Chapter 7

New Orleans, Let the Good Times Roll:

What better place to celebrate good times, good food and good friends, than in the French Quarter, or Vieux Carre, the heart of beautiful New Orleans, where everything goes. Stroll the streets, listen to the jazz, taste the cuisines that made the city famous...

Mamie would have loved it.

The French Quarter was alive that morning, swarming with tourists and shop owners and locals knotted on street corners. Brilliant flowers cascaded from wrought-iron balconies, and in front of Gallatoire's a street busker paused, his violin held to his chin. Down the length of Bourbon the buildings listed together like a line of slightly drunk friends, a little seedy-looking with worn pastel fronts, their battered wood French doors open to the streets.

As she passed, stepping solemnly along next to Pete, Brooke could see the lush foliage of courtyards beyond plain facades and hear the chatter of water from hidden fountains tucked away behind. She could hear the ever-present wail of guitars and clarinets and smell the river and the filé of gumbo. A dozen different languages floated across the narrow streets, and a hundred different pitches of laughter danced on the heavy air like helium balloons. The city barely paused as the funeral procession moved off down Bourbon. The Vieux Carre was honoring death by celebrating life.

Clad in gaudy satin cutaway coats, their fans attached to their belts, their top hats cocked just so, the Second Chance brass band progressed in slow, matched step down Bourbon street, a mournful dirge floating from their gleaming brass instruments. Following behind in perfect rhythm stepped the official mourners, faces downcast, gaily decorated parasols swaying gently above, white-gloved sympathy for the bereaved.

And then, from one step to the next, from somewhere inside a single note, they swung from solemn grief straight into joy. From dirge into athem, bass drum-pounded, trumpet-throated celebration that carried with it life and laughter and joy.  The Saints Go Marching In ricocheted off the old buildings and incited smiles from the sidewalk audiences. Children danced along with old men, and strangers ran from shop entrances and restaurants to join the impromptu parade, purloined napkins waving above their heads. And right in their midst, Pete and Brooke and Alex and Rene danced along, giving Mamie the tribute she really deserved. Because if anyone would have understood why these old men danced down a hot street in New Orleans swinging their parasols and clapping their hands and prizing miracles from battered old instruments, it would have been Mamie.

"Beats the hell out of the accordion," Pete offered with a delighted grin.

Brooke shook her head, wishing yet again that Mamie could have been there to share the magic. "I still can't figure out how Alex arranged it. These are only held for black jazz musicians anymore, from what I've heard."

Pete held her hand as they high-stepped their way behind the band. "Her grandfather was Little Sweet William Thibidaux, one of the best clarinet players that ever lived. She grew up with these guys."

"I'm really glad she could arrange it," Brooke admitted sincerely, and then added simply, "I'm glad I got to meet her."

Pete shot her a questioning look, but Brooke answered with a smile.

"She's a world-class shopper," was all she'd allow.

They'd had a wonderful time that morning hitting the shops Alex favored. Antiques, clothing, museums, they'd strolled through them all, until Brooke had glutted herself on the magic of New Orleans's past and severely dented her pocketbook in the present.

She'd gotten her necessities. She'd also let Alex talk her into some outfits she knew she'd never wear back in Rupert Springs, like the brightly colored gauze top and skirt that bared her arms and shoulders and swirled around her legs as she kept step with the marchers. Perfect along with the ropes of beads and dangling earrings they'd added for an afternoon stroll through the sensuous, exhilarating streets of New Orleans, as out of place as a bikini in a church, back on Main Street.

But Brooke wasn't on Main Street. She was on Bourbon Street and, for just a moment, belonged there.

She still blushed to think of what Pete had given her the night before. Not just the praise, but the restraint. The understanding, the bullying, the patience. She'd returned to her room and pulled that old T-shirt back off again and looked in her own mirror, trying her best to see what Pete had seen. Still trying to find the swan hidden inside that duckling.

In truth, she couldn't. Her legs were too long and her mouth too big. She thought her jaw was square enough to do aftershave commercials, and she had shoulders like a halfback.

Maybe her breasts hadn't been so bad after all. She'd felt his hands on them—could still feel his hands, so big and gentle and protective around that most sensitive skin. She could still feel the way her nipples had tightened at his approach, unsure whether to anticipate or dread.

