P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof

by Julie Smith

  She was almost out of ideas, but at that moment a man in a Mardi Gras rugby shirt danced up. “Hey, darlin’, you’re missing the parade.” He put a well-shaped hand on Patsy’s shoulders, and was rewarded with a scathing look.

  “Jimmy?” Talba said, before Patsy could recover. Can this marriage be saved? she thought.

  The man removed his hand from his wife’s shoulder and offered it to Talba. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  There were a lot of different ways you could say that phrase. This man said it gently, sincerely, as if, despite its stiffness, it came naturally to him. Talba saw that he was tall, with good shoulders and a big chest. He had silky brown hair—quintessential white-dude hair—and small, stylish spectacles; one of those pinkish Irish faces; a rounded nose, but an oval face, an open one. An attractive man, someone Angie could be friends with.

  She gave him a broad smile. “Sorry to barge in like this. One of your clients asked me to get in touch, but when I called…”

  “Oh, God, no telling who answered the phone.”

  “It was someone who didn’t seem to know where you were.” She glanced nervously at Patsy. “I wouldn’t have come, but your client’s got a sort of emergency.”

  He laughed. “Don’t tell me he called from Central Lockup.”

  Talba lifted a wry eyebrow. “Guess it’s happened before.”

  Houlihan seemed to be uncomfortably aware that his wife was taking in every word, and doing a slow burn at the same time.

  “Patsy, you go on and have fun. Let me see what I can do for this lady.”

  Patsy drifted away, apparently determined to keep up appearances, but Talba surmised that her house at Mardi Gras had the same rules as an exclusive men’s club—no business was to be transacted on the premises.

  Talba smelled a spat in the making. She felt sorry for him. “It’s Angela Valentino,” she said.

  “Geddouttahere!”

  “She was with Al Brazil when they got popped. You know, Chief of the Poison Oleanders?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows Big Chief Alabama. By reputation, anyhow. What happened?”

  “She says somebody planted drugs on the Chief.”

  “That Angie. What a little Pollyanna.”

  Talba was getting impatient. “I work with her dad, so she called me. Said to get you to get a judge to set bond for both of them.”

  He nodded. “I can do that. Hey, no problem whatsoever. We got a couple judges soakin’ up the suds right out on the porch.”

  “Well, one thing. She said anybody but Buddy Champagne.”

  This time he was the one speaking eyebrow language. “Well, that do make it harder.”

  “Champagne’s here?”

  Houlihan shrugged. “He’s a neighbor. Easiest thing in the world to set it up.”

  “Loosely translated, she said she’d rather rot in jail.”

  He laughed. The judges weren’t the only ones soaking up suds. “Hey, you’re a pretty sharp cookie. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Talba Wallis. I work with Angie’s dad. He was away, so she called me.”

  His face clouded. “But why didn’t she just call me directly?”

  “They don’t give you a phone book and she didn’t have your number memorized.”

  “Well…she used to.” She could see the regret in his face and thought that anyone married to Patsy Houlihan could be forgiven for having a wandering eye. “Angie’s really in jail? Little Angie?”

  “Last I looked, little Angie could take ten men about your size.” It was true, though it had a great deal more to do with attitude than Angie’s own size—she was a perfect size eight, maybe even a six.

  “Woo. ’Tain’t it the truth.” Houlihan sighed. “Okay, let me go do the honors. Make yourself at home. I’ll find you when it’s done.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard.” Talba waved at the sea of white faces. “I kind of stick out in this crowd.”

  “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “Patsy’s in charge of the guest list.” He melted into the melee. If he and Angie had been an item once, he seemed nostalgic for old times.

  Making herself at home was a good trick, Talba thought, when your hostess hates you, but she set about making friends with the sour bartender. “Long night, huh?”

  The man sighed. “Long as a piece of balin’ wire.”

  “I heard that,” she said, rolling her eyes. Evidently she wasn’t the only one who had her differences with Patsy.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like a little something in that water?”

