House of Blues (12 page)

Steve turned to Skip with a pleased smile: "Well,
how do you like that?"

But Jimmy Dee had appeared in time to hear the
exchange.

"Hey, if you're not Uncle Jimmy, you can't be
all bad."

"I heard that," Sheila shouted. "You
know what? You're right."

The bell rang, Cindy Lou came in, and instant replay
began, Kenny ignoring her, Sheila flitting in and out while they
waited for Layne. It was funny, Skip thought, how much attention
children demanded the first few years of their lives and how hard
adults strove ever after to get their attention.

"Kenny's getting pretty relaxed," Cindy Lou
said as they were headed down St. Philip Street. "He's not such
a little people-pleaser any more."

Skip saw Jimmy Dee and Layne exchange glances, the
way parents do, and for some reason she found it touching. Mostly,
she was glad Dee-Dee had a friend. Her landlord was fifty-something
by now, a distinguished gentleman—if slightly short—with graying
hair, extremely popular with the ladies, most of whom didn't know he
was gay. Layne was younger—thirty-five, she imagined—and balding,
with glasses and an intellectual bent, a puzzle-constructor by trade.
("Cool," Sheila had said when she heard that part, and
Layne was an instant family member.)

Skip said, "What's wrong?"

"What makes you think somethings wrong? Except
the little prince is now a little brat. You need something else?"

"I saw that look."

"Tell them," Layne said. "At least
tell Cindy Lou. She might know what to do."

Dee-Dee looked at Cindy Lou, and Skip could see him
make a decision. "After we're seated."

There was a half-hour wait at the restaurant, but
when they'd finally secured a table, Cindy Lou pushed it. "Okay,
Dee-Dee. Lie down on my couch."

"
Kenny's started wetting the bed."

Cindy Lou sipped her wine. "How old is he?"

"
Almost twelve."

"
He must be upset about something."

"Now why would you say that? His dad deserted
the family, his mother died six months ago, and he's living in a
strange city with a weirdo uncle who's dating a man. Can't he just
roll with the punches?"

Cindy Lou laughed, but she kept at him. "I think
he should be in therapy."

"He's in therapy."

"With all due respect," Steve said, "I
don't know what I think about that."

Skip was flabbergasted. "About what?"

"About therapy. I'm sorry, Cindy Lou, I know
it's your job."

She shook her head. "Uh-uh. I'm a research type.
I'm paid to have opinions, not listen to people's problems."

Cindy Lou seemed fine, but Skip couldn't shake the
feeling Steve had insulted her; and she was confused about this odd
opinion of his—whatever it was.

"What's your objection to it?" she asked.

"I don't see how just talking is going to solve
anything."

Cindy Lou sipped again. "Well, it's kind of a
complicated process. But one thing—it can't hurt."

"Yeah, but does it do anything?" The
speaker, to Skip's further surprise, was Layne.

She glanced at Dee-Dee, who looked uncomfortable and
a little undecided, as if he had half a mind to join that camp as
well.

"Well, it's all we have," Cindy Lou said.
"Besides, it works now and then."

"Works how?" asked Layne.

"
Makes people feel better. That's the point,
isn't it?"

"I thought the point was to keep the kid from
soaking the sheets."

"
If he's doing that, he's unhappy. Unless it's
something physical." She raised an eyebrow at Jimmy Dee.

"It's not. We had him checked out."

Steve said, "You want to make him feel better?
I've got a great idea."

"What?"

His face took on a maddeningly smug look. "I
don't think I'm saying. But this is a great idea; trust me."

"Oh, God. Count your fingers and toes."

"I just need to take him on a little field trip.
Okay, Dad?"

Jimmy Dee nodded. "Sure, what's the harm?"

Skip hadn't been in therapy herself, but it hadn't
occurred to her to discount it. She'd go if she needed to, she'd
always thought. Cindy Lou looked at her, amused. "A lot of men
feel this way. Haven't you noticed your women friends complaining
about it?"

"I guess not."

"Oh, well. They do. They say men are in denial,
have no self-knowledge, and aren't willing to open up—you never
heard that?"

"You're my closest woman friend, and you never
talk like that."

"Well, the kind of men I pick, you can't expect
much."

Everyone laughed a little nervously. Cindy Lou had
the worst taste in men of anyone in New Orleans; she'd once dated the
still-married father of a friend of Skip's, and that wasn't even her
worst idea.

"Who're you seeing now, Lou-Lou?" Dee-Dee
was obviously ready to leave the heavy subject of his kids.

"‘
What's this Lou-Lou crap?"

"
Payback for Dee-Dee."

Steve said, "Lou-Lou. I like it."

She made a face at him. "I'm seeing Harry
Connick, Jr."

"He's married."

"
That's what makes it so much fun."

"Come on. Who're you really seeing? And why
didn't you bring him tonight?"

"Well, this one's nice. I'm not kidding—he's
really nice; and he's kind of an old friend. I knew him back in
Detroit."

Skip perked up her ears. A nice one? That was good,
but it probably wasn't the whole story. Others had been nice—just
sons of her bosses or husbands of her neighbors. "What's wrong
with him?" she said.

"Now, y'all can't make fun of him; I mean that."

"
Okay, we won't. Why didn't you bring him?"

"
He gets tired easily. He was in an accident."

They were silent.

"It left him paralyzed; from the waist down."

For a minute Skip thought this was one of her jokes.
But Cindy Lou was looking down at the table. 'Tm sorry," Skip
said.

"We dated in high school. I guess I'm still in
love with him."