He'd wanted her. Maybe he hadn't set out to, at least last night when he'd yanked her shirt off. After all, she'd seen his eyes, and they'd reminded her of what he'd looked like the day he'd stormed into the waiting room at the county jail to pick her up from an ill-advised date. Angry and impatient and frustrated.

"Don't you know better?" that look demanded.

No, she thought on a stifled sigh. She didn't know better. She didn't know how to feel beautiful in the same house as Alex, whose looks and personality turned heads wherever she went. She didn't know how to seriously respond to Rene's outrageous suggestions. After all, the guys back at the Badger Bar were one thing. Their clumsy attempts at flirtation were easy to fend off and easier to dismiss. They'd become friends rather than potential dates, and that was fine. They weren't men who made romance a world-class art.

And just what did she do with a friend who had decided to do it the other way around? What did she do with the fact that everything she'd ever prayed for might have come true if she'd only had the courage to let nature take its course the night before?

Her palms were still wet, and it had nothing to do with the humidity. Her heart still raced unexpectedly, interfering with her ability to breathe correctly. Her gaze still strayed over to where Pete was watching the crowd like a kid at a circus, his sharp eyes bright and open, his face younger than she'd seen it in a long while on that national news show of his.

The sun gleamed like dark gold in his hair and warmed his skin. He wore an unstructured wheat-colored jacket over a green T-shirt and jeans, looking casual and elegant at the same time. Only Coop could exude that kind of cool sensuality submerged in southern Louisiana humidity like this. Walking in rhythm behind the band with a mesmerizing kind of step that mostly involved his hips, he was drawing more stares than the band, more comment than the entire city put together.

Last night, in the darkness, he had turned that sensuality on her. For a brief moment, wrapped in moonlight, fantasy and possibility had been a handsbreadth away from reality. Alone, isolated, protected from what awaited each of them at the end of the trip. Unbelievably, unimaginably, he had asked in that silence to share with her the most beautiful of communications, the true expression of what they could feel for each other. And in the end, because she'd never known anything but disappointment from that kind of offer, Brooke had forfeited her chance.

There was no question this morning that the world had once again rushed back into the comfortable void they'd managed to create. Pete had been discovered. Women slapped hands against gaping mouths and men sucked in their pot bellies out of envy. And Brooke, whose hand he held, who received his delighted chuckles and shared the special bond that had brought them to this street, suddenly didn't know anymore how to be just his friend.

"Bon Dieu, if it ain't the best newsman in five feet, I'm thinkin'," a voice boomed out of nowhere, the lilt distinctly New Orleans.

Brooke turned to see a very short, balding man with hairy hands and wire rims reach up to clap Pete on the back.

"You came to visit me, did you, boy? And me, I have to go to strangers to find out 'bout it."

Pete's laugh was abrupt. "What the hell are you doin' here, Marv?"

Marv reclaimed his hand to place it over his heart. Except he had it on the wrong side of his chest. "Pete, my good friend, you don't like to see me?"

"I want to know what you're doing here." Without breaking stride, Pete included Brooke in the conversation. "Marv Gold, Bureau Chief for IBN," he explained more than introduced before turning back on the little man with a scowl. "What are you doing here?"

"You kiddin', no?" Marv demanded. "I love a good funeral."

"Only if there are surviving relatives to interview," Pete retorted.

Marv's considerable eyebrows lifted. "Are there?"

"Not if you want to make it to your next birthday, there aren't."

Marv gave up on Pete and turned to reach his hand out in Brooke's direction. "You know this scoundrel, eh? I'm still pleased to meet you, ma jolie fille. Eh, I hope you got a name."

"Brooke Ferguson," she allowed, briefly giving him her free hand over her shoulder. He almost had to reach over his head to get to it. "Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine, chere. You enjoy yourself here?"

"It has its moments," she answered, ignoring Pete's scowl.

Marv nodded with a delighted smile. "Well, that good, that good. After all, you know what we all say down here in my N'Awleans, Laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll."

"What do you mean 'your New Orleans'?" Pete demanded. "Marv, you're from Brooklyn."

Brooke fought a bubble of laughter. "Interesting how well you picked up the accent," she said carefully.

Pete's scowl intensified. "When he was stationed in Dallas we almost ended up defusing a range war. Marv gets heavily involved with his area."

"So sue me," Marv retorted without noticeable heat. "I assimilate."

Brooke looked back over her shoulder. "Don't you get the bends when you go home?"

