82 Desire

and cry it from the rooftops.
    Humiliate that namedropper, namestopper,
    namekiller,
    namethug, nameperv, nameperp, nameHOOLIGAN Just the way he did my mama.
    And I wrote y’all a poem said how mad I was.
    And I learned a whoooole new profession, just so I could find me that Pill Man name me Exit for Excreta.
    I was a private dick.
    And when you think about where that old Urethra is,
    And how The Baroness Myself is a poet of some renown,
    Doesn’t that just make you want to elbow fate right in the ribs?
    Private dickhead’s more like it, but you knew I was gon’ say that. So I won’t.
    I was gon’ use my educated, middle-class, cuttin’-edge electronic skills to catch me that elusive Pill Man.
    To catch me that namedropper, namestopper, namekiller, namethug, nameperv, nameperp, nameHOOLIGAN.
    And I was gon’ use plain old-fashioned deception right along with all that high technology.
    I was gon’ bust my butt right into Charity, that misnamed old hole. I was gon’ deceive my way in.
    I was gon’ pretend to be a simple blue-skirted worker, and private-dick my way to justice.
    But then the fates Or God
    Or that funny-boy Legba—Or maybe The Baroness Myself-—
    Pasted my aristocratic ass right square on the wrong damn page.
    The Baroness Pontalba,
    She of the dependable high drama and the desperate hand-wringin’ foot-stompin’, somehow became a mere supporting player in some upstart parallel drama.
    Just like white folks to steal the spotlight.
    (Here Talba paused and was rewarded with light tittering.)
Oh, DESPAIR.
    Oh, MISERY.
    Oh, suffering, oh pain.
    Ancient secrets slimed to the sun
    And none of ’em mine or my mama’s.
    Marriages died.
    And so did a couple of men.
    For more or less no reason except some crime-boy’s made-up, silly-ass idea about himself. And guess what?
    A Jane named Storey wrote one about little old me. That’s right— Me Me Me Me.
    (Talba sang the “me’s” to make sure no one was sleeping.)
Finally.
    At last.
    Me Me Me Me.
    (Once again, she made music of the “me’s.”)
I finally got to strut and fret my hour.
    And then the fates
    Or God
    Or that funny-boy Legba
    Or maybe The Baroness Myself
    Elicited thirteen separate confessions from
    Thirteen separate Pill Men
    Who all named some little girl Exit for Excreta.
    (Or said they did.)
    And twenty-seven wives, nurses, girlfriends, boyfriends, assorted orderlies, and liars
    Tattled on another twenty-seven Pill Men who also committed that unspeakable sin.
    (It is alleged.) And eight other little Urethras called to express solidarity in piss.
    And did The Baroness Myself get satisfaction?
    Well, no, y’all.
    Does anybody? Ever?
    In case y’all haven’t heard, there ain’t no justice.
    THE END

Acknowledgments
    Writing a book affords a unique opportunity to see how successful people work. My research makes clear that the secret of success must surely be this: treat even a request for free advice as if it were a million-dollar job. Each time, I’m astonished anew at the time and effort big-deal experts are willing to put in just to help me write a book.
    Skip Langdon simply couldn’t function without Captain Linda Buczek of the New Orleans Police Department, and I couldn’t without Greg Peterson, who never, ever laughs at my pitiful efforts to master these newfangled writing machines.
    It took a trio of experts to teach me even the most rudimentary facts about oil, and though one must rmain a confidential informer, I owe him a huge debt and thank him all the same. The others are Joe Pecot and Ken Bramlett, a geologist whom even I can understand.
    Jim Welsh and Walt Philbin brought me up to date on reporting at the end of the millennium, and others gave advice and answered niggling questions: Betsy and Jim Petersen, Chris Wiltz, Debbie Faust, and Ken White.
    My heroic assistant, Kathy Perry, once again got through a book without slapping me silly, and my husband, Lee Pryor, helped in so many ways I can’t count them.
    A thousand thanks to everyone who helped. Anything wrong is my fault, not theirs.
    Next in the Skip Langdon series is MEAN WOMAN BLUES. Find out more at www.booksbnimble.com or www.juliesmithbooks.com .

The Skip Langdon Series
    (in order of publication)
    NEW ORLEANS MOURNING
    THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ
    JAZZ FUNERAL
    DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK (formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)
    HOUSE OF BLUES
    THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
    CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION (formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL)
    82 DESIRE
    MEAN WOMAN BLUES

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