I was over in the Fauberg Marigny, minding my own business and arguing with the bartender, Billy, about how to make a real daiquiri, as in, squeeze the limes and turn off the blender. I finally settled for a gin and tonic.

The front door was open, and three or four ceiling fans were going, but inside the Potpourri, it felt like a more humid version of hell. I don't make a habit of drinking in the Fauberg. Not that I'm afraid being there will "out" me. This is New Orleans. I've got ex-lovers who are related to cops in my district-everyone knows. I just can't take the Quarter during the summer. Every street smells the same-a nauseating combination of urine, sweat, used condoms, warm beer, and vomit. The tourists, demented from the heat, slap their sandals against the sidewalk and slip on spilt beer, dropping their cameras and cursing into the gutters.

Joey Palmer came into the bar, wearing tight khaki shorts with a four-inch inseam, and a Hawaiian shirt with a print of pink and yellow pictures of Carmen Miranda. He made a big production of not looking at me, and went straight to the back room, where the tables had a patio view. Joey was into man-boy love, which is politically correct for "Joey was a chicken queen." I've tried to arrest him about fifty times, but he's slick. No matter what time of day or night you go to his place, he's alone.

"Guy's a slimeball," Billy said, while he wiped down the bar. Billy had some kind of compulsive thing going, and was always wiping down everything. "Boys runnin' away from home, tryin' to get away from slimeballs, then run right into Joey. Big Daddy, 'cause he buys them a Lucky Dog and a Dixie."

"I think he slips a little X in there, too," I reminded him. "Makes them appreciate him more."

"Fucking slimeball."

I got the last squeeze out of my lime wedge and watched Billy wiping down the cash register. It was after five, and customers were starting to come in. Billy turned up the sound system, just in case they couldn't hear Moby and Gwen Stefani over at City Park.

"Gotta go clean up the back. See you, Miller."

Billy wasn't gone two or three minutes when I heard him yell "Oh my god! Frozen lizards on a disco! Somebody help me!"

I jumped off of the stool, my hand at the ready for the .38 under my polo shirt. When I got to the back room, I didn't see anything except Billy, standing in the corner with his hands covering the sides of his face. He pointed toward the floor, and there-behind some stacked chairs-was Joey Palmer, face down and bleeding from his back. Some of the blood had already dried and had made little splotches that looked like extra fruit on Carmen's hat.

He was dead.

I called for the on-duty, who showed up a few minutes later, smelling of Bourbon Street. Two other officers came in right behind her.

"Looks like an ice pick, huh?" Brady said. She called the coroner's people and we started taping off the area. She looked at me and barely smiled.

"And it seemed like such a dull little bar."

The officers started questioning Billy, who I suspect was fighting back an urge to wipe the blood off of Palmer's body. I explained that he was with me in the front when the murder took place. They took him to the precinct to get a formal statement, and I went along, mostly to keep him company.

I knew I was going to get sent to question every homeless boy in the Quarter, so I got a head start that night. "Mr. Joey" had been ubiquitous from Rampart to Decatur, and from Conti to the edge of Marigny. Four kids said they'd never heard of Joey, five or six shrugged, and I lost count of the number who told me to go fuck myself. I darted in and out of strip joints, upstairs bars and flopjoints, this time in search of girls. Most of them offered me a variety of sexual gifts in exchange for cash, hamburgers or heroin. A couple of them had pimps hovering nearby, pretending not to care about our conversation.

But none of them wanted to talk about Joey Palmer.

Joey got a decent obit, considering the pervert he was. "A bon vivant of the French Quarter," someone described him. Right. The television news anchors said the police had no leads, an item of considerable media significance only because it was accurate. I made a few more rounds of the Quarter's finest damp alleys and lice-ridden hostels, but I got nothing, if you don't count the offers that included a free STD.

Three days after Joey got the bon knocked out of his vivant, I went by to see how Billy was doing. He was wiping the bar and singing along with Madonna while he kept an eye out for empty glasses. The place was full, thanks to the publicity.

"Hey, Miller, I learned how to make that daiquiri for you."

He proceeded to make an honest, authentic daiquiri, using real limes strained with crushed ice. I hadn't come in for a drink, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"Any news?" he asked me.

"Nothing. Every kid in the Quarter knew Joey, but not one of them is willing to say so."

"You think a kid killed him?"

"Hard to say." Kids usually protect guys like Joey. He was canal scum, but he probably treated them better than their parents did."

"Joey ever have any, uh, adult friends, Miller?"

"None I know of. Liked 'em young. Any size, any color, as long as they were young."

