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and picked up the pail to leave. “Say, Willie, there was a man from Memphis that came by the shop yesterday. Tall, said he was an architect and played ball for Vanderbilt.”
    “Good-looking guy with an expensive suit and watch?” asked Willie, not looking at me. She sipped her coffee and opened the paper.
    My heart sank. “Yes, that’s him. He came here?” I asked.
    “No, he wasn’t here.”
    Thank goodness. Forrest Hearne didn’t seem like the type. “But you’ve heard of him?” I asked.
    “Yeah, I heard of him,” said Willie. “He’s dead.”

SEVEN
    “No one’s talkin’,” said Cokie, “not even Frankie. So you know somethin’ ain’t right.”
    “Willie said she didn’t know details, just that he was dead,” I told Cokie on the sidewalk. “She didn’t want to talk about it. Said it wasn’t any of her business.” I stared at the pavement. I couldn’t believe that Forrest Hearne, the lovely man from Tennessee, was dead. “Who told you?” I asked Cokie.
    “Saw Eddie Bones last night. He looked like he seen a ghost. I asked him what happened, and he said a well-to-do businessman done died, right there at the table in the club ’bout four A.M. ”
    Eddie Bones was the bandleader at the Sans Souci, a club on Bourbon Street.
    “So someone shot him in the club?” I asked.
    “Bones didn’t say nothin’ ’bout a gun,” said Cokie.
    “Well, he couldn’t have just keeled over. You didn’t see this guy, Coke. He was a real gentleman, healthy and strong. He didn’t look like a boozer or a doper. He was in town for the Bowl. But he had cash, lots of it, and all of a sudden he’s dead? Where’s Eddie Bones now?”
    “Headin’ to Baton Rouge,” said Cokie. “Said he had a gig up there.”
    “He’s leaving town? Well, how are we going to find out what happened?”
    “Why you so curious?” asked Cokie. “Ain’t the first time someone’s died in the Quarter.”
    “I . . . just need to know. Where do you think Mr. Hearne is now?”
    “I guess he’d be at the coroner’s.”
    A loud rumble fired across the street. I looked up and saw Jesse Thierry on his motorcycle. He nodded to me. I nodded back.
    Cokie waved to him. “Come on, now. This ain’t no way to spend New Year’s. Get in the cab before your momma comes walkin’ up with that no-good Cincinnati and all hell breaks loose.”
    “Cokie, I need you to go to the coroner. Find out what happened,” I told him.
    “Now, why you think he goin’ tell me about some rich dead man?”
    “You could tell him Willie wants to know,” I said.
    “Josie girl, you crazy. You goin’ get yourself in heaps o’ trouble. Get in the cab. I’ll take you over to Marlowe’s. That poor ol’ man needs some black-eyed peas to bring in the New Year.”
    I stared out the window as Cokie drove me over to Patrick’s. The Sans Souci wasn’t exactly a fine establishment. The owner was a hustler and had B-girls in his club. Bar girls, like Dora’s sister, acted like normal patrons but they actually received a commission from the club. They chatted up the customers, encouraging them to buy expensive drinks or bottles of champagne. The more drinks the customer bought, the more money the girls made.
    A line from Keats echoed in my head. “A thing of beauty is a joy forever . . . it will never pass into nothingness.” No. Something wasn’t right.
    Cokie dropped me off in front of the Marlowes’ pale green town home, surrounded by its black fleur-de-lis fence. I thought it was lovely. Patrick couldn’t stand it. He said it was so passé it was embarrassing. Lately, it did smell a bit like old people inside, but I never mentioned that to Patrick.
    I heard the piano as I approached the door. I stopped and leaned against the railing to listen. Patrick played so expressively that I often learned more about him from how he played than the things he told me. Despite our friendship, there had always been a low fence between us. I couldn’t figure