by Julie Smith
“At my school either. Can I talk to your dad?”
“Depends.”
Uh-huh. As evil as she’d figured. But she humored him. “Depends on what?”
“Lemme see your piece.”
She was taken aback. “You mean my gun? I don’t carry a gun. My weapon of choice is a T-ball bat—want to see that?”
“Don’t mess with me, man.”
A man’s voice came from a few feet away. “Who’s at the door, Donnie?”
The kid turned around and the man came into view. Bob Cheramie. “Mr. Cheramie,” she said. “I wonder if I could—”
But he could see her now. “Hey! You’re the chick I saw yesterday. With Warren LaGarde.”
Behind Donnie, he opened the door a little wider. She could see that the room was a kitchen. The more you knew about the house, the stranger it got. Cheramie was holding a Budweiser.
“What the hell are you doin’ here? Donnie, go on now.” The kid cast an evil look at Talba and disappeared. “Any friend of that asshole’s no friend of mine.”
Talba laughed. “I’m no friend of LaGarde’s. I’m investigating him.” She showed her license.
He studied it carefully; not many people did that. “Well. You better come in then. Want a beer?”
“No thanks. Driving.”
“Sit down. Sit down.” He himself sat down at a yellow fifties-style table. Or perhaps it was the real thing—the house could easily have been fifty years old; maybe it and all its furnishings had been in the Cheramie family that long.
Talba made herself at home.
“Whassup?” Cheramie said unceremoniously.
“Someone’s hired me to look into some things regarding Mr. LaGarde—and I might have a piece of information for you. How much do you know about LaGarde?”
“I know he’s a cheatin’ rat bastard. Ya got somethin’ else?”
“I think so. Did you know his son-in-law’s a Mancuso?”
It seemed to take him awhile to process it. “Mancuso. I shoulda known. It’s in the goddam blood.” Clearly, he was no geneticist, but Talba let it go. He sighed. “And Buddy Champagne was no saint, either. Goddam ’em both.”
“Okay, let’s trade,” Talba said. “I want to know what kind of trouble he was giving you—might be something I can use.”
“Against him, I hope.”
Talba let an eyebrow go up a little. “Well, you never know.”
“All right—don’t see the harm in it. I had a deal to sell my shrimp to Judge Champagne. Simple enough, right?”
Talba nodded. No news there.
“So Buddy dies. I don’t get paid. I go talk to Royce, and he says he’s sorry, but some big deal Buddy had didn’t come through. They dumped my shrimp right there in the canal, you believe that?”
“Easily. The way that place smelled.”
“Man, I was mad. I haul off and hit Royce, I was so goddam mad—you ain’ gon’ report me, are you?”
Talba shook her head, thinking that at least the puzzle of Royce’s injury was cleared up. “I’m not an officer of the court,” she said. “Like a lawyer.” (Though she really had no idea whether a lawyer would have to report a crime she’d only heard about.)
“Well, I hit him a few more times, tryin’ to knock some information out of him. Ya understand? And sure enough, I pry some loose. He says Buddy’s got a contract with LaGarde to buy shrimp for his restaurants, but LaGarde reneged on it. Flat out wouldn’t buy the shrimp. So I say, well, goddammit, sue him! Get the money any way ya have to—why have I got to suffer for this? Wasn’t only me, either. Come to find out, it was happening to the other boys as well.”
He paused to guzzle beer. “Buddy Champagne, the shrimpers’ friend. Oh, yeah. Ya see that boat out there? Thanks to Judge Buddy it’s being repossessed. You don’t know what kinda problems we got, all those chinks dumpin’ cheap shrimp on the market. Fact: They got ninety percent of the U.S. market. I ain’t exaggeratin’—ninety percent! Aquaculture, baby, aquaculture—it’s wipin’ us out. Ten, fifteen years ago, shrimp was a luxury in this country. Fact: Wholesale prices for shrimp have dropped forty percent since the year 2000. Meanwhile, my operatin’ costs are gettin’ higher and higher—price of fuel, insurance—hah! Insurance, hell. Just about nobody can afford that no more. I’m behind on my credit cards, I’m behind on my electric bill, I owe everybody under the sun. Hell, I’d have already lost my house, my folks hadn’t paid it off, rest their souls.” He put the can down and got up in her face, his eyes like coals. “So I knock some more information outta the sumbitch—and he says he don’t have nothin’ on paper. Ya understand? Ya see where I’m goin’ with this?”
