by Julie Smith
“Would he confirm the drug plant for Jane? Off the record, of course.”
“Sure. I’ll call him right now.”
“By the way, exactly what are the complaints about that marina?”
“Well, at first, it was just the usual—increased traffic, exhaust from the boats coming in, noise, traffic, oil in the water. But most of all the stink. Venetian Isles is tiny—you ever been there?”
“No, but I know that, as of 2000, it had 772 housing units. Couldn’t find anything more recent.”
“Sounds like a lot, but wait’ll you see the place. Everything’s cheek by jowl.”
“What’d you mean when you said at first it was the usual—now it’s something else?”
“Yeah. Ben Izaguirre says it’s against the law to catch shrimp in the winter, but Buddy’s still buying it. From poachers, he thinks.”
“Well, that part sounds easy. Why not just report him?”
“Talba, you are so naive. Think we haven’t?” The lawyer sighed. “Buddy’s a powerful man.”
“Meaning you got no action.”
“Right.”
Talba hung up and thoroughly backgrounded Francis Champagne, noting his address, and then worked on another project she had going, something she’d need tomorrow. She went home early—she had to be at the judge’s first thing in the morning.
The first thing she noticed about Champagne’s lovely house was that it was all wrong. It was a genuine Garden District mansion, way too fancy for someone on a judge’s salary, whatever that was. It wasn’t merely large, it was grand. In fact, it was famous, mostly for the iron cornstalk fence around the extensive grounds. But if the judge had supplemental income, she hadn’t found it. However, one thing she did know—his wife had died a few years back. Maybe she was the one with the money. But it was an enormous house for one person, and he hadn’t married again, so far as she knew. It needed not a maid, but a staff. Talba cordially hoped she wasn’t going to have to clean the whole thing by herself.
She arrived at 6 a.m. and hunkered down in her unobtrusive Isuzu to wait. For an hour, nothing happened. Then a man—presumably Buddy—came out to get the paper. And at seven, a black woman in her fifties walked through the famous gate, strolled up the walk, and let herself in. Pay dirt, Talba thought. The maid. The only problem was, she hadn’t arrived in a car. No way to identify her without approaching her.
Talba figured she either worked half or whole days, so she’d have to come back at eleven, and if the maid didn’t leave then, again at three. Given the size of the house, she was betting on three, but she couldn’t afford to take a chance.
So she came back at ten, waited an hour—to no avail—and came back again at two-thirty. At 3 p.m. sharp, a youngish black man arrived in a car to pick up the maid. That was better. Talba noted the license plate, then followed the car home—to a shabby house in Central City.
She now had two beautiful leads—one plate number, and one address. She sat down at the keyboard and began to play. The car was registered to a Roman Williams, a mechanic, married to Tawanha Williams, a licensed vocational nurse, and they had three children, one of whom was an outstanding student who’d once won a science fair prize. (Indeed, most of the information about the Williamses had come from the article about the kid.) But they were in their late thirties. Tawahna couldn’t be the woman she saw. She was Roman’s mother, maybe, or Tawahna’s.
Talba brought out the project she’d worked on the day before, a pretext survey. Taking a deep breath, she dialed the Williamses’ phone number. A woman answered.
“Mrs. Williams?” she asked.
“We got two of us here. Who you want—Tawanha or Alberta?”
“Let me see—the name I have is…uh, Alberta.”
“Just a minute,” the woman said, and another woman came on the line, one with an older-sounding voice. So far so good.
“Mrs. Williams?” Talba said. “I work for a company that’s opening a restaurant in your neighborhood, and we’re doing a little demographic survey. We’ll pay you ten dollars to answer a few questions. The check is already made out and addressed to you—it’ll take no more than ten minutes of your time. That’s one dollar a minute. Can you answer a few questions for me?”
“Mmph. More’n I usually make. Go on ahead.”
“Okay, thanks very much. First of all, you have been selected at random. May I check your name and address?” That done, she said, “We’re trying to get a sense of the kind of neighborhood customer our client might have.”
