Fat Tuesday(12)

"Don't blame me, Burke," she lashed out."You've done this to yourself.

You've harbored this grief far too long. It's unnatural. Why is it still eating at you?"

He refused to answer. He couldn't answer.

"All right then," she said."Good night."

"G'night."

He closed his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't go to sleep, and he didn't.

Her rejection had pissed him off, but he wasn't as pissed off as he had a right to be, and that in itself bothered him.

When he was sure she'd fallen asleep, he got up, went into the kitchen, and fixed himself a sandwich. Then he sat down at the table and, holding his head between his hands, stared unseeingly at the sandwich he never ate.

I (7\ouble or nothing? She'll stop in front of us and give us an upw close and personal look. Do we have a bet?"

"No." Burke rubbed his temple where a headache had taken root an hour ago and which so far had continued to outpound the drums in the jazz band and defy two analgesic tablets. Maybe he should have taken Pat up on his offer of a paid week off, but he'd rather work than stick around the house where he had too much idle time to think."I don't want to play anymore, Mac. Give it a rest, okay?"

Mac McCuen flashed his irrepressible grin."I'm giving you a chance to win back some of the money you've lost to me."

"No thanks."

McCuen would bet on anything from the outcome of the World Series to which cockroach would win the race to the doughnut box.

Disappointed by Burke's lack of interest, McCuen turned his attention to the topless dancer who, by God, did stop directly in front of him.

Breasts shimmying, she winked at the narcotics cop, who was young and good looking and who dressed like a GQ model even when he wasn't pretending to be a gawking out-of-towner taking in the nightlife of Bourbon Street.

By comparison, Burke looked tired and disheveled and illtempered, which was exactly how he felt. He'd been up most of the previous night, alternately wallowing in self-pity and honing his anger over Barbara's rebuff to a razor's edge. They'd mumbled hostile good mornings and goodbyes to each other this morning, and his piss factor had been at a record high all day.

Scowling, Burke watched Mac as he watched the gyrating dancer.

What was Mac's real first name, he wondered. All he'd ever heard was Mac. McCuen had made repeated requests to be transferred into Narcotics and Vice before he was actually assigned to it a little more than a year ago. In Burke's opinion the guy was too flashy and effusive to be a good narc.

"I've got a five-dollar bill says her tits are plastic," McCuen said as the dancer strutted away."What do you say?"

"I say I'd be stupid to lay money on that. How do you propose we determine it? By asking her?"

McCuen couldn't be provoked. Engaging grin still in place, he lifted his glass of club soda and took a sip."I'm just jacking with you, Basile. Trying to get a smile out of you. Besides, if I went near a chick like that, my old lady would kill me. She's jealous as hell.

I've never given her reason to be. I look, sure, but I've never cheated, and we're going on three years together." His record of marital faithfulness seemed to surprise him."You ever screwed around, Basile?"

"No."

"Not ever?"

"No."

"Jeer, that's impressive. All the women you meet. And you've been married a long time, right? How long?"

"Long enough."

"Happily?"

"Are you a wanna-be marriage counselor, or what?" "Don't get pissed," Mac said, sounding wounded."I was only asking."

"Well, don't ask. We're here to work, not to ogle the dancers and not to discuss our private lives. A good way to get killed is to stop thinking about the job and " "Our guy just came in," Mac said, interrupting. He was still looking at Burke, still smiling. Maybe he was a better cop than Burke gave him credit for."He's moving this way. Ass-ugly yellow sport coat." Burke didn't turn around, but he felt the familiar adrenaline rush he experienced before every arrest. An undercover cop had been buying from this guy for months. His name was Roland Sachel. He was a nickel-bag dealer, but only quality stuff, and there appeared to be no shortage of his supply. It was believed his drug trade was more for the thrill than for the income it provided.

He owned a legitimate business, a handbag factory that produced designer knockoffs that sold to discount stores.

Sachel's turf wasn't the streets, but the trendy clubs. He liked to rub elbows with celebrities, professional jocks, and their groupies.

He enjoyed the good life and moved in a circle of acquaintances that availed themselves of it.

Narcotics was operating under the theory that if they could bring Sachel in, even on a petty charge, he might hand over Duvall. The undercover cop working the case had supplied them with information during a secret meeting that morning.

"Sachel is ambitious and greedy. He's all the time grumbling about the boss," and since he's the boss at his factory, I figure he's referring to the boss of his drug business. I think Sachel would hand the boss to us if we offered him a deal."

"Has he given you a name?" Burke had asked.

"Never. Just the boss."