Talba didn’t. “I’m not sure,” she said.
“It was somethin’ illegal, see? LaGarde promised Buddy all his seafood business—and it’s got to be considerable—and Buddy stakes the whole goddam business on this one order, but it don’t come through. LaGarde’s buyin’ that cheap foreign shrimp just like all the other scumbags in this town. Nobody’ cares that shrimpin’s dyin’ out in Louisiana—for the simple reason that the big guys don’t give a shit about the little guys. Ya know what the goddam New York Times said? Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t one of those guys think any paper not published in Louisiana’s automatically a commie rag. I got a lotta respect for the New York Times. But they had the gall to attack the shrimp tariffs in an editorial. Said it was unfair to goddam Vietnam and China! Said it was political, and what was even worse, complained that some of the money would go to the people who’re hurtin’. That’s Americans they’re talkin’ about. That’s me. Assholes don’t understand a goddam thing about people with families to feed.”
Talba was actually fairly interested, not to mention sympathetic. But she felt a need to get the conversation back on course. “Where does the illegal part come in?” she asked.
“Buddy’s a judge, see? Think about it.”
Once he put it that way, Talba didn’t have to think about it at all. It was incredibly obvious—so exactly like Buddy down to his toenails, she didn’t see why she hadn’t already seen it. She told him what she’d known since her records search. “LaGarde had a case before Buddy, and Buddy ruled in his favor.”
“Two cases. It’s a matter of record, ya know that? I went down and looked ’em up myself. Goddam matter of record. That’s what I went to see goddam LaGarde about. I was so goddam hot under the collar I coulda killed him, too.”
Talba smiled. “So how come he’s still alive?”
Cheramie took another dose of medicine, wiped his mouth, sighed, and pointed with his chin to the back of the house. “Only thing stoppin’ me’s I got a kid to raise. His mama left us three years ago. I coulda got arrested for beatin’ Royce up if anybody’d seen us, but nobody did, and I went right out after and got me an alibi. But a whole hotel full of people woulda known if I up and killed LaGarde.” Hearing what he’d just said, he gave Talba a sly look. “Look, you know I don’t mean that. I’m not a violent man. Figure of speech.”
“I understand.” And I really, really don’t want to get on your bad side.
“So anyway, I couldn’t even beat him up, much less kill him. And that I’d’a gladly done if it wouldn’ta been my ass.”
“But you did talk to him—I saw the two of you get in the elevator. What’d he say?”
“Said Royce made the whole thing up. Said he never had no deal with Buddy.” He guzzled again, and shook his head. “How ya like that, ya know? ’S why this country’s in the shape it’s in. Ain’t even honor among thieves anymore.”
Talba smiled, seeing the irony. “That’s the lowest.” She could feel his pain, all right. But the timing bothered her. “Tell me something—when was Buddy supposed to pay you?”
He repeated his routine—guzzle, wipe, lower can. “On delivery. And I made quite a few deliveries. Buddy’s been owin’ me for weeks, tell ya the truth.”
“And you never confronted him before?”
“Ah, he always had some story.”
“It isn’t shrimp season, is it? So you had nowhere else to sell the shrimp.”
“Now don’t you get all righteous with me, Miss Private Investigator. Here I am, about to lose my boat, can’t even stay out a coupla days cause I got a kid to take care of—what I’m gonna do? I gotta catch shrimp to make a livin’—I don’t know nothin’ else.”
“I’m just surprised you put up with it, that’s all.”
“You know how Buddy was. He could charm the pants off a picture of a nun. Or maybe ya never met him.”
“Oh, I met him. I met him all right.” She winked. “But he wasn’t my type, in case you’re wondering. Did you know he was engaged to LaGarde’s daughter?”
“He was what?”
Talba repeated what she’d just said. “But don’t get too excited. I don’t think the father and daughter get along.”
“That is one fucked-up family.”
“Two,” Talba said. “So. You have any idea who killed Buddy?”
“I know it was a righteous dude, whoever he was. Huh! Shrimpers’ friend. Tell me about it.” He finished his beer, whereupon Talba thanked him for his help and left, wondering how Royce was.
