Free Big Easy Bonanza by Julie Smith, Tony Dunbar

What did you actually get?”
    “Dolly pulling her gun, twirling her gun, and then, by God, firing her goddamn gun. Unbelievable. Right there on film.”
    “Then what?”
    He scowled. “Then nothing. Someone jostled me and I lost her. I got a back view when she turned around and then some bare wall. By the time I caught my balance, she was gone. Didn’t get Rex falling either.”
    “Pity.”
    “Sorry again. Cookie says he’s known the guy all his life. I guess you have too.”
    “You guess right. If I knew Chauncey I know Cookie and if Cookie knows me, he’s got to have known Chauncey. There’s only thirty of us in the whole town.”
    “Sounds like L. A.”
    “No place could be as bad as this. How’s your head?”
    “Getting better. Do you think we should call the cops?”
    “You’re forgetting something.”
    “No, I’m not. It’s just that the average cop doesn’t sit you down on her couch and give you brandy. Don’t I have to make a formal report or anything?”
    “Up to you. But I can’t see the point, can you? The guy’s gone.”
    “The film’s evidence in a murder case. Shouldn’t I let someone know about it?”
    She shrugged. “I know about it. But listen, make the complaint if you want to. It just seems like a hassle for you and a waste of time for everyone else.”
    ”Now
you
sound callous.”
    “Hey, didn’t I give you brandy? That’s more than any other cop would do.” She turned her palms up. “It’s not that I’m callous. It’s that everyone’s overworked and they really can’t do anything for you.”
    He didn’t answer her.
    “How about sleeping on it? Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
    “Okay.” He made no move to go.
    Finally Skip said, “Oh, hell, it’s Carnival. Let’s have a Dixie. There’s no more brandy.”
    Steinman smiled and Skip saw that he had a shy, sweet look when he did. For a moment it occurred to her that perhaps he found her attractive. But he said, “Thanks. I don’t think I could take Cookie’s right now. They’ve probably gone into the Mazola oil phase of the evening.”
    Skip shook her head, both at her own delusion and at Steinman’s failure to understand New Orleans. “Not a chance,” she said. “Nobody as drunk as they’re going to be could possibly screw. Can I call you Steve?”
    “Sure. And you’re Skippy, aren’t you?”
    “Just Skip.”
    “The grown-up version.”
    “More or less.”
    “Skippy. Cookie. Bitty. What the hell is this—a kindergarten? Isn’t anyone named Bill or Sue?”
    Skip shook her head and started for the kitchen to get the beer. Steve followed her. “No one,” she said. “It’s a kind of tradition.”
    “Preppy.”
    “Beyond preppy. Southern. But if it helps to orient you, my official name is Margaret.” As she turned on the light, roaches scattered over the counter, making the dry, slithery, papery noises that tended to make people who paid any attention slightly sick. The natives, of course, ignored them. Steve turned pale. “How do you stand it? Cookie’s got them too.”
    “They’re a way of life in the Crescent City—like the silly names. My folks even have them over on State Street.”
    “State Street, indeed. That rolled off your tongue awfully easily.”
    “Cookie must have told you I’m the only cop in town who was a Kappa at Newcomb.”
    “Kappa—that must be some sort of sorority. We’ve heard tell of ’em in California.”
    Skip laughed. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t live and die by this stuff.”
    Steve held up his Dixie. “It’s refreshing to meet you, Officer Post-deb.”
    Skip winced. “Don’t. That’s what my brother cops call me when they want to be nasty.”
    “Sorry. I seem to be a social failure tonight.”
    “You’re wounded. Shall we sit?” They settled in again on her sofa, Skip sufficiently loaded—not to mention exhausted—to let herself feel almost as if she were having a date. She wanted a good time, dammit—hadn’t had