“Don’t see why.”
“You know that new Wal-Mart? We did the same thing for them, and they found it very helpful. The idea is, how best to serve the customers.”
“Better make it cheap,” Williams said.
Talba laughed. “I hear you. Tell me—do you go to church?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“First Evangelical Baptist.” She gave an address.
“When you go to restaurants, what do you generally order?”
“Never go to restaurants.”
“Oh, come on—everyone does sometimes.”
“Well…I like shrimp if it’s fried real good. Chicken. Barbecue.” She brightened. “Ain’t a barbecue restaurant, is it?”
“Could be. The client’s trying to decide.”
“That go over real good in this neighborhood.”
“Do you drink alcohol?”
“Once in a blue moon, maybe. Have me a beer or something.”
“I see. Any particular favorite bar?”
“No, ma’am. Never go to bars. Just have a beer at home now and then. Maybe at a picnic.”
“Okay, do you like to dance?”
“Way too old for that foolishness.”
“Have any hobbies?”
“I knit some; for my grandbabies.” So far absolutely nothing that could be done in public, where Talba could stage a chance meeting.
“Belong to any social groups?”
“Eastern Star; Ladies Auxiliary kind of thing at the church.”
“Well, tell me about the rest of the family.”
Williams described her son, daughter-in-law, and their children. No surprises there. They, too, if Williams was to be believed, had no particular interests outside the home.
“Well, how about your job? Do you go to work?”
“I’m a house cleaner. For a family Uptown. Been working there three years.”
“You must like your job.”
“You know anybody likes their job?”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Williams laughed. “You shore catch on quick.”
“Well, at least I hope the people you work for treat you well.”
“Mmmph. Well, you can hope all the way home, Missy. Ain’ gon’ make it so.”
“Are you well paid?”
“Am I well paid?” Talba could hear her bristling, but she was ready. “Whose business that be?”
“The survey is completely confidential, Mrs. Williams. Our client is trying to determine if the participants have the discretionary income to support an upscale restaurant.”
“Beg pardon? Have the what?”
“That’s just a fancy phrase for excess cash.”
That got a big laugh out of Williams. “Now, ain’t that a contradiction. Uh-huh. Excess cash. Sho’ do got excess cash.”
“That means no, right?”
“You one sharp little cookie.”
“May I ask what your hourly rate is?”
“You crazy? Callin’ up here axin’ how much money I make! Whatchoo think ya doin’?”
“Well, actually, that was kind of off the survey. I just asked because my mama cleans houses for a living. She makes fifteen dollars an hour.” This was a blatant untruth, but Talba figured it might get results.
“Well, I sho’ would like to meet her employer. My son ain’t well right now, and my daughter-in-law can’t even afford child care no more, him not workin’; she cain’t w
ork but three days a week. I’m mos’ the sole support of the family right now.” Talba could hear the anguish in her voice. She was pretty sure Alberta was crying.
And she was also on a roll. “Bad enough I got to clean that great big house without any help. Least one day a week he send me out to that filthy old marina he own—smell like a sewer. Ain’t even safe there; kid was killed there a while back. Sometimes I think that man the devil hisself.”
Hello, Talba thought. A kid was killed there. Angie didn’t mention that. “It’s none of my business, but why don’t you just quit and get a different job?”
“When I’m gon’ look?”
Okay, this was it. Talba prayed she wouldn’t blow it. “You know what? This could be your lucky day. What about if I said I’d do your job for you for two weeks while you look? I’ll pay what your present employer pays, plus a big bonus. Let’s say five hundred dollars?”
“Why you doin’ this?” Alberta’s voice was charged with suspicion. “Who are you?”
“Take it easy, now, Alberta. You just take it real easy. My name’s Sandra and I’m somebody who doesn’t like Judge Champagne any better than you do.”
“Oooooh, I’m in a heap of shit! Whatchoo tryin’ to do to me?”