She called Lucy to check and also to confirm their reading date. “Hey, Luce, it’s me. How’s Royce?”
“Omigod, he’s got a broken rib. He looks like someone beat him up.”
“Is that what happened?”
“He says he fell over something. But his face is all bruised up, and so’s his whole chest and everything.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it. How’s the little princess?”
“She is sooo wonderful! And no one knows yet.”
“Try and keep it that way. Pick you up tomorrow at seven—we’ll have dinner first. Did you clear it with your grandmother?”
“Uh—I was wondering if you could.”
Talba called Adele and argued her into it. Reading between the lines, her main reluctance, it seemed, was permitting her precious niece to spend an evening with a black person, but she couldn’t say that, so it was fairly easy to break her—especially when Talba said Raisa would be along, too.
That one required a call to the club’s owners. They said, sure it was a bar, but it was also a restaurant, and kids came all the time. So that part was okay. Next, the kid’s dad.
That wasn’t hard, either. Raisa was thrilled that the kitten had gone to live with Lucy, and Darryl, in turn, was so grateful that he readily agreed to the outing, although he grumbled a few things about Raisa needing her sleep.
The only glitch was thinking up a reason why Raisa couldn’t see Gumbo—nobody wanted to mention that this was a case of adults conspiring against other adults. She and Darryl finally settled on a story about Lucy’s brother being hurt and needing peace and quiet. But they forgot Raisa didn’t yet know that Buddy was dead. “Oh,” Raisa said. “And how’s her daddy?”
Talba thought Darryl was going to stroke out. His distress was so evident, Raisa picked it up. “He died, didn’t he? That’s the bad thing that happened.”
“Oh, honey!” Darryl gathered her close to him. “I’m sorry you have to know something like that.”
“I’m just sorry for Lucy.” She wriggled away and went to her room to think about it.
She didn’t ask what had happened. But she did want to know what would happen to Kristin. “She’s a strong woman,” Darryl said. “It’s hard, but she’ll be all right.” That part, at least, Talba felt okay about—no part of it could be considered a lie.
They took Raisa to the aquarium that day, which delighted her, and also gave Talba an idea for a poem, which she scribbled on the way home. She didn’t plan to read—she was something of a celebrity at Reggie and Chaz and didn’t want to upstage her protegée—but since she planned to introduce Lucy, she wore one of her performance outfits. It was a long lime-green skirt, matching scarf wound around her hair, and matching empire-style tunic with a black and white design on it, in quadrants—lime right boob, the left covered in black squiggles on lime, then a long lime drape on the left hip, and on the other, big white swirls on lime. The flowing sleeves were lime with deep cuffs of the black-squiggle pattern. Even Raisa was impressed. “You look…” she struggled, “…really strange.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
Adele nearly flipped. “Where the hell are y’all going? To some concert or something? You didn’t lie to me, did you?”
Talba laughed. “Nope. I didn’t, I am a baroness.”
Seeing Adele’s blank stare, she said, “It’s my shtick. Want to see my Web site? It explains it all.”
She regretted it instantly. They’d have to go to Lucy’s computer, and the kitten was in her room. “Oh! I forgot. We took it down to work on it. But here’s the short version—I have this affectation, and it’s…” She posed, indicating her outfit. “…this.” Then she had an inspiration. “It’s a black thing.”
“Oh. Will there be any other, uh, I mean…”
“Is it an all-black restaurant? No, indeed. This is one of the few integrated poetry readings in town, thanks in large part to moi. You do thank My Grace, don’t you?”
Lucy stared in amazement. Talba realized that she was behaving in character, already the baroness, already on stage.
Adele looked ready to change her mind.
Quickly, Talba said, “Sorry. I forgot I didn’t have an audience.”
Adele’s face was grim, but she said, “Well, have a good time. Lucy, remember your manners.”
Lucy giggled. “Oh, Mommo. Nobody says that any more.”
“Just be a good girl.” As she kissed her granddaughter, Talba saw Adele’s eyes fill. Probably because of the giggle. Lucy wasn’t doing much giggling these days.
They were nearly out the door when Lucy said, “Hey, I forgot something,” and raced back upstairs.
“She seems better,” Talba remarked, setting the stage for Rikki’s eventual discovery, hoping to weight the judgment in the kitten’s direction.
“She does.” Adele seemed puzzled. “I guess kids are more resilient than we think.”
