by Smith, Julie
Her grandfather had been a doctor and her father had, too, but he had built on it with investments in the sort of places people went to die these days—extended-care facilities for the aged. Lucille’s brother was a doctor, and she’d become a nurse, the only one in her family, but it was what she wanted to do, and now she was a nurse-practitioner. To Ray’s mind, it seemed her own gentle form of rebellion. She didn’t like doctors and didn’t mind saying so—didn’t get along with her moneygrubbing father and had no use for her arrogant, smug brother. She could have been a schoolteacher and made them all a lot happier, but you had to rebel somehow or other and she was a nurturer by nature.
She was probably the only nurse in New Orleans with several hundred thousand dollars in the bank—courtesy both of Granddad, whom she had liked (but who hadn’t been around for a while), and her mother, who came from a shipping family and who had died young, despite all the medical men in her life. In Cille’s head, the money was earmarked (after college was taken care of) for that foundation of hers, but it ended up going into Ray’s dream instead of hers. She knew people and she introduced him to them. She had every confidence, as she said at least once a day over his protests, that he’d make so much money she’d have twice as much for her foundation.
She desperately wanted success for him, not because she needed it—she was fine being a nurse, it was her choice—but because he wanted it. She wanted what he did, but not in a clingy way. In that magical, mythical “supportive” way spouses, Ray thought, were supposed to have.
He adored her with every cell of his body.
He had had a beautiful little company—a lovely, profitable, splendid little company—Hyacinth Products, named for the water hyacinth, whose flower was exactly the color of the dress she wore the first time they met.
And then the damn Three-D seismic came in. Actually, that was fine—what had happened certainly wasn’t the fault of the technology. He owed his demise unequivocally to Mr. Russell Fortier.
Okay, that did it—changed his mood completely.
Just thinking of Russell Fortier.
Gone too far? How could he have gone too far? Would he ever even have considered messing with people’s lives as thoroughly and as utterly ruthlessly as Russell Fucking Fortier?
When it first happened, when he lost his lease, he tried putting himself in the position of the person or persons who’d screwed him out of it. At the time, only one was known, and it was Russell Fortier.
In a way, the thing was like an aikido move, using Ray’s own strength against him. It was a thing that twisted and turned upon itself, a thing so devious it was enough to make you shiver in the middle of the night if you happened to wake up in a cold sweat because you could see everything you ever worked for going down the drain like a swatted insect.
When the company fell, he lost everything. Every cent he made had gone back into it. He and Cille had lived well, had even put a decent amount of money in a college fund, but not only was there nothing besides that—nothing at all—there were debts. He had put not only his own money into the company but other people’s. And then, poof! One day there was no company.
Of course, he had sued. Fat lot of good that did.
At first, he would think about the person who had done this to him and wonder what had driven the man to it—if he had gambling debts, or a disabled child in a hospital too expensive to contemplate, and, assuming he did, if this could even help him. Or did he get some big, fat-cat Big Oil bonus for it?
Or maybe it wasn’t any of that. Maybe it was done just for the sheer pleasure of muscle-flexing. Some sort of socially acceptable version of weenie-waggling. Maybe Fortier had done it just because he could.
Maybe he was the Prince of Darkness in a business suit.
That was really how it started—this no-holds-barred, crazy-assed scheme he was involved in now. It had all started with wondering what manner of man would do such a thing. He had researched Fortier and found no gambling debts, no disabled child. He had followed him, spied on him, become more and more obsessed.
Eventually, Lucille, in some mad attempt to help him get the thing out of his system, had suggested hiring Allred, which they had done with the little money they had left in the college fund.
After that, the thing took on a momentum of its own. It was still gaining, the proverbial downhill snowball; maybe it was unstoppable now.
Fuck it, Ray, he said to himself. Would you really want it to stop?
No way, Jose, his psyche answered. Assuredly not.
Negative in the extreme.
When he thought of the wrong done to him and his family, his investors and their families—even, in some cases, his employees and their families—when he thought of all that, and the senselessness of it, the utter unnecessary-ness of it, the last thing he wanted to do was let it go.
He wanted the sons of bitches to pay. He wanted them publicly humiliated, and he wanted to take United Oil down.
United Oil had sold him Hyacinth Oil; had sold it to him. And now, out of no further motivation than corporate greed, they’d screwed him back out of it. Not, to be sure, Big Oil as a juggernaut—Russell Fortier had done it.
But had United said, “No thank you, Mr. Fortier. You’ve obtained this honest man’s lease by nefarious means and we will have nothing to do with it”?
They had not.
It made him so mad he wanted to kill.
It made Lucille mad, too. He could see the tension of her muscles, those little ones in her hands, in her neck, her jaw, around her eyes—he could see how truly furious she was, though she wouldn’t show it. It would ill behoove a member of the helping professions even to admit to so much anger—but Ray knew it was there. And it was there on his account—because he was her husband and she was an angel. But also because he was the underdog in this situation. Lucille was scrappy that way. She’d bite and scratch and tear flesh to help out an underdog.
Exactly what help Fortier had had, Ray didn’t know yet, but with The Baroness on the job, he was sure going to find out.
And there was one other little thing—the murder of Gene Allred. The assholes were going to pay for that. It was just a matter of getting the damned disk, and the world was his.
Fifteen
OKAY. ON WITH the white blouse, the navy skirt, and the goddamn pantyhose, and run for the 82 Desire.
Some day she really must write a poem about it—the fume-spewing bus that replaced the streetcar. How poetic could you get?
The Baroness was looking out the window as she rode through the Bywater, thinking that Tennessee Williams had taken license, and he hadn’t even been a poet. He had written: “They told me to take a streetcar named Desire and transfer to one called Cemeteries and ride six blocks and get off at…Elysian Fields.” The streetcar had traveled a slightly different route from the bus, but even in Williams’s day, if you were headed toward the cemeteries at the foot of Canal, you were headed to Metairie instead of paradise. In any case, it made a pretty metaphor, though Lamar had the gall to laugh at it. To actually laugh at Tennessee Williams. Well, Williams was white, but he was gay—that made him hip by definition. And besides, he was Tennessee Williams; you didn’t laugh at Tennessee Williams.
Whoa, girl, she thought. What’s this?
Usually anything Lamar did was okay with The Baroness. She didn’t like thinking bad about him, because her mama and Corey hated him so much. Somebody had to defend the man.
Darryl Boucree’s getting to me, she thought.
She had gone to bed last night thinking about Darryl.
And then she dreamed she got on a train and took a long trip.
I wonder, she thought, if they’ve got trains named Desire? Think I might be on one now. Watch out, girl! He might be cute, but you don’t really know him.
Totally useless caveat, she knew it perfectly well—the guy wasn’t cute, he was adorable. And who wouldn’t be attracted to somebody who was a teacher just because he wanted to be?
Ac
tually, she’d found out quite a bit about Darryl Boucree in their short but sweet beer date—the fact that he had two moonlighting jobs argued that he had some kind of dependent. But at least it wasