“You sure you’re okay?”

She forced a breezy smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. See you around.”

She slipped out of the vehicle and darted for the door.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

3:10 a.m.

Stacy watched Yvette dart toward the courtyard door. When she reached it, she stopped. But instead of stepping inside, she turned and jogged back to the SUV.

Stacy lowered the window. “What’s up?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Are you kidding? I’m starving.”

“Want to come in? I have to eat, too. We might as well do it together.”

Yvette worked hard to be tough, to act like it all rolled off her, but Stacy saw she was shaken.

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Where can I park?”

Yvette indicated a “residents only” spot and watched as Stacy eased into it, then climbed out. Together they crossed to the building, a crumbling stucco-and-brick three-story, whose ironwork balconies reflected its Spanish influence. Yvette unlocked the door and they stepped inside.

Like most of the old buildings in the French Quarter, this one was built around a shady, central courtyard. In the days before air-conditioning, the courtyards served as cool city oases. They still did, only now as a place to escape the paved world beyond.

Each apartment opened out to the courtyard, the units accessed from shared staircases and covered walkways.

Yvette lived on the second floor. They made their way up the stairs and down the covered walkway. Stacy noted how quietly Yvette moved, as if doing her best not to disturb her sleeping neighbors. As they passed one of the units a dog began to bark.

A big one, judging by the size of its bark. Yvette winced; Stacy guessed this wasn’t the first time she had awakened the beast. And most probably, the neighbors as well.

They reached Yvette’s apartment-number twelve-and she let them in. Simultaneously she flipped on the lights and kicked off her shoes.

French Quarter living did not come cheap, even for a small place like this one. Stacy had learned that right away. Throw in the great courtyard and she’d bet Yvette paid twelve to fifteen hundred bucks a month.

Stacy moved her gaze over the room’s interior. Charming and traditional. Lots of soft colors and fabrics, accented with feminine touches and the occasional startlingly modern painting or print.

“You’ve got a great place,” she said, and crossed to study a large, crudely painted representation of a fairy. “This is wonderful. A little scary, but wonderful.”

“I think so, too.” Yvette came up beside her. “It’s a local artist named Wren. I own another by him. It’s in the bedroom. Come on, kitchen’s this way.”

Between the two rooms, Stacy noticed several more paintings. They didn’t seem to be linked stylistically, so she asked Yvette what had drawn her to them.

“Don’t know. They’re all by local artists. Some I buy right out of studios here in the Quarter, some from galleries. A few from hawkers on Jackson Square.”

She crossed to the refrigerator and opened it. “What do you want to eat?”

“What do you have?”

“Leftover pizza. Eggs. Milk.” She slid open the crisper and made a face. “Something fuzzy.”

She closed the fridge and crossed to a long, narrow cabinet. She peered inside. “Chocolate chip cookies-Famous Amos. Cereal. Popcorn.”

She looked over her shoulder at Stacy. “I’m thinking popcorn and cocoa.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Minutes later they were curled up on the couch, a giant bowl of popcorn between them and hands curled around the mugs of warm cocoa.

Stacy took a sip, then coughed. “Some strong cocoa.”

“Added a little zip. Peppermint schnapps. The alcohol kills the effect of the caffeine. Do you like it?”

Stacy said she did and sipped again, glancing at the other woman. She saw several deep purple marks spotting her neck. “You’re bruising.”

“I am?” Yvette brought a hand to her throat. “How bad?”

Stacy fumbled in her purse and pulled out a compact with a mirror. She handed it to Yvette. “Take a look.”

She did, silently. A moment later, she snapped the compact shut and handed it back.

“He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

Instead of answering, she said, “He’s not that bad.”

“After what he did, I can’t believe you’re saying that. He’s a pig.”

“I egged him on. He’s been good to me-”

“I see that.”

“He’s never done anything like that before.”

“And if you’re a good girl he won’t again?” She shook her head. “A guy like that-”

“What do you know about Marcus?”

“He’s married, for one. He was wearing a ring.”

“Don’t be stupid. Most of the guys I meet are. At least he doesn’t pretend by taking it off.”

“He put his hands on you. If I hadn’t come looking for-”

“Why did you come looking for me?”

Because the surveillance team saw Gabrielle enter the alley and warned her.

“One of your tips,” she said instead. “You know those funny radio guys who were in, slamming back Jell-O shots-”

“Walton and Johnson?”

“Yeah. They left you a tip, but I forgot to give it to you and…I thought I’d catch you leaving.”

“An angel of mercy and honest.” She reached for a handful of popcorn. “What the hell are you doing working at the Hustle?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“The money.”

“Ditto.”

Yvette frowned, as if she didn’t totally buy it, and Stacy leaned forward. “I was married for twelve years. Got hitched right out of high school. I didn’t go to college, never worked. Barney wanted me home. Then the bastard up and leaves me with a bunch of debt and a kid to support.”

“You have a kid?”

Shit. Now she had a kid. “A girl. She’s eight.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sandi.” Brandi and Sandi. Jeez.

But Yvette thought it was cute. “Do you have a picture?”

“Not with me. I don’t like to bring personal stuff to work.”

That, at least, wasn’t a lie.

Stacy rummaged in her purse for the “tip” and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “Here. Sorry about that.”

Yvette stared at the bill. “Twenty bucks is all? From those rich guys? Keep it, you earned it.”

Stacy frowned. “I helped you because you’re my friend, Yvette. And because it was the right thing to do. Not because I expected to be paid.”

The younger woman gazed at her a moment, as though trying to decide if she was for real. Then she smiled. “Keep it, anyway. You’ve got a kid to take care of.”

“Wow. Thanks.” She stuffed the bill into her pocket. “Sorry if I was critical of Marcus. I guess I just don’t get it.”

She let the comment hang between them for several moments, offering Yvette a chance to explain. When she didn’t, Stacy went on. “How long have you been seeing him?”

“Let’s not talk about Marcus. Okay?”

“Sure. Sorry.”

They fell silent a moment, then Stacy snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot! I saw you today. In the Quarter. I started across the street to say hello, but you got into a car before I could.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“You sure? I was almost posi-”

“I said it wasn’t me.”

Stacy backed off. “Sure. Okay.” She laughed. “I should’ve known. This chick was dressed like somebody’s mama. Real frumpy.”

“Not my style.”

“Exactly.”

Yvette finished her cocoa. “Ready for another? Or just a shot of schnapps?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got to drive, remember?”

“You could sleep over?” She took in Stacy’s expression and laughed. “I’m not gay. It just gets a little lonely around here. In the morning, we could go to the Coffeepot for brunch. They make the best Lost Bread in the city.”

Lost Bread, Stacy had learned after moving down here, was New Orleans’ version of French toast-made with day-old French bread. “I can’t. I wish I could, but-”

“Because of Sandi,” she said, disappointment clear in her voice.