Marv's answering smile was delighted. "My mother won't speak to me for days. So, chere, where you know this scoundrel from, eh?"

Brooke knew better. "He picked me up down at the Pink Palace last night. This is his quaint little way of walking me home."

They'd just about run out of street, and when they did, it would be the end of the parade. Not the party, though. Alex had invited everyone to continue the celebration at one of the small jazz clubs that dotted the district like sequins on an Elvis jumpsuit. Brooke knew that Pete would rather Marv wasn't still around to join in the festivities. She also knew that it was going to be unavoidable. Marv had the same kind of qualities as the Reverend Mr. Purcell, that sense of sticking so close to somebody that you'd finally give in to them just to have some peace.

"Ya know, I be hearin' that Pete Cooper has laryngitis," Marv mused to himself, never missing a step. "Lotsa people, all over the country, they been sendin' in potions and poultices so he be okay. He sound pretty fine to me, all right."

That finally brought Pete to a stop so that Marv almost caromed into Pete's chest. "Okay, Marv. One drink. I'll tell you if you promise on your mother's matzo soup that it doesn't get back to Evan."

Marv lit up like Barney's Used Cars on Sale day. "Bon Dieu, boy, you bet."

Pete's scowl was awesome. "And knock that off."

* * *

"You're going to have to call in," Brooke said.

Pete didn't look up from the cafe au lait before him. "Maybe Evan won't find out."

But Brooke laughed. "Are you kidding? That was the first jazz funeral in three years. There were three remote units there in five minutes. Even if Marv keeps his mouth shut, you've still been exposed like backside in an outhouse, son."

She earned quite a nice scowl herself for that one. "Don't you start getting all quaint on me, too," he threatened. "I had just about all I could stand from Marv."

Brooke chuckled, once again comfortable and familiar with Pete. It amazed her how quickly her hormones could flood and wane with Pete. It relieved her that no matter what else happened, the two of them could so easily return to honesty and humor. She could only hope it would continue.

The party had been over for hours. Brooke had shared tales and toasts with a dozen musicians, heard stories of Alex's grandfather and the times she'd ended up at Preservation Hall for baby-sitting. She'd sat among Pete's friends, the friends he'd made beyond her sphere of influence, and she'd survived. Separate but not uncomfortable, watching more than participating, getting to know Pete through the people who knew him.

What she found out didn't surprise her in the least. Marv, a savvy and sharp newsman for all the unique ethnic charm, considered Pete one of the three best newsmen in the world. Alex recounted yet more tales of the year they'd shared air-time in New York, when Pete the gentleman had protected her from the sides of the city she hadn't been prepared for, and Pete the reporter had fought her tooth and nail for stories—and always won. Rene, world traveler and raconteur, respected Pete for his intelligence, his hunger for knowledge and his sense of fair play.

And Brooke, who'd known all this before they had, found herself loving her friend even more. Differently, with a delight that she'd been proved right all those years ago when she'd seen the potential in the boy others had miscast. When she had still been the only girl who had recognized the attraction of moss green eyes.

Even so, it hurt. Pete had moved on, grown beyond her into a place she didn't belong. He had outdistanced even his own dreams, and until now, even watching that news every night and hearing the women from Little Rock to Memphis gush over Pete Cooper the way they would Paul Newman, she hadn't appreciated it. Not really. Not face-to-face like this where she couldn't ignore the fact that Pete was internationally famous and respected, and she was a bean counter for a trucking company.

On the phone they'd been equals. In Mamie's eyes, in Brooke's, who had always seen her buddy as that twenty-four-year-old she'd seen off a final time for his big shot at New York. Before fame, before recognition. Before the gap had appeared that only now she appreciated.

She didn't know what to do about it. When they were alone, it was still Coop and Stump, still two kids who shared the same memories and had been raised to view the world from a compatible place. But when they walked into rooms like this, where people fawned and deferred, where they rightfully asked Pete's opinion, she felt the difference and ached suddenly for it. She stumbled with the sudden knowledge that things had changed irrevocably, and she wasn't sure she belonged there anymore. And they still had to visit Memphis and Atlanta, where Pete was most known.

Brooke didn't know whether she was up for it. She didn't know whether they'd end the trip still friends, or as once-close acquaintances who'd managed to have their differences spelled out in irrefutable terms. After what had happened last night—what had almost happened last night—it could very well shatter her.

