his partner's needs; the needs of the people he dealt with on the job.

  Most policemen were on the job because they wanted to help. It was the number one reason they gave for becoming cops. Skip's reasons had been different, had much more to do with the fact that the work simply suited her, suited a six-foot woman with a lot of energy. But she figured Hodges might fall into the helper category. He was a tough cop, but he was still a gentle man.

  Working with him was like having a twin, a part of yourself that knew what you needed before you did. She hoped she was as good a partner as he.

  When they had scrounged a car—not the easiest thing these cheese-paring days—Jim said, "What are you thinking? We going over to the Tidewater roof'?"

  "Now how'd you know that?"

  "I've been around awhile. You forget that?" He laughed. "Yeah. I've really been around awhile."

  Skip laughed too. "Oh, come on. You're just a youngster."

  The Tidewater was on Canal Street, and Skip was astounded by the view it afforded. The only thing was, they were too far away to see anyone's face, especially in the dark.

  So what to do? Head in if they saw a white man? She didn't think they could even tell at this distance, and she knew they wouldn't have enough time to get there.

  "This isn't going to work," Hodges said.

  "You're telling me."

  "I'm going to have to go in there."

  Skip sighed. "Yeah."

  "Damn good thing Cappello gave you a black backup."

  "Oh, who needs you? I could have come in disguise."

  "Yeah. Some cornrows and pancake; that'd prob'ly do it."

  He laughed at the silliness of it.

  She said, "You got a pocket phone?"

  "Yeah. You?"

  "I'll get one—let me use yours."

  He produced his and she dialed Jimmy Dee. "Dee-Dee, do me a favor, will you? Lend me your cute little phone."

  "What's wrong? That jerry-built cop shop doesn't have any?"

  "Are you kidding? It took us half an hour to find a car that works. Put it in a cab and send it to the Tidewater building; could you?"

  "Okay. But the monster's got to be out of here by noon."

  "Steve or Napoleon?"

  "Hey, the dog can stay if you'll send the other one back."

  "How's Kenny?"

  "Put it this way—I've got clean sheets at the ready."

  She hung up, feeling glum; Steve had probably made things worse.

  While they waited for the phone, Jim said, "How do you want to work it? How about I go in and loiter while you wait in the car? Seems pretty straightforward to me."

  "I don't know; I'm starting not to like this. You're supposed to be my backup."

  "Yeah, but there's a little problem. You're white po-lice. Face it, Skip. It's the only way to play it."

  "We could both stay in the car."

  "We can't park close enough to see what's going on. Turau's going to be in the Conti Breezeway, but that doesn't mean Dennis has to walk in from the street. He could enter the project at one of the other breezeways, for instance. Or he could drive in."

  The Iberville's "breezeways" were park areas between rows of red-brick buildings now grim with age and abuse and neglect—and memories, probably, and the busted-up dreams of busted-up families, or families that had never happened, that had started out as pregnant teenagers and grown into young mothers of three or four, strung out on crack and turning tricks to get it.

  Children should have played in the breezeways, and did, sometimes. They should have functioned as village greens. But dealers dealt in these open spaces, and blood flowed there. Almost every day the Times-Picayune reported the body of a young black male found in the courtyard of one of the city's projects. If someone wanted to kill you, he had a clear shot here.

  Once you were actually in the breezeway, you were a sitting duck. This was Skip's problem with the plan. She really thought about the "disguise" she'd suggested so facetiously, but people would never have left her alone, would have tried to talk to her. She'd have been made in about thirty seconds.

  "What are you going to say? Who are you?"

  "Are you kidding? I'm looking for James. My brother. Let's stop here a minute."

  He pulled up at a convenience store on Rampart. "Wait for me."

  Skip waited, annoyed at the way he seemed to be taking over her assignment. He came back with a bottle of Thunderbird. "You drive awhile."

  Skip took the wheel while he perfumed himself. He was wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt, but his hair was short and neat. At least he didn't wear glasses.

  "James, he stay at Placenta house. You know Placenta? She stay over there, don't she?"

  "Jim, give me a break. Nobody's named Placenta."

  "I swear to God. I heard it in Schwegmann's the other day. Little four-year-old kid."

  "It's an urban myth, like Nosmo King."

  "The kid named for the No Smoking sign? That's my nephew."

  "Listen, I don't care if you did hear it in Schwegmann's. Rename James's girlfriend just this once. Please?"

