should go on home, cutie.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re still chasing killers, aren’t you, chère?”
Jewel Tambeaux was no fool.
“I believe there’s one out there, Jewel.”
“And you think it’s this cowboy Julie plays with?”
“I’d sure like to talk to him.”
She took a pull on her cigarette, tapped it with a long red nail, then watched the sparks float to the pavement.
“I told you last time, he’s got the brains of a liverwurst sandwich and the personality of roadkill, but I doubt he’s killed anybody.”
“Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“No. These morons are about as scarce as pigeon shit. I pay them about as much mind.”
“You said this guy could be bad news.”
“There really isn’t much good news down here, sugar.”
“Has he been around lately?”
She considered me, then something else, turning inward to an image or remembered thought at which I could only guess. Some other bad news.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him.”
I waited. She drew on her cigarette, watched a car move slowly up the street.
“Haven’t seen Julie.”
She took another pull, closed her eyes and held the smoke, then sent it upward into the night.
“Or your friend Gabby.”
An offering. Should I push?
“Do you think I could find him?”
“Frankly, sugar, I don’t think you could find your own butt without a map.”
Nice to be respected.
Jewel took one last drag, flipped the butt, and ground it with her shoe.
“Come on, Margaret Mead. Let’s bag us some roadkill.”
31
JEWEL WALKED WITH PURPOSE NOW, HER HEELS CLICKING A RAPID tattoo on the pavement. I wasn’t sure where she was taking me, but it had to beat my cement perch.
We went east two blocks, then left Ste. Catherine and cut across an open lot. Jewel’s apricot sculpture moved smoothly through the dark while I stumbled behind, threading my way through chunks of asphalt, aluminum cans, broken glass, and dead vegetation. How could she do that in stilettos?
We emerged on the far side, turned down an alley, and entered a low wooden building with no sign to indicate its calling. The windows were painted black and strings of Christmas lights provided the only illumination, giving the interior the reddish glow of a nocturnal animal exhibit. I wondered if that was the intent. Rouse the occupants to late night action?
Discreetly, I glanced about. My eyes needed little adjustment, since the amount of light inside differed only slightly from that outdoors. Staying with the Christmas theme, the decorator had gone with cardboard pine for the walls and cracked red vinyl for the stools, accessorizing with beer ads. Dark wooden booths lined one wall, cases of beer were stacked against another. Though the bar was almost empty, the air was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, cheap booze, vomit, sweat, and reefer. My cement block began to hold more appeal.
Jewel and the bartender exchanged nods. He had skin the color of day-old coffee and heavy brows. From under them, he tracked our movement.
Jewel walked slowly through the bar, checking each face with seeming disinterest. An old man called to her from a corner stool, waving a beer and gesturing to her to join him. She blew a kiss. He gave her the finger.
As we passed the first booth a hand reached out and grasped Jewel’s wrist. With her other hand, she uncurled the fingers and laid the hand back in front of its owner.
“Playpen’s closed, sugar.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept my eyes on Jewel’s back.
At the third booth Jewel stopped, folded her arms, and shook her head slowly.
“Mon Dieu,” she said, clicking her tongue against her upper teeth.
The booth’s single occupant sat staring into a glass of watery brown liquid, elbows on the table, cheeks propped on curled fists. All I could see was the top of a head. Greasy brown hair divided unevenly along the crown and hung limply to either side of the face. White flecks littered the area of the part.
“Julie,” said Jewel.
The face did not look up.
Jewel clicked again, then slid into the booth. I followed, grateful for the meager cover. The tabletop was slick with something I didn’t want to identify. Jewel leaned an elbow on its edge, jerked back with a wiping gesture. She dug out a cigarette, lit it, blew the smoke in an upward jet.
“Julie.” Sharper.
Julie caught her breath and raised her chin.
“Julie?” The girl repeated her own name, sounding as if she’d been roused from sleep.
My heart slipped in an extra beat and my teeth grabbed for my lower lip.
Oh, God.
I was looking at a face that