Suddenly, I set the legs of my chair down with a thump. “Sweeney would talk.”
“I haven’t seen Sweeney in twenty years,” Mary Alice said.
Helen sat forward. “It might be worth asking. He’s always been very fond of us.”
“He retired last year,” I said thoughtfully. “He might not be as inclined to keep Museum secrets now that he has his pension.”
“Provided he knows any secrets,” Mary Alice pointed out. “If he’s not active, he might not be up on the latest gossip.”
“Targeting four active operatives is not exactly a story they’re going to be able to keep a lid on,” I said. “Trust me, people are talking.”
Nat looked up from her sketch—a male nude that was in danger of crossing over from tasteful to mildly pornographic. “Sweeney will help.”
I flicked her a look. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
Her expression was smug. “I ought to be. I slept with him last year.”
Anybody listening to what came next would have mistaken us for the world’s oldest slumber party.
“Euw, Nat, Sweeney—”
“You don’t like redheads.”
“Was he any good?”
The last was from me. Natalie grinned. “Better than you’d think.”
“But how?” Helen asked plaintively.
Natalie gave a satisfied little stretch, remembering. “It was in Osaka. We’d been assigned two members of the same crime family. Somebody in Provenance screwed up and didn’t realize they were related because the surnames were different. Otherwise we could have coordinated the job. As it was, when we crossed paths in the Ritz, we almost blew our covers. We had to compare notes, so he came to my room. One thing led to another.” She shrugged.
“So, you can get in touch with him?” I asked.
She shook her head. “We had a quickie before the job and then a nice encore after. He was out of my room by dawn. He had an early flight out.”
Helen gave a sudden exclamation and dove into her bag. “I’ve got it,” she said, waving her address book. She flipped through the pages. “McSween, Charles. Kansas City.”
She jotted down the number and offered it to Natalie. Nat stared at it like she’d offered her a spoonful of roadkill on a cracker. “I am not calling him.”
“But why?” Mary Alice asked. “You’re the last one who had any contact with him.” If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Akiko, she might have snickered at the word “contact.” God knows I wanted to. But she was annoyed, speeding up the on-ramp to seriously pissed.
I grabbed the piece of paper from Helen. “I’ll do it. Talking to an ex can be awkward.”
“You would know,” Mary Alice shot back. I didn’t flip her off that time, but I made a note to start a mental tally. I headed out, stopping by the drugstore for a fresh burner I bought with cash. I threaded my way through the narrow streets, cutting over to Jackson Square. It was getting dark now, the fortune-tellers and jugglers all packed up for the day, leaving the shadows for the vagrants. I passed a few benches where people had bedded down for the night, although it wouldn’t last. The NOLA police station was two blocks away and the cops would be along soon to encourage them on their way. They’d shuffle along to the darker side streets, bunking in doorways with elaborate arrangements of cardboard and moldy sleeping bags to keep out the chill.
One of the benches was empty, and I sat facing the river. I took a deep breath before keying in the number Helen had scribbled onto a piece of paper. I waited—three rings, then four. I was just about to give up when Sweeney answered, sounding a little sleepy. I could hear the annoying squeaks of a televised basketball game in the background. He must have dozed off watching, and I glanced up at the clock face on the front of the cathedral. Ten to seven.
I told him who it was and waited for the inevitable.
“Billie? Hey, it’s been a while—hey,” he said, drawing out the syllable in a long breath. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Just call me Lazarus,” I said.
“What the hell? I mean, what the actual hell?” His voice rose and the volume of the basketball game suddenly fell. He must have muted it as he waited for me to answer.
“It’s complicated. I can’t explain now, but I think we should meet.”
“Meet,” he repeated. He was playing for time, and I pressed him a little.
“Sweeney, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“If you’re alive, what about the others? Are they alive too? What about Nat?” God, it was like seventh grade all over again. Next he’d be asking me to leave a note in her locker after gym class. do u like me, circle y or n.
“Not on the phone,” I told him. “I can meet you tomorrow in New Orleans.”
“Tomorrow? Not a chance,” he said flatly. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Shit,” I said. I’d lost track of the time. “Wednesday, then. The second.”
“Gimme a minute. I need something to write with. Where the hell are my glasses?” he mumbled.
“On your head,” I told him.
“Hey, how did you know? Can you see me?”
“Sweeney, I’m not in Kansas City, peering in your windows. I guessed.”
“I gotta say, I’m a little disappointed,” he replied. He was quiet a minute and I heard him tapping away on a keyboard.
“Okay, I found a flight first thing Wednesday morning. I’ll arrive about three. Where do you want to meet?”
“Jackson Square, four o’clock.”
“How will I find you?”
“I don’t know yet, but don’t worry. I’ll find you. If anything comes up or you’re delayed, then meet me at the Sazerac Bar at the Roosevelt Hotel at nine pm. If you can’t make that, leave a message with the bartender. Got it?”
“Why can’t I just call you back?”
“Because I’m throwing this phone away as soon as I hang up.”
“Shit, you are in trouble, aren’t you?”
“I think so.”
He sighed. “I’ll be there.”
“Safe travels.”
I pressed the little red phone icon before he could answer. I powered off the phone as I walked towards the Cabildo, the museum tucked just to the west of the cathedral. A small street with nice wide gutters ran beside it. I didn’t even have to break stride as I let the phone slip out of my grasp and into the storm drain.
I cut through the little alley between the Cabildo and the cathedral. Here and there, doorways sat in pools of light with long shadows stretching in between. Most were occupied with vagrants stretched out on their beds of flattened cardboard, but in the last doorway, a clown sat on the steps, holding up a piece of broken mirror as he applied his greasepaint. I pulled out a five-dollar bill and dropped it into his tip bucket as I passed. There was nothing else in the bucket except for a few dimes. Hard week to be a clown, I guessed. I started to walk away, but he called me back.
“Hey, lady.” The clown held something out. It was a laminated prayer card, the kind you buy in church gift stores. This one was worn and soft with age. The picture was of a man in a red robe carrying a toddler across a river, both of them wearing sunny halos.
“St. Christopher,” he said. But I already knew that. The image matched the small medal I wore on a thin chain around my neck.
“Thanks,” I said, pocketing the card.
“Happy fucking New Year,” said the clown.
“You too.”
I tightened my scarf as the wind rose, and I headed for home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JANUARY 1979