Fat Tuesday(25)

He knew now what he had to do. He knew who he had to kill. And it wasn't himself.

When he finally fell asleep, he slept as he hadn't for months deeply and dreamlessly.

"Quitting," Burke repeated.

For a moment Pat was speechless."Just like that? For chrissake, why?"

"It's not just like that," Doug. And you know why."

"Because of Kev?"

"Primarily. And Duvall, and Bardo and Sachel. Shall I go on?"

"How can you do this?" Pat left his chair and began to pace the area behind his desk."If you quit a job you love because of them, they win.

You're making it too damn easy on them. You're giving them control over your life."

"It might look that way, but it's not. I wish my reasons were that simple and clear-cut."

Pat stopped pacing and gave him a sharp look."There's more?" "Barbara and I have split."

Pat gazed down at the floor for several seconds, then looked at Burke with regret."I'm sorry. Is this a trial separation?"

"No, it's for good."

"I sensed that you two were having problems, but didn't know that things had unraveled that completely."

"Neither did I," Burke admitted."Until last night. I won't bore you with the details, but take my word for it that we reached the point of no return. I moved out and told her to file for divorce on the grounds of her choosing. The marriage is kaput." "I'm sorry," Pat said again. He wasn't any more sorry than Burke that his bad marriage had finally ended. The real regret was in the timing.

Burke said, "I'm fine with it. Really. It had been coming for a long time. As for the other, the job, that's been coming for a long time, too. I'm burned out, Doug. In my present frame of mind, I'm no good to you."

"Bullshit. You're the best man in the division."

"Thanks, but this is the right thing for me to do."

"Look, we've just come off a disappointing trial. You're upset about you and Barbara. Not a good time to be making a career decision.

Take a week off ..."

Burke was shaking his head before Pat finished."That's not what this is about. A week off would be like using a Band-Aid when I need open-heart surgery."

"So maybe a desk job for a while," Pat suggested."Work in an advisory position. Something that would relieve the pressure a bit."

"Sorry, Doug. My mind's made up."

"At least let me place you on suspension with pay. You can come back when you feel like it. The job will be waiting."

That alternative was tempting, but Burke considered it for only a few seconds before stubbornly shaking his head."If I had that umbilical cord, I might use it. A few weeks later I'd be right back where I am now. No, Doug, it's gotta be a clean break."

Pat had returned to the chair behind his desk. He ran his hand through thinning hair."I can't believe this. I'm the head of this departments but you're the heart of it, Burke."

He made a scoffing sound."Trying a new tactic, Doug? Sweet talk?"

"It's the truth."

"I appreciate the compliment, but that doesn't sway me." "Okay," Pat said, making an impatient gesture with his hand.

"Forget the division. What about you? Have you really thought this through?

What will you do with yourself?"

"That's one of the perks of quitting, Doug. I don't have any plans."

That was the first time Burke had ever lied to his friend.

The brothel was as imposing a structure as a branch of the public library.

It was set well off the street behind an iron picket fence in a grove of spectacular magnolia trees. The house had been built by a wealthy Creole family who had grown and imported cotton prior to what was commonly known as the War of Northern Aggression.

During that conflict, the Yankees had seized all the family's ships and warehouses, burned their plantation upriver, and commandeered this, their home in the city, to be used as quarters for Union officers.

It was this final insult from which the family never recovered.

Following the Civil War, the house had fallen into ruin because no one could afford to own it and pay the property taxes. In the early 1880s, a northern entrepreneur fell in love with the mansion He poured money into the refurbishing of it until it surpassed its original splendor.

That lasted until his grandson and heir was caught swindling his partners and lost not only his family's fortune, but his own life in a suspicious shooting "accident" beneath the Dueling Oaks.

The house again sat vacant until the 1920s, when a group of investors converted it into a speakeasy. The upstairs rooms saw as much, if not more, action than the elegant salons on the ground floor. Flesh was peddled as actively as bootleg liquor. Soon the madam had made enough money to buy out her partners. Under her management the business flourished.

When she died, the business was passed down to her daughter, and now, the present owner, Ruby Bouchereaux, was the third-generation madam.

The elegant establishment had been under Ruby's control since the sixties.

She had outprospered even her enterprising mother and grandmother.

Ruby Bouchereaux's house was part of the Big Easy's mystique.