Free 3 Swift Run by Laura Disilverio Page A

from Swift Investigations, and it’s
     the cutest little place; it brings back memories of the one and only time I was in
     New Orleans for Mardi Gras. I went with my friend Lacey and her brother the year after
     I graduated from high school, while I was still at beauty school and before I met
     Les. I still have some of the green and gold beads the Mardi Gras king and queen tossed
     from the float, and I can still remember throwing up in an alley behind some bar after
     Lacey’s brother bought me one too many Southern Comfort and Cokes. Mostly, Albertine’s
     smells like New Orleans, all shrimpy and spicy, although it sounds like New Orleans,
     too, with Dixieland-type jazz playing in the background and a live combo on Saturday
     nights. It was crowded at happy hour on a Friday evening, and I was happy for Albertine,
     who’d been wondering before Christmas if she might have to close up. Of course, Mardi
     Gras was coming up on Tuesday, so that might explain some of the crowd.
    Albertine saw me come in and motioned me to a stool at the bar. By the time I got
     there, she had a chartreuse margaritatini, her special concoction, poured into a sugar-rimmed
     glass and garnished with a lime wedge. Yum. Sinking gratefully onto the stool, I took
     a long drink and licked my lips.
    Albertine smiled widely. “Now, what was that almost shopping spree this morning about?”
    “I got arrested,” I said, finishing off the drink in record time and licking sugar
     from the rim.
    “Say what?” Albertine’s eyes bugged out, and she pulled up a stool on her side of
     the bar and summoned one of the waiters to take her place at the cash register. Enjoying
     having such a wild tale to tell, I told her about tracking Les to Aspen, finding him
     at Cherry and Moss’s, and getting arrested the following morning. I left out the bits
     that happened after the Scotch and before the cops arrived. She exclaimed at all the
     right places and insisted on seeing my photo of Charlie Sheen’s jail cell. Then she
     fetched us both another drink, studying me closely as I sucked on the lime wedge.
    “Oh, no,” she said, narrowing her eyes till I could see the silvery apricot shadow
     on her lids. “Oh, no, you didn’t.”
    “Didn’t what?” I could feel myself blushing, so I lowered my head to sip from the
     margaritatini.
    “You did! You slept with that no-good louse who tossed you aside like last week’s
     newspaper—and for that blond bee-otch.”
    I bit my lip.
    Noticing that she had attracted attention from the two thirty-something men on the
     stools beside me, Albertine scowled at them and lowered her voice. “What were you
     thinking?”
    “Well, there was Scotch. I never thought I liked it, but I was cold and scared—that
     was because of Knievel jumping on me—and then Les—”
    Albertine held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it, girlfriend.”
    “But you asked!”
    “I asked what you were thinking, but it’s clear you weren’t.” Albertine balled her hands on her hips. Her bangles
     clinked. “I’m going to call Charlie right now so we can stage an intervention.”
    “No, don’t!” I put a hand on her arm, even though she hadn’t reached for her phone.
     “Charlie doesn’t know, and believe me, it’s not going to happen again. I am totally
     and completely over Lester Goldman.” I made myself think of how bad I’d felt this
     morning when I found he’d disappeared in the night, and how mad I was that he’d hurt
     Dexter again.
    Apparently, it worked, because Albertine’s face lost its stern expression and she
     said, “Are you okay, Gigi?”
    I sniffled and drained my second margaritatini. “Um-hm. Peachy.”
    “You shouldn’t be okay. You should be mad. M-A-D … mad.” Albertine scowled.
    “I’m angry that Dexter’s all—”
    “Not mad for the kids, Gigi—mad for you.”
    “I can’t blow up at him, Albertine. I’ve got the kids to think about. Les is still
     their daddy, and he and