  Talba handed him her glass. “Little more ice, maybe. I’ve got to be alert—got to go bail someone out in a while.”

  “I’m sure sorry to hear that.”

  Talba raised her freshened glass. “Happy Mardi Gras,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  She went outside to watch the parade, thinking maybe Patsy wouldn’t mind her presence so much if she wasn’t in the house proper, what with the silver and everything. She wished she’d changed, but the hostess had on jeans, too. Why should she feel underdressed?

  It seemed hours, but it was probably only about twenty-five minutes before Houlihan sought her out again. “Mission accomplished. Nearly had to throw Ken Friedland in the shower to get him sober enough to make the call, but it got done. Buddy’d sure have been a lot easier.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Listen—Ken was pissed that he had to work. Wouldn’t release Angie on her own recognizance. Sorry.”

  Talba was unsure what he meant. “You mean he wouldn’t set bond?”

  “That much he would do. Reluctantly. It’s five thousand dollars for Angie, but he doubled it for the chief. That’s fifteen hundred to a bail bondsman—can you swing it?”

  “The important thing’s to get Angie out. She can worry about Al.”

  “Listen, let me help you.”

  Talba thought nervously of Patsy. “Naah,” she said regretfully. “We’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?” But he looked relieved.

  “Really.”

  “Well, there’s one thing. Judges can set bond, but they don’t really have any clout with the sheriff. Every prisoner brings in so much revenue per day; so nobody gets out before midnight the day they’re arrested. That’s the rumor, anyhow.”

  “Damn!”

  “You ever done this before?”

  Talba shook her head.

  “Go to Harry Nicasio. He won’t cheat you.”

  “An honest bail bondsman. What a concept.”

  He laughed again. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

  “That’s what Eddie says. Angie’s dad.”

  His eyes took on a faraway look. “Never met Eddie.”

  “You’ve got to be the only one in New Orleans.” She figured Jimmy just didn’t remember him—everybody’d run into Eddie at one time or another.

  “Good luck to you,” he said, and touched her shoulder.

  She made her way out to the street, crossing the avenue between floats, retrieved her car, and drove, first to an ATM, then to the West Broad Street office of Harry Nicasio, whose male, skinny, black assistant took her cash and walked her over to Central Lockup, where she waited six hours for Angie to be processed, first into the system, then out of it.

  As usual, the lawyer wore black. Black T-shirt and black jeans, practically guaranteed to stand up to anything, even a night in jail. But for once, the elegant Angie managed to look disheveled.

  Without a word, she went for a hug and held on tight for a while. Finally, Talba ventured, “You okay?”

  Angie bit her lip. “Pride’s hurt, that’s all. Jesus! That’s an experience no one should have.”

  “You’ve got to be hungry.”

  The lawyer ignored her. “How about Al? Jimmy get him out?”

  “His bond’s been set, but I couldn’t get the cash. It’s a thousand dollars. Can you?”

  “Shit! Who keeps that kind of money around? What are we going to do? We can’t wait for th
e banks to open; he’ll have to spend the rest of the weekend in jail.”

  “ATM?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I’ve got a gold card—I think I can get eight hundred dollars, and I’ve got about a hundred fifty in my purse. Do you have another fifty?”

  “Yeah. Just. Same deal with me—I could only get four hundred, but I had a couple of hundred bucks, and a hundred of that went for your bail. I can give you the fifty, and still buy you breakfast.” Talba looked at her watch. “But, Angie, it’s three a.m. It’ll take hours to process him—believe me, I know. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep and we’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  Talba had enough sense not to argue. “Okay, okay. Where’s your car?”

  “They made me leave it parked on Esplanade, near the old Mint—that’s where we got picked up. Al was playing a gig there. Just get me there and I’ll take care of the rest. You’ve done enough for one night.”