Once the last round had been shared that afternoon, and the last autographs had been signed for fans who'd been lucky enough to stumble onto the party, Pete grabbed Brooke's hand and led her off for some privacy, some good food and some relaxation.

Only Pete could have walked into a top-notch restaurant like Antoine's and been immediately seated, even without a tie. Another little lesson in class differences, Brooke decided. She would have been standing out in the street for a week.

Brooke found that all of Mamie's coaching at least came in handy when she ended up as a satellite recipient of some of the fawning Pete collected. Pulling herself up to her most regal height, she flashed the maitre d' her best smile, all the while wondering whether he knew that the fanciest place she'd ever entertained was the Family Steak House out on Route 3.

She must have handled herself without a major gaffe, because the waiters all smiled and bowed and murmured appreciation at her order. As the evening cooled with a susurrous breeze, she and Pete enjoyed their etouffee and blackened redfish beneath the sepia gaze of over a hundred years of Mardi Gras Queens.

"Let's not go on to the next city," Pete said suddenly, lifting his gaze back to Brooke, his fingers worrying the edge of his coffee cup. "Let's just head down toward the bayous."

Brooke was surprised by the sudden intensity in his voice, the dark edge to his eyes. "And miss Elvis?" she demanded. "What would Mamie say?"

The edge of his mouth crooked. "She'd say she would understand that I didn't want to face the public again just yet."

Brooke's first instinct was to laugh, to throw off some caustic comment about fame being hell. But she heard the undercurrent in his voice and reached out for his free hand.

"You've never complained before," she said gently.

His expression grew wry. "I never took the time off to let it bother me before."

Brooke wasn't exactly sure what to say. "Coop, it's only been four days."

He nodded. "Four days with you," he retorted. "Four days when I haven't been expected to be anybody special, or do anything dramatic." He squeezed her hand. "Four days when nobody's reviewed the acceptability of my opinions."

"I never realized before how claustrophobic it must get," she admitted with a sly smile. "After all, I just see you on the news like everybody else in the country."

"Don't start that again," he warned. "I told you, I'd invited you."

"Oh, you're right," she retorted. "I should have come sooner. To think I've missed all these years of having other women just dying to see me pick my nose in public to prove I'm not worth sitting with you." To punctuate her point, she nodded and smiled to the icy blonde who was doing just that at the next table.

Pete's smile wasn't any happier. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been to a Three Stooges retrospective?" he asked quietly enough that the other diners wouldn't hear him and carry his problems back to the Daily World. "Or the last time I ditched the power suits and got on my roach-stompin' boots and just hit the kind of country bar where there's a grill between me and the band?"

Brooke shrugged. "Let's go now," she suggested. "If nothing else, I'm sure there's a good Cajun bar within driving distance we can get stupid at."

But he shook his head. "The bloodhounds are already out. I'd be spotted in a minute, and if there's one thing the sainted Mr. Parischell demands from his newsmen, it's respectability. He does not consider sitting in with Buddy and the Butt Kickers respectable."

Brooke scowled a bit, caught between this sudden revelation and the ones she'd been facing all on her own. Wondering what the best balance would be between Pete's need for isolation and her sudden dread of it.

"I vote we go on," she suggested diffidently, her gaze down to the dredges of mocha coffee in the delicate demitasse before her, her thoughts on the hand she still held, the familiar comfort of it, the sudden, disquieting promise of it. A person could hide among other people, even in a small town. She couldn't at all in the wild emptiness of the back bayous. "After all, it can't get much worse—and I think the bayous in early summer could. Besides," she added, lifting her gaze back to him, "we've been playing this whole thing by the seat of our pants anyway. Who says we have to actually go to Atlanta? Is Elvis only in Memphis?"

Coop didn't look appreciably happier. "Do you have to be so pragmatic?"

She smiled. "Just returning the favor. I know how crabby you get after a couple hours with a cat. I can't imagine driving in a small car with you after a whole night spent with a sampling from each entomological species on southern Louisiana sharing your bed. Can we come back in the winter?"

He tilted his head a little, and Brooke thought how winsome those eyes that usually faced the world with such authority looked. "Promise?"

That was all it took for the heat to rise in her. Heat Brooke was sure had been transmitted directly through Pete's fingertips—those same fingers that had trapped her breasts the night before and taught her with one caress what Mamie had been trying to with years of words.