“I’m trying to help you. You said—”
“Call me up, tell me ya somebody ya not. Get me to say things…”
“I know my mama could get you a better job. People are always asking her to work when she can’t. She’s got a great reputation, but only so much time.”
“I got a family to support!” The other woman rang off.
And Talba felt like an idiot. What to do now? She drove home slowly, moodily, trying to think her way out of it. There was a way—and she knew exactly what it was. But it involved manipulating someone a lot more savvy than Alberta Williams—at least where Talba was concerned.
She found Miz Clara with her wig off and her slippers on, rocking and watching the news. “They want to build a new City Hall, baby. Whatchoo think o’ that?”
“About time. That horrible building’s probably why all the bureaucrats have such bad attitudes.”
“Mmm mmm. Tha’s a three-dollar word if I ever heard one, but I take ya point.” She pronounced it “pernt,” the same as Eddie did. He even said “New Erlins” when he wasn’t being extra careful; Miz Clara never did that.
“Mama, I got a problem.”
Miz Clara was instantly suspicious, whereas it had taken Alberta ten minutes to get to the same place. “Since when ya bring ya problems to ya ol’ mama?” But she was pleased to be consulted. Talba could tell by the “ol’ mama” part.
“I was trying to get an undercover job and I scared the lady away. See, I need to get into somebody’s house for a couple of weeks. This lady works there, but she hates her job, so I offered her money to give it to me while she looks for a new one. I don’t know why, but she went all hinky on me.”
“What’s ‘hinky’?”
“That’s what the cops say when their snitches get nervous.”
“Hinky! Lord, Lord, I’m gon’ remember that one. ’Most as good as ‘break a leg.’” Talba had taught her to say this before her performances; it never failed to crack her mother up. “What this lady do?”
“What you do. Cleans his house.”
Her mother let out a whoop. “Whoooeee! Sandra Wallis, you gon’ go cleanin’ some cracker’s house? Miz Clara’s little buppie girl?” Talba had taught her “buppie” also. “Oh, lordy, this I gotta see.” She cackled like a witch. “Oh, yeah, I gotta see this with my own old eyes. Now that one’s worth the price of admission.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
“Well, I don’t know. Depends if any harm’s gon’ come to that poor woman.”
“No, ma’am, it’s not. The worst that can happen is she doesn’t find a job in two weeks.”
“Oh, I can find her a job. Ain’ no problem there. Whatchoo gon’ do in that house? Anything to make ya mama ’shamed o’ ya?”
“Mama! Eddie’s sending me. Would Eddie do something unethical?” Miz Clara had a lot more faith in Eddie than in Talba, and her daughter knew in her heart that if either of them knew about some of her methods, she’d get fired by one and disowned by the other, not necessarily in that order.
“Guess not,” Miz Clara said. “This a Christian lady we talkin’ about?”
Talba nodded. “First Evangelical Baptist.”
Miz Clara thought about it. “Antoinette Boiseau go to First Evangelical.”
Talba breathed a sigh of relief. The problem could be solved the New Orleans way. It was all about who you knew.
“Lemme jus’ give Antoinette a call. What this lady call herself?”
“Alberta Williams.”
Her mother heaved her tired body to her feet and padded off in her old blue slippers. She didn’t believe in cell phones; still kept an old-fashioned plug-in model in her bedroom. Talba thought she was going to scream with impatience during the thirty minutes it took Miz Clara to get current with Antoinette and then to ask for the reference.
She came back nodding. “It be all right. Antoinette don’t know her, but she know somebody who do—in her ladies’ group. Miz Augustine gon’ make the call—Versie Augustine. I tell her it’s real important, she say she do it right away.”
“Thanks, Mama. I’ve got to go over there right away. You coming?”
“Me? You axin’ me?” She didn’t think she’d ever seen her mother look so surprised.
“I really pissed this lady off. I might need two character references.”
“Well. Guess I gotta.” Miz Clara could hardly contain herself. “Lemme get some shoes on.”