  Talba sighed. There was nothing she’d rather do than go home, but she felt like Angie did—she couldn’t really leave a friend in trouble. “Look. I’ll go with you to get the money and post the bond. But you don’t have to wait for Al—he’s got a wife. Or something. She can go get him.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  Talba sighed again. But the way Angie stumbled when she tried to walk, teared up every five minutes or so, and kept absolutely silent told her the lawyer simply wasn’t up to it. She was in shock, too disoriented to function. In the end, they posted the bond, and finally went by Brazil’s house to alert his wife and give her taxi fare to go get him. By then it was almost five, and Angie was so far gone she’d stopped speaking entirely. Her eyes had receded into sockets deep as potholes.

  Not good, Talba thought, very not good, and wondered what to do to help. Just take her home and tuck her in, maybe. Stay with her in case she woke up hysterical. But sometime on the drive home, Angie breathed, “Talba?” in a mousy voice, very different from her normal commanding contralto. “Is a hamburger possible?”

  Yes! Talba thought. The fever broke. “La Peniche ought to be jumping about now.”

  The lawyer winced.

  “Okay, okay, we’ll get a burger to go.”

  She drove to the Faubourg Marigny hangout and found a parking place. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “No. I don’t want to stay in the car alone.”

  “Come with me, then.”

  Zombie-like, Angie opened the car door.

  “Sure you can walk?”

  “Of course I can walk. I was in jail, not a war.” She was definitely bouncing back. And somehow, the cheerful atmosphere and good smells of the restaurant had such a salubrious effect that she agreed to sit down and order, ‘like normal people,’ as she put it.

  Talba ordered a full breakfast, but Angie stuck with the hamburger plan, and wolfed it, washing it down with a bourbon and water. “Want to tell me what happened?” Talba asked, between bites of grits and scrambled eggs. She was getting a second wind herself.

  “Somebody planted drugs in my car.”

  “It wasn’t locked?”

  “Sure it was locked. They opened it with a slim jim or something.”

  “Angie,” she said gently. “Al’s got a history. I know you want to believe in him and all, but do you realize how unlikely that sounds?”

  “No, listen. They couldn’t search without probable cause, right? Here’s what they did. One of them came running down the street, ran into us, knocked a bunch of stuff out of our hands, and dropped a crack pipe on the sidewalk. These two cops just happened to appear out of nowhere, saw the pipe, and just casually looked in the front window, where there just happened to be pot on the front seat. Then they found rock in the trunk, and threw us up against the car before we knew what was happening. Listen, if I did have pot, would I leave it on the seat of my car?”

  “How do you know the guy dropped the pipe? It could have been Al’s, right? He must have had it in something he was carrying.”

  Angie set down her glass, now about two-thirds empty. Her face was taking on a lot more color. “Talba. I saw the guy drop it. Anyway, the pipe’s not the point—it was just a prop. The point is, there was pot in plain sight in my car. And the cops were there way too fast. It just doesn’t add up.”

  You’re dreaming, Talba thought. “You know how much juice it would take to get two cops to do something like that? And why would anyone care? Alabama might be a Big Chief, but he’s just not that big a fish.”

  “They didn’t want him. It’s not even a good arrest—the judge’ll throw it right out. They wanted me. That’s why I’m such a wreck. You think a little thing like a night in jail could turn the meanest white bitch in town into a zombie? He depended on me, and this is what happens!”

  “Somehow I get the feeling I’m missing something.”

  “You know what? I’m going to die if I don’t get to bed soon. Let me tell you tomorrow, okay? I’ve got to make sure LaKeisha gets Al out, get hold of Dad…I think we need a meeting. You doing anything tomorrow?”

  Talba had a date with her boyfriend, Darryl Boucree, who’d had his daughter Saturday night. She hadn’t seen him in days. “Nope. Totally free,” she said. “What time you want to meet?”

  “I can’t call Mom and Dad back from the Gulf Coast, and anyway I wouldn’t want to. You know what a good mood Dad’s always in when he gets back.”

  “Uh-huh. And think I know why.”

  “Yeah. Works for Mom, too. I don’t know why, but it never seems to have that effect on me. But let’s let them have their little honeymoon, shall we? And maybe meet tomorrow night? Somewhere besides their house—the last thing we need’s Mom’s input.”