“The poetry helps her, Miss Adele. It really does.”
Adele smiled. “I’m grateful to you. I didn’t even know she was writing.”
“She said Royce got hurt. How’s he doing?”
She shrugged. “It’s nothing a bottle of whiskey won’t cure. That’s his theory, anyhow.”
Lucy clattered back down, clutching her camcorder. “Almost forgot the most important thing. Raisa can tape me for you, Mommo. We can watch it tomorrow.”
Adele kissed her again, and Talba sensed the tenderness between them. How much Adele had cared for Buddy, Talba didn’t know, but she knew she was hurting on Lucy’s account.
“Break a leg,” Adele said, and before Lucy had time to protest, Talba explained what it meant.
“Tell Royce I’ll break a rib,” Lucy retorted, and the minute they were out the door, she said, “You didn’t tell me to dress up.”
She’d opted for jeans turned up almost to the knee and a tight-fitting T-shirt with a design of Hindu deities, which Talba pronounced perfect. “Half the poets who read,” she said, “will probably be dressed like you.”
After she and Raisa had hugged and Raisa had said, “I’m sorry about your daddy,” and Lucy had said, “Thanks,” Darryl asked them what they wanted for dinner.
“Big Mac!” Raisa hollered, to which Darryl replied, “Bleeagh!”
“Oh, Daddy.”
“This is a big night, kid—we’re having an adult dinner. We can eat at Reggie and Chaz if you like. They have pizza.”
That went over with both the girls, so Reggie and Chaz was elected. Talba could see immediately that neither of the girls had ever seen anything like it. Reggie—half of the gay African-American couple who ran it—met them with a bow. “Ah! The Baroness. It’s an honor, Your Grace. And Darryl Boucree. Long time.” He kissed Talba and slapped p
alms with Darryl, after which he greeted each girl with outstretched hand. “And two princesses. Princess Raisa, I believe? And you’d be Princess Lucy.”
They were wide-eyed (even Lucy) not only at Reggie’s excess, but also at the place, with its Guatemalan belts hanging like snakes from the ceiling and its distinctly salt-and-pepper flavor. Both had seen a sprinkling of other races at restaurants, but neither had evidently been in a place where it was more or less fifty-fifty. And then there were the clothes. People who frequented Reggie and Chaz tended to come from the Faubourg Marigny and the Bywater, neighborhoods known as havens for artists.
A lot of the men sported what Talba called “musicians’ clothes”—loose, short-sleeved, square-tailed shirts worn outside the pants, and porkpie hats; the women wore gauze and Indian or African prints and vintage outfits and zany hats, more conservative versions of Talba’s baroness look. Plenty of tattoos and piercings on both sexes. A good fifty percent, as Talba had predicted, were dressed like Lucy, in jeans. True, lots of midriffs showed, but Lucy didn’t seem to feel too deprived that she’d been talked out of it.
She seemed to be in heaven. “This place rocks.”
“Told you.”
“Does everyone have a performance name?”
“Nope. Just royalty.”
“Henceforth from this moment, I shall be known as Princess Lucy.”
“That’s a long time. You sure?”
“Yeah!” Raisa said, though it was none of her business.
“Okay, that’s how I’m introducing you. But hear this—you don’t outrank The Baroness. Nobody does.”
Lucy smiled. “Not till I get some better clothes, anyhow.”
And then she and Raisa got into a big discussion about taping. Raisa had brought Eddie’s camcorder (which Talba hadn’t yet returned), and wasn’t sure how she could get everything on both cameras. Finally, Lucy agreed to let Darryl operate hers so Raisa could make her own tape, which she’d get to keep “and cherish,” as Lucy put it, striking a princess pose. The kid was showing real performance instincts.
But for a while, Talba was worried. They finished their pizzas and moved into the drinking part of the evening (Shirley Temples for the girls, Chardonnay for Talba, beer for Darryl), which made the girls restless and argumentative, since they had neither the mellowing advantage of alcohol, nor other kids to distract them. Talba had warned them that the reading would start half an hour late, but what good was a warning when you were young and impatient? Lucy’s stage fright was so nearly palpable that Talba left for a while to bribe the night’s emcee, Lemon Blancaneaux, to let the kid read second. She figured first would send her over the edge with fright and third or lower would require hospitalization.