Talba parked in front of the Williams house. “Nice neighborhood,” Miz Clara said sarcastically. Indeed, it was a few steps down from their snug cottage on Louisa Street.
Talba dialed the Williams number and asked for Alberta.
“Speakin’.”
“Mrs. Williams, this is Sandra. The woman who called about the survey? I’m real sorry about that. Did you hear from Versie Augustine?”
“I heard. Says ya on the up and up, no matter if ya lie. Gon’ take a lot to convince me, though.”
“Well, I got a lot. Look out your window, will you?” Talba waited till she saw a head peek between the curtains. She waved. “I’m out here with my mama. Could we talk to you for five minutes?”
“Mmmph. Guess so.”
She didn’t let them in, though; kept them on the stoop, while Miz Clara explained that her daughter was a “special investigator” working for the forces of right and decency, and nearly making Talba blanch—it was a crime to impersonate an officer, and this came dangerously close. But in the end, a deal was struck, and Alberta Williams went back in to phone Judge Champagne with some cock-and-bull story about a family emergency requiring her to send a niece to fill in for a few days.
Miz Clara preened all the way home. She was going to be hard to live with for a long time to come.
“Cain’t wait to see how this one come out,” she cackled as she heated up leftover stew. “The Baroness de Pontalba cleanin’ white ladies’ terlets. Mmm. Mmmm.”
“Okay, Mama, happiest day of your life. Let’s break out the champagne. But whatever happened to first African-American president?” This was one of the three jobs Miz Clara had always deemed suitable for her offspring. The other two were Speaker of the House and doctor of medicine. Talba’s brother Corey had actually achieved the last of the three.
“Might as well see how the other half live,” Miz Clara said. “I got one thing to say to ya, ya don’t want to get fired first day on the job.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever ya do, whatever they tell ya, don’t use nothing but Ivory liquid and bleach on the marble. Anything else’ll stain, ruin it for good.”
“What marble?”
“These folks got any money?”
“Enough for a full-time maid.”
�
�Mmm, my baby gon’ be doin’ laundry. Bet they make ya iron the sheets.”
“Mama, what marble?”
“Rich folks got marble all over. Got bathrooms most paved with marble. You mind Miz Clara now.”
Talba promised she would and excused herself. She couldn’t wait to call Jane Storey: “I’m in.” Jane was howling by the time Talba finished the story of the mama con, especially the “special investigator” part.
“Think I could get thrown in jail for it?”
“Naah. Your word against theirs. Miz C. said ‘private.’ Williams heard ‘special.’”
Talba sighed. “You don’t know my mama. She wouldn’t lie if it meant I was going to the guillotine.”
“Know what it reminds me of? The time when I was traveling in Europe and had to come home for an emergency appendectomy. I’d just been bumming around, filing a few stories here and there—”
“Unemployed, in other words.”
“Yeah, and I was so out of it, Mother had to fill out the hospital form. Was she about to put down ‘unemployed’? No way—who knew what nefarious hands that record might fall into? And then everyone would know her daughter had actually been out of work for a big three months.”
“So what’d she put?”
“‘Foreign correspondent.’ Thought I’d die.”
“Oh, God—seen one mom, you’ve seen ’em all. Listen, I’ve got to go—I think I feel a poem coming on.”
Chapter 4
“You look all right.” As good as a baroness can in scruffy old jeans, Talba thought. And I’m early, you happen to notice? The woman who’d answered the door ought to know exactly how she looked by now. She’d certainly taken a thorough enough gander. Talba half-expected her to inspect her teeth.
This woman couldn’t be the judge’s lady friend—she was old enough to be his mother, and if she was, Angie must be a secret druggie, because he was bound to be innocent. Nobody who’d been raised by this one could possibly get away with anything. She was tall and erect, with wavy white hair in a short, severe, and way too sensible haircut that still managed to be flattering. And she was wearing a dress. Who wore dresses any more unless they were going to work? And Talba certainly couldn’t see this one working. Maybe a volunteer job.