She fought to keep hold of his gaze, to prevent the blush she knew was even now staining her throat. She tried her very best to answer him with even a few of the words that had been bouncing around in her head for the past twenty hours or so. Somehow, just the memory of what had happened the night before, the turmoil brought on by the past few hours, smothered her voice.

Pete understood and acted. "Let's take a walk," he offered.

Brooke nodded, and ten minutes later found herself being ushered back out into the sultry night by the maitre d' himself.

"Do you eat in places like that all the time?" she demanded, slinging her purse over her bare shoulder as Pete wrapped his arm around her waist to walk her down the street. Without thinking about it, she returned the favor, settling comfortably against his hip.

"At least four nights a week," he retorted dryly. "The other three nights I have Nubian slaves feed me peeled grapes."

She chuckled. "Well, find your own on this trip, bud, 'cause I have trouble enough feeding myself." She shook her head, marveling at her first experience at a world-famous restaurant. "I'm not sure I could get used to that. I mean, every time I got up somebody grabbed my chair. I have the feeling that if I'd sneezed, one of them would have wiped my nose for me."

Pete looked down on her in amazement. "Don't tell me you didn't like that," he challenged. "You were the one who always talked about going to a real restaurant someday."

Brooke scowled as she sidestepped a rather gregarious reveler. "If memory serves, I made that statement sitting inside the booth at Burgerworld. I don't think that place even got a rating from the health department."

"So, you mean that if we did get to Atlanta and I offered to take you to the Dining Room at the Ritz, or Bone's or 103 West, where I have regular tables, you'd be forced to say no?"

Brooke grinned over at him, the memory of that dinner still fresh on her tongue, that shameful attention still warming her. "Don't be ridiculous."

He laughed, giving her a squeeze. "That's what I thought."

"You know," she mused, eyes up to the night sky and the throb of neon. "There is still quite a discussion on which is really the finest restaurant in New Orleans. And while Antoine's certainly has its supporters, there, are those who favor Galatoire's. I, for one, would be loathe to even enter into the discussion without a fair sampling of some others." Fighting a grin, she turned an intent gaze on him. "Do you see what I mean?"

She looked over to find the laughter back in Pete's eyes, the easy outrage that passed between the two of them as friendship. "I've created a monster," he mourned.

She gave him the smile of her life. "You sure have."

For a while they strolled on in silence, just enjoying the New Orleans night. The Quarter came to life in the dark, with its gaudy neon and gaudier music. The clip-clop of mules drawing carriages punctuated the wail of clarinets, and laughter took on a sharper, more brittle edge. The air was still redolent with the spices of the river, the kitchens and the gardens. The night beyond these balconied buildings still carried the music of a river port at night. But within those few blocks, life was as bright and playful as a circus at the edge of town.

The bad part was that drunks didn't obey the rules of the sidewalk, so that more than once Brooke ended up with alcohol cooling her dress and a blank, grinning face mumbling incoherent apologies. The good part was that those same drunks couldn't focus enough to recognize the famous Pete Cooper visage. No one gaped in astonishment or made stupid jokes about how the world was able to survive without Pete's reporting on it. No one made mention of the fact that this world-famous newsman, veteran inductee into the Bachelor-of-the-Year rolls, had his arm around an unknown woman as he threaded his way through the crowds.

Tonight amidst the anonymity of the Quarter, Pete and Brooke could be Coop and Stump again. They could walk along as unmolested as any other pedestrian. They could act like tourists and ride along in the open carriages, the driver offering advice, directions and general observations like any cabby anywhere, and then sit in a succession of clubs listening to sweating musicians batter the old walls with new music.

They could also, it seemed, be mugged.

"You've got to be kidding," was Brooke's first reaction.

"Shut up, Stump," Pete advised carefully as he faced the very nervous youth with the gun.

"He's right, lady," the boy echoed. "Shut up. Gimme your purse and wallet, we be even."

"But-"

Pete never gave her the chance to protest. Whipping her purse off her shoulder, he tossed it across at the same time he dug for his wallet. "I don't have much cash left," he said, his voice admirably calm. "Can I hang on to my driver's license?"

"Han' it over!"

That was about when it began to sink into Brooke that this guy really had a gun, and his hand was really shaky and sweaty as he pointed it first at Pete and then her. It was when she realized that if this kid was really as strung out as he looked, she and Pete could very well be balanced a millimeter or two from landing in a trauma center. If not sharing space in the crypt with Mamie.