  "Okay, she Magneeta. Magneeta, she stay with her nanan, and her name, uh, let me think . . . I think her nanan named . . . uh . . .ain't she the lady stay over there? You know, the one with all them kids? She 'bout this high and she got a real pretty smile."

  "Magneeta. Holy shit. Magneeta."

  "You just white po-lice. What do you know?"

  "Jim, I don't like this."

  "Here's a good place. Park here."

  She knew it was a good place; he didn't have to tell her to park. But the longer she didn't park, the longer she put off his getting out of the car. For the first time in her life she had a bad feeling. She didn't even want to look for Dennis. She wanted to go home and forget the whole thing.

  But she didn't say it to Jim, because they were grown-up police officers and they were going to do their job.

  She parked. "Got your phone?"

  "Got it."

  Jim was out of the car, and in another minute he was gone; out of her sight.

  This could take hours. How the hell can he do the Magnecta routine for hours? She thought of what he'd say if she asked him: "I'm a pro."

  That made her laugh—the whole Eddie Murphy zaniness of it. Actually, this wasn't like the usually dignified Jim. She remembered that he used to work Narcotics and realized why he was so eager to get in there—he was having the time of his life.

  She began to relax a little.

  She rethought strategy. They could wait here forever for Dennis, who might not ever show. Or they could just talk to Turan. But what would that do? Even if Dennis did make a buy, how the hell would Turan know where to find him? It's not up to a dealer to find his clients, it's up to them to find him.

  She was in a funk of indecision and doubt when the phone rang. For some reason, she punched the "Indiglo" feature on her watch: it was nearly midnight.

  "Call for backup. Something's going down."

  "Dennis?"

  "Two guys with AK-4-7s. Stay where you are."

  "The hell I wil1."

  She called for backup and got out of the car, knowing she probably shouldn't if he said she shouldn't, but she couldn't be sure—the situation could change from second to second.

  He'd had to get off quickly so she could call headquarters, and now she couldn't call him. A ringing phone on a Thunderbird-soused raver just wasn't going to cut it.

  It was dark in the breezeway. She could see in only a little way. She couldn't see Jim or anyone Who might be Turan; certainly could see no one with automatic weapons. They must have cut through to another courtyard,

  Someone fired.

  She saw orange flames; the noise was like war. More flames on the other side of the breezeway—then someone running. The first shooter.

  She heard Jim call, "Halt! Police!" and her heart sank.

  Drawing her gun, she started
running toward the shooter, who was running toward her. He turned around and fired—at Jim, presumably, and then he turned her way again. Something hit her from behind. She went down, her gun flying from her hand, and she knew it was over.

  The man who had hit her—butted her with his head, was her guess—had stopped to take a look at her. She saw his face, clearly, and was surprised that he was terrified. And about sixteen. A young scared-shitless kid, with the power of life and death over her. .

  Sirens were getting loud, nearly upon them, the backup she'd called for.

  The kid didn't even stop for her gun, just took off after the shooter. She recovered it herself and yelled for Jim.

  No answer. She called him on her cute little phone—still no answer.

  She found him at the back of the breezeway, a bullet in his chest.

  But he was breathing.

  She talked to him all the way to the hospital, told him he'd be fine, to hang on, that his wife would be there soon, that he had to stick around to see her.

  They went to Charity, where she'd been so many times on other shootings, and where she'd been taken herself once or twice. It was utterly familiar territory, and yet right now a nightmare landscape.

  "Room Four," she heard someone say. "Room Four now!" That was the trauma room.

  "You can't go with him," a woman said, a nurse probably.

  "I'm going."

  The nurse shrugged.

  Skip was okay about blood as long as it wasn't in a hospital; she didn't know if she could trust herself to stay on her feet in here, and she might be in the way. But Jim needed someone to hold his hand.

  I don't want him to die alone.

  She was shocked at the thought when it came, had no idea that was on her mind.

  "You won't die," she told him. "You're not going to die."

  I'll die if you die. You can't die.

  A piece of her would; she knew it as well as she knew the river was wet. She'd never be the same if he died.

  Oh, shit, why Jim? Why couldn't it have been O'Rourke?

  "I really have to ask you to get out of the way. You can stay in the hallway if you like."

  The man who spoke was in his early twenties, she thought, but he must be a doctor. Other people were in the hallway, lots of them—they came from all over the hospital to watch a Room Four.