Steve reached for Skip's hand and squeezed it. She
was grateful to be with him, however briefly. She knew Cindy Lou
would get over this man—she got over all of them—but what she was
going through had to hurt. And what Dee-Dee was going through was no
picnic either.

For just a second—one tiny fraction of time—Skip's
life was going right. She wished she could dip the moment in amber
and preserve it forever.

And she thought she ought to knock on wood.

Holding the moment as long as she could, she waited
awhile, till the others had ordered coffee, and went off to Dennis's
bar. Kurt's was a neighborhood-type saloon that could have been
anywhere in New Orleans—the type beloved by its customers for
reasons not apparent to the newcomer, dark and characterless. The
sort where serious drinkers could get down to business in peace. As
it happened, it was in the French Quarter, a fact that gave Skip a
little hope. Maybe its
clientèle
would be slightly more accessible, the atmosphere a little less
inviolate than that of most neighborhood oases.

After a quick glance around for Dennis, she bellied
up and asked for a Coke. The bartender was a handsome man, ruddy and
Irish-looking, but now a little too heavy and starting to gray at the
temples. She had the feeling she knew him from somewhere. She watched
him awhile.

He was good, jollying folks, keeping up conversations
at different ends of the bar, yet remaining constantly in motion as
he filled drink orders, seemingly without effort. He was precise and
controlled, much like a dancer. She was waiting for an opening but
she was in no hurry. There was plenty of time; no reason to push
things.

When he brought her a refill, he said, "Hey, big
girl, we know each other?"

"
Maybe. You look really familiar."

"You don't know who I am?"

"My second grade Sunday school teacher?"

"
Come on. You can do better than that."

The man at the next stool, an older man Skip had
barely noticed, put a hand on her arm. "This here's Donnie."
He slurred his words pretty badly.

"Hi, Donnie. Fm Skip."

"
You still don't know who he is?"

Skip shook her head.

"From—you know—that show."

Donnie named a television show from way back, before
Skip's time, but one of which she'd seen reruns. There was a
character on it named Donnie, a cute little kid, maybe ten or eleven.

"Oh, Donnie. The kid."

"My real name's Phil." The bartender smiled
as if he couldn't be happier.

It had entered her head from time to time, when she
thought her life wasn't going fast enough, to wonder what became of
child athletes and child stars. Something about Phil, about his
too-ruddy face, once known to nearly everyone in the country, now
seen only by a few drunks in a dark room, made her feel slightly
panicky. She couldn't pinpoint the reason, thought it might have to
do with the notion of change, things not being what they used to be,
but she couldn't see how that applied to her life.

He was staring at her, still smiling, and she saw
what was required. "I remember you. God, that was funny, that
time you got locked in the closet with the dog."

"You can't even imagine how hot it was. Doing
that scene."

Maybe I shouldn't feel sorry for him. Here's a guy
who's got something in common with every person he meets. Maybe his
life is wonderful.

But she couldn't shake a feeling of melancholy.

When they had passed enough pleasantries, she said,
"You know a guy named Dennis Foucher? Used to come in here
pretty often."

"Man, what a coincidence. He was here last
night. Comes in, like no time has passed instead of five years, gets
shit-faced, and then I read in the paper he's wanted for murder or
somethin'."

Skip showed him her badge. "He's not wanted for
murder. We just want to talk to him."

"You're a cop?"

"
You're Donnie?"

"
Everybody's got to be somebody." Phil
laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. When he had
wiped away the tears and returned to relative sobriety, he leaned
close and touched Skip's elbow, conspiracy marked on his features.

"
You're not the only one lookin' for him
tonight." He pointed with his jaw. "That's Toni in the
white T-shirt. She left with him last night."

Toni was sitting alone in a booth facing the bar. She
was staring at Phil, as if expecting him to produce Dennis, and
apparently saw him point her out. She got up and came forward,
bringing her drink, a glass of white wine. Her gait was unsteady.

"
Hello," she said. "Did we just meet?"

"
I hear we're looking for the same man."

"
Oh?" Toni was a slight woman, dark and
hungry-looking, a little wiry, but full-breasted and apparently proud
of it. Her T-shirt was tucked into black jeans that emphasized her
small waist and hips or, more properly, the way they contrasted with
her chest.

"For different reasons," Skip said, and
identified herself. Toni's eyebrow shot up. "Why don't we have a
drink?" She turned and sauntered back to the booth. Skip picked
up her Coke and followed.

Toni reached across the table. "Let me have your
hand."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Give me your palm. Then we'll talk."

Oh, well. It's not like I've got a pressing
appointment.

She stuck out her hand, palm up. Toni took the hand
and studied it.

"Your life line's okay, you have a good family
life. There are two important men in your life, and that may cause
you some trouble." She paused, as if taking a deeper look. "But
here's the thing—you're on a journey right now, you've got to go
through some doors, you're going from one level to the next as you
travel downward. And you're going to suffer." She looked up,
into Skip's eyes.

Skip felt her heart speed up. She didn't believe in
this, but she was susceptible to the power of suggestion.

Toni looked half blitzed. "The ways of the
underworld are perfect and may not be questioned."

"
What?"

"
At each door, you're going to suffer a loss.
I've got to tell you something. There's danger all around you."

"
I'm a cop." Skip snapped out the words,
angry; Toni was spooking her.

"
Listen to me. This is the most dangerous thing
you've ever done. But you can't stop now. The ways of the underworld
are perfect."

"
What's that supposed to mean?"