Joey Palmer's murder slipped out of the news. People who knew him weren't too grief-stricken because he was garbage, and people who didn't know him weren't too grief-stricken because he was gay. Brady said she found a guy Palmer owed money to, but it turned out he was out of town the night Joey was murdered. I poked around for more street kids, made a nuisance of myself over at Covenant House, then went on about my other crime-solving business.

"Funny thing," Brady told me when I ran into her at the corner of Chartres and Toulouse. "All the weapons guys say it was an ice pick. Your friend Billy has two or three of them over at the bar."

"Now you're going to tell me they all have Billy's fingerprints."

She grinned. "Yeah. And some others that match the other bartender, Jackie, or whoever he is."

"Jakie."

"Right."

"Bar tools touched by bartenders. Sounds like a serious clue to me, Brady."

"Don't be a smartass, Miller. The truth is, there's no inventory of utensils at a little bar like that. We don't know if any ice picks are missing."

"Other than Joey."

"That's cold, even for you, Miller."

"Sorry, Brady. I'm in the denial stage of my grief. I'll keep looking. Let you know if I find anything new."

Another week or so went by, and there were still no suspects. I was in the depths of the Quarter one evening, strolling the narrow streets as the steam rose up from the grates, when I decided to stop at a little hotel bar I liked. I was making a rare off-duty foray into the French Quarter in the hope of running into an engineer I'd met a few nights before. I could shoot a man if I had to, but calling one to meet me for a drink was another matter.

Anyway, I had to get out of the heat. There was a piano bar singer in the room, doing a medley from Cats. I gave her five dollars to change to Cole Porter, and ordered a margarita. The waiter asked me if I wanted it straight up, and I thought I saw his eyebrow raise just a tad. To be safe, I ordered it on the rocks. If I could arrest cheeky waiters, I would, but Parish Prison is already filled to the brim. While I was drinking and listening to "Love for Sale," a dark boy with full lips and long lashes walked by the bank of pay phones and glanced at the wall clock. He couldn't have been more than 13 or 14, and he looked wired, high-strung.

I applauded the singer, and when I looked up, the boy was gone. But then someone who looked like Christina Aguilera on steroids appeared in the lobby and glanced all around the area before disappearing into the men's room.

"Moulin Rouge queens." The waiter had appeared.

"Pardon?"

"They're having a contest down the block," he explained. "You've never seen so many giant blonde wigs. I like Pink, myself. Want another drink?"

I imagined the slim, flirty waiter as Nicole Kidman, then gave him my empty glass. The piano bar singer launched into "Most Gentlemen Don't Like Love," and winked at me. Then I saw the boy again, only this time, he was coming out of the men's room. I watched the boy walk out of the lobby and onto the street. The waiter brought me my drink. When I looked up again, the big-haired blonde was moving toward the lobby door. There was something about the way she walked, something about her frame, that seemed familiar. Maybe she just reminded me of Christina Aguilera. I'm sure she sang better.

Still, I had that odd feeling in my gut, so I paid my bill, left the bar and walked out onto the street. I immediately saw three Christinas, but it took me only a moment to zero in on mine. She was walking with her arm on the shoulder of the dark, tense boy, into an alley and up some side stairs. I went across the street so I could get a look at the balcony window, and I saw them pass through the upper room, then disappear into the back. Then it hit me. Who Christina reminded me of. It was Jakie.

I didn't know Jakie very well. He wasn't as friendly as Billy, and he usually wasn't at the bar when I was there. I didn't know how well Billy knew him, either. I called Brady from my cell phone, and asked her if her check on Jakie had turned up anything out of the ordinary.

"Name's Jacob Weller," she said. "Only name we could find on him. Came here from Miami about six years ago. Tended bar there, too. No arrests. No trouble. No prior contact with Palmer, other than bartending. Not seen near the Potpourri the day of the murder. Billy was working a double that day. What's up, Miller?"

I told Brady about Jakie's costume, and about his date with the dark boy.

"Were any of them dressed as Pink?" she asked.

"I don't know, Brady. I'm just following Christina here. I think I'd better go pay a call on Billy."

"Keep in touch."

I went back to the Potpourri and found Billy cutting lemon wedges behind the bar.

"What can I get you, Miller?"

"Some honest conversation. Listen, Billy, how well do you know Jakie?" "What do you mean?"

No one ever answers a cop without saying "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you know about his personal life? About any, uh, habits he may have?"

"He sleeps around, Miller. Smokes dope. Regular stuff. Customers like him."

"How about you?"

"Do I sleep around?"

"Do you like Jakie?"

"He's okay. We don't see each other much. Two ships that pass in the night, you know? What's this about, Miller?"

Billy had stopped looking at me and was preoccupied with wiping some bar glasses.

"Ever seen Jakie in drag?"

