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'I don't know. I didn't.' She looked up at the telephone wires, an attempted pout on her mouth, like a put-upon adolescent girl.
'Why are you still hanging around with a guy like Baxter, Pearly Blue?'
'I wrote a couple of bad checks. He said he'll tell my P.O.'
'I see.'
'I wasn't hanging paper. It was just an overdraft. But with the jacket I already got—'
She made a clicking sound with her tongue and tried to look self-possessed and cool, but the color had risen in her throat, and her pulse was fluttering like an injured moth.
'Who torched the place?' I said.
'I don't know, Streak. Everything I owned was burned up. What am I supposed to tell you?' Her eyes were wet now. She opened and closed them and looked emptily at the graffiti-scrolled wall of a garage apartment.
'Were the Calucci brothers behind it?'
'Don't be telling people that. Don't be using my name when you go talking about them kind of people,'
'I won't let you get hurt, Pearly Blue. Just tell me what happened.'
'Some guy called, it was like he knew everything about me, about my kid getting taken away from me, about where I work, about some stuff, you know, not very good stuff, I did at the massage parlour, he said, "Get out of your place by six, have yourself a nice walk, when you come back you won't have to be this guy's fuck no more."'
'You don't know who it was?'
'You think I want to know something like that? You remember what happened to my roommate in the Quarter when she told a vice cop she'd testify against one of the Giacano family? They soaked her in gasoline. They—'
'You're out of it, Pearly Blue. Forget about Baxter, forget about the Calucci brothers. Where are you living now?'
'At my sister's. I just want to go to meetings, work at my job, and get my little boy back. My P.O.' s a hard ass, he hears about the checks, calls from the wise guys, stuff like that, I'm going down again. It's full of bull dykes in there, Streak. I just can't do no more time.'
'You won't, not if I have anything to do with it.'
'Baxter's gonna find me. He's gonna make me ball him again. It's sickening.'
I took a business card out of my wallet, pressed it into her palm, and closed her fingers on it. Her hand was small and moist in mine.
'Believe me when I tell you this,' I said. 'If Nate Baxter ever bothers you again, call me, and he'll wish his parents had taken up celibacy.'
Her face became confused.
'He'll wish his father'd had his equipment sawed off,' I said.
The corner of her mouth wrinkled with a smile, exposing a line of tiny, silver-capped teeth.
Nate Baxter's room was as utilitarian and plain and devoid of cheer as his life. It contained no flowers, greeting cards, clusters of balloons, and certainly no visitors, unless you counted the uniformed cop on duty at the door.
'You don't look too bad, Nate,' I said. Which wasn't true. His face was wan, the reddish gold beard along his jawline was matted with some kind of salve, and stubble had grown out on his cheeks.
He didn't speak; his eyes regarded me carefully.
'I talked with an arson inspector. He said somebody put a fire-bomb under your bed, probably gasoline and paraffin,' I said.
'You're making that your business, along with everything else in Orleans Parish?'
'I've got a special interest in Max and Bobo Calucci. I think you do, too, Nate.'
'What's that mean?'