  Talba could hardly think of a worse idea—Audrey in mother bear mode might involve firebombs. “Sure,” she said. She could at least spend the day with Darryl. His daughter, Raisa, would still be there, so sex was out, but she figured Eddie needed it a lot more than she did. She could live with the schedule change. “How about this? What if I call Eddie and say you and I have an emergency—get him to meet me at the office?”

  “Perfect.”

  ***

  Eddie found the call from Ms. Wallis, as he invariably called his young associate, on his home voicemail, and he didn’t feel good about it. He phoned her back: “What’s so important it can’t wait till tomorrow?”

  “Eddie, it’s Angie’s deal,” she said. “I just called so you could kill the messenger and still keep your family intact.”

  He sighed, feeling still less good about it. “Why don’t y’all come over for dinner?”

  “Angie said no. Because of Audrey.” So it directly involved his daughter. He was now feeling downright anxious.

  “Well, let’s at least make it a bar. I got a feeling I’m gonna need a drink. And Angie knows all the bartenders.”

  So they agreed to meet after dinner at the Touché Bar in the French Quarter, which was technically part of the Royal Orleans Hotel, though it had a separate entrance and none of the guests would probably be caught dead in it. It was strictly a hangout for locals, but you could go in the back for privacy if too many friends and neighbors were bellying up. Eddie’d picked it because the Quarter was convenient for the two women, and the hotel was just about the only place there he could be sure he’d find parking.

  He got himself a beer and engaged a couple of drunken lawyers and a besotted judge in inane conversation until his daughter appeared. She didn’t look good. As usual, she was dressed in black, and it emphasized the circles under her eyes. “You’re starting to look like your old man,” he said. “Ms. Wallis swears she can gauge my mood by the color of my eye bags. Yours are looking kind of inky.”

  “Well, yours are kind of rosy, Dad. Good weekend?”

  She was trying for lightness, but he could see the tension in her face. “Yeah, great,” he said without enthusiasm. “Way too long ago. Whatcha drinkin’?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “B
ourbon and water.”

  Ms. Wallis popped in the open door and sneaked up behind them. “Glass of white wine while you’re at it. Hi, Eddie. Good weekend?”

  “Till it turned bad,” he said. “That’s what’s happening, right?”

  Neither of them contradicted him.

  They shook off the three sodden officers of the court and sauntered to the back, where there were actual booths and tables, and not one single patron. Eddie sneezed. Mildew was running amok in the place; or maybe it was that mold that gave you a headache. Something was giving him one.

  “Okay, girls. How bad is it?”

  “Getting worse,” Angie said, causing Ms. Wallis to glance at her anxiously. “But it might be containable—with Talba’s contacts.”

  “Talba’s contacts.” That was a new one; Eddie was famous for knowing everybody. “You’re hurting my feelings.”

  Ms. Wallis looked mystified. “Me?” she mouthed at Angie.

  Angie shook her head at her, ever so slightly. “Let’s back up, shall we? Start from the beginning?”

  “Floor’s yours.”

  And out of his daughter, Angela, the darling little girl who’d cried at her first communion because everything was so beautiful, poured the story of getting thrown in the slammer for possession. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her—and knew there was about as much chance of that as of petting a tiger. Instead, he caught her eyes. “Angie, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wish I coulda stopped that from happening.” He thought he could do it without misting up, but his vision blurred, and his daughter averted her eyes. He went gruff on her. “Ya client screwed ya; ya know that, don’t ya?”

  “Dad, he didn’t. Hell, I wouldn’t mind that so much—I’d put it down to bad luck if that was it. Hazard of being a criminal lawyer. The thing is, I screwed him. That’s what I feel so bad about.”

  Eddie felt fury course through his body. He’d raised her better than that. “Ya tellin’ me ya had drugs in ya car? What the fuck were ya thinkin’?” He made it a point of forbearing to swear in front of women. “’Scuse my French.”