He laughed. "No, but I think he'd make a swell Streisand."

"How about a Moulin Rouge girl?"

He gave me a blank look.

"Christina Aguilera. There's a big Moulin Rouge party tonight on Bourbon. Lots of Christinas on the street. I thought I saw Jakie."

"Don't know. Lots of guys who aren't into drag will do it for a contest or something. Hell, why am I telling you this? You need to get out more, Miller."

I did. But that was another issue. I left the bar and went next door for some coffee while I waited for Billy's shift to end. At around midnight, I saw Jakie walk into the Potpourri. I walked out to the sidewalk where I could peak in the window. Jakie handed a small manila envelope to Billy, which he put in his pocket. Ten minutes later, I saw Billy leave. I really wanted to talk to Jakie, but something told me to follow Billy. Something that sickened me a bit because I liked him.

Billy took off toward the Quarter, and I stayed behind about a half block. When I saw him turn onto Bourbon, I slipped into an all-night grocery while he slowed down to talk to some people. Electronic dance music was streaming out of a club and pounding onto the sidewalk. Billy went toward the alley where I'd seen the dark boy and Jakie, then he went up the same stairs. There were no lights on in the front room, so I couldn't see anything. I knew the kid might be there all night, but I also knew I had to be there when he came out.

I got lucky. At about 3:30, the boy came down the stairs. His eyes were glazed, and he had that wired look I'd seen on his face in the hotel. I followed him for about three blocks, and when I saw him stop and talk to a man who put cash in his hand and touched his belt, I moved in and arrested him for prostitution. The man took off down the street. The boy, who had no weapons, refused to give me his name. I called for a squad car and had him taken to a little holding cell that Brady and her group maintain for night people.

The next morning, I called Brady and asked her to pay a visit to Mystery Boy. She called me back a few hours later to tell me the kid's name was Vincent, he'd been in town for over six months, and he didn't want to take any drug tests. Until recently, he'd been staying at Joey Palmer's place, but only for about a month. That was all Brady could get out of him without offering him threats she couldn't keep. It was enough. I waited until I knew Billy's shift was starting, then walked over to the Potpourri. Billy was alone, chipping a big chunk of ice.

"You're just in time, Miller. I'm making lemonade."

"Billy, tell me about Vincent."

He put the ice pick down on the counter and swallowed before he spoke. "Vincent who?"

"Vincent the boy you were with last night. In the place in the alley."

"Is that his name? I didn't ask. Wandering around the Quarter kind of late, aren't you, Miller? I'll make it easy for you-this isn't exactly a fast-track job. Sometimes I sell a little dope, okay?"

"The boy looked strung out to me."

"He probably was. You know how these kids are."

"Why did you say you didn't know Jakie was at the costume party?"

"I don't keep up with Jakie. What's your problem, anyway?"

He looked up suddenly. Jakie was standing at the door.

"Ask him yourself," Billy shrugged.

"Ask me what?"

"Which one of you is Vincent's boyfriend? Or do you share him?"

Jakie looked, for just a split second, in the direction of the ice. "Who is Vincent?" he said, without much expression.

"Someone worth killing for, it seems. Joey Palmer stole him from one of you, and you got him back. Since I was talking to Billy when Joey got stabbed, that would make you the killer, Christina."

Billy looked like he'd been hit in the stomach. His eyes were moist, and he was shaking his head.

"Joey was scum, and you know it, Miller. You don't know the half of it. He slapped them around. He gave them all kinds of diseases. He made slaves out of them."

"And you?"

"I never gave Vincent any drugs. I never hit him. I gave him money, I made his meals. Joey stole him away and turned him into a junkie. I had to put a stop to it."

He looked at Jakie, and Jakie just said "Go ahead, Billy."

"I paid Jakie to do it, Miller. I would have done it myself, but it was just too, you know…messy. Jakie came in through the back door early that morning and hid in the storage closet."

Jakie just stood there, staring at us.

Billy was crying now. I called Brady, who drove over with a couple of district guys and arrested Billy and Jakie for the murder of Joey Palmer. I was thirsty. I walked to a café where I could get some iced tea. On the way, I passed another bar, where the lunch crowd had already gathered. Plates were clanking against tables, customers were talking and laughing, and from the cd player, I heard Voulez vous coucher avec moi?

Diane Dees Tobiason is a psychotherapist and writer in Covington, Louisiana.

For over 20 years, she lived in New Orleans, where she was--among other things--a bad girl. Diane's essays and short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in many different publications, including The Raven Chronicles, Southern Ocean Review, Thema, The Melic Review, and Bikwil. She and her husband are the webmasters of www.princesscafe.com, a virtual rock and roll restaurant. This is Diane's first piece of noir fiction.