All in all, she'd prefer to hold off on that option as long as possible. So she shut up, just as Pete suggested, and didn't even think of the extra gun that young boy was holding in her purse.

Pete was handing over his wallet when the kid's eyes narrowed. "I know you, don't I?"

"Now is not the time for this," Brooke muttered, her own hands sweating as they waved unsteadily in the air somewhere near her unprotected shoulders. The three of them were standing bare yards into a darkened alley where the boy had pushed them once he'd proved to Pete that the pressure against his kidneys was a Saturday night special. Of all the times for the Quarter to be its noisiest, its most unnoticing, this had to be it.

When Pete didn't answer fast enough, the boy jammed the gun in his belly. "I ask you a question, man."

Brooke was the one who flinched.

"My name's Pete Cooper," Pete allowed reasonably, still much too calm for having a pistol barrel shoved into his navel.

The boy seemed to jump a little, the gun digging deeper as a ghastly smile flickered over his features. "Man, oh man, now wouldn't that get me a name, poppin' somebody like you?" he demanded to himself. "I'd be in for sure."

This evening was definitely not taking the turn Brooke had anticipated. A serious discussion maybe, a reorganizing of the trip, maybe a nightcap out in the Bellermain gardens under the moonlight. Certainly not imminent murder.

"It's time for your gun now, Brooke," Pete said evenly. "Don't you think?"

Brooke whipped around on him. "What?"

"What?" the boy demanded in syncopated harmony, already turning to answer the new threat.

It seemed all Pete needed. When the boy pulled the gun far enough out of the way, Pete swung on him. One arm chopped down. Another swung across somehow, and then, from somewhere else, a leg, like ballet in the dark, sending the young boy tumbling back onto the pavement.

Standing no more than four feet away, Brooke watched in stupid silence, Pete's actions too quick and silent for comprehension, the violence over almost before it began.

Only the sudden explosion of the gun brought her back to life.

"Pete!"

But the gun was already clattering to the ground, skidding against the wall of the building to their right. Pete crouched over their assailant, who was scrambling to his feet. Urged by instinct, by the training she'd had and the knowledge that the last thing they needed was for that very unstable young man to get his hands back on the gun again, Brooke dived for it.

By the time she straightened, the slick weapon clutched frantically in her sweaty hands, the boy was already running back out the alley. Instead of giving him chase, Pete simply bent over to retrieve the purse and wallet that had fallen unnoticed to the ground.

"Why aren't you going after him?" Brooke demanded, her voice tremulous. She could hear footsteps pounding their way and the first wails of a siren.

Pete turned back on her and straightened. "I'm not James Bond," he reminded her dryly, taking the time to gingerly push the gun barrel in a different direction. "Why didn't you shoot him with that gun you're licensed to carry?"

Brooke giggled, the adrenaline finally pouring through her, not thinking to lower the weapon any further. "You never gave me the chance," she lied with a brash grin. "Finally got to use all those karate lessons, huh?"

His answering smile was smug. "A good newsman is prepared for anything."

He was looking down, his face creased in consternation, the purse still in his hand, when the police descended on them.

Brooke's attention was on Pete.

"All right, lady. Just hand it over," the first officer suggested. "I'm sure you two can settle it some other way."

Stunned, Brooke looked up to find two young officers braced about ten feet from her, guns drawn, attention all hers. That was when she remembered that she still had the gun in her hands.

"Oh, my-"

She would have dropped it onto the ground if Pete hadn't had a little more presence of mind. Grinning, he reached out and carefully plucked it out of her hands.

"She's just a little high-strung," he informed the officers with glee. "We've been mugged."

"Hey," one of the policemen said, stepping closer. "Aren't you Pete Cooper?"

Pete handed Brooke her purse. "And here I was thinking how maybe I'd make it through the rest of the evening without being recognized again."

Within an hour, not only every policeman in the city knew that Pete Cooper had prevented a mugging with some fancy footwork, but every news station. Pete and Brooke ended up down at the police station, filling out forms, drinking bad coffee and avoiding minicams. Pete was his usual affable self, composed and smiling and unflappable in the face of all the attention. Brooke felt as if she were going to crumble into little bits. Her coffee cup shook and one of the policemen had offered his jacket to help warm her, even though the air-conditioning wasn't anything to write home about. And as she sat there at the battered old desk listening to another war story being traded, she thought to herself that Pete was putting on a hell of a front.

She couldn't put her finger on it, but something bothered her. Not his smile, which was broad and easy, or his stance, which was comfortable. Not the fact that he refused interviews. The police knew all about his ruse to stay off work a few more days, and they were delighted to assist in the conspiracy.

But something.

She found out when Pete excused himself to head into the men's room. She followed.

"I really don't think you need protection in here," he protested with raised eyebrows, his voice echoing around the scuffed, aging tile walls. "The only guys with guns out there are on our side."

She glared at him, hands on hips, the blue NOPD nylon jacket rustling at her shoulders. She could suddenly see it under the fluorescents. He was sweating, a bit gray, and he was leaning up against the counter with a trembling hand.

"Give," was all she said.

He feigned innocence. "You law-enforcement types are all alike. No respect for privacy."

"I'll stand here until you blow up if I have to, bud," she threatened.

He grinned right back. "And I'll just attend to business while you watch. You forget, I've covered some pretty primitive places."

"You've also never fooled me once in your life. What's wrong?"

He sighed, and she saw those faint lines appear on his forehead, creases of weariness that had no business there. "After-effects," he admitted ruefully. "Usually if something big happens I can wait until I get back to the hotel room before I get the shakes, where nobody can see it happen." His quick, steely glare betrayed the fact that she was the first to witness the event. But then his expression folded again into weary resignation. "I guess getting shot moved up the timetable a little."

"Getting what?" Brooke demanded suspiciously, not for a minute believing him.

So Pete showed her.

She gaped. "You stupid son of a—"

"Keep it down, will you?" he demanded, pulling her closer in case he had to enforce his request. With his other hand, he grabbed some paper towels to wet. His hands were suddenly shaking so badly he dropped more than he collected.

"Pete, for God's sake," Brooke protested, "why didn't you tell anyone?"

There was an angry slash along his ribs, the blood now caked and dried to his shirt. Wetting the towels, he began to dab at it.

"Because the last thing I want is the notoriety."

"You already got the notoriety," Brooke retorted, yanking the towels from his hand and taking over the task. Pete conceded, his shirt bunched up in his hands, his features tensed in a tight grimace, his legs suddenly a mite wobbly.

"You know what I mean," he said, flinching at her ministrations. "I just want to go back to Alex's, Brooke. And then, in the morning, I want to drive off to find Elvis. Maybe get lost on the Natchez Trace someplace and not have to face Evan or the wire service or all that wide-eyed astonishment out there. Are the bayous still out of the question?"

Brooke gave him quite a glare of her own. "You have to get this taken care of," she insisted, realizing that they'd made a mistake getting it wet. They were making it bleed again.

"It's just a—"

She bolted upright, outraged. "You say it's just a flesh wound, and I will smack you, I swear," she snarled. "You look like you're gonna pass out on me, and that's just what I need, to be found in the rest room at the New Orleans police station with an unconscious man with a gunshot wound. Then what am I gonna do?"

Amazingly enough, she made him smile. "You can nurse me," he taunted, that crooked cant of his mouth fatal. "Just like in all the westerns."

She gave him no quarter. "You're an idiot."

He nodded. "But you'll help me, Stump. Won't you?"

"How?" she demanded. "You're gonna get found out. Especially now." Frustrated, enchanted, furious, she shook her head. "Alex was right," she mourned. "You really do have the kiss of death."

Pete leaned right over and dropped the real thing on her lips. "Come on, Stump. Give a guy a break."

Just then one of the officers saw fit to answer the call of nature. Brooke being certainly one of the last people he expected to run into, he slid to an unceremonious halt, eyes wide, hands already at zipper.

She smiled, stepping in front of Pete so he could surreptitiously hide the evidence. "We're inseparable," she allowed brightly.

The officer couldn't seem to pull a sensible answer together. Finally giving up completely, he turned to Pete. "Lieutenant told me to let you know, your boss called again. He wants you to call him by eight tomorrow at the latest. Sounded really upset."

Pete nodded. "Yeah, thanks."

"In that case," Brooke announced, turning to give Pete an affectionate pat on the rib cage, "I have to go find a couple of cats."

She was satisfied to hear his heartfelt groan as she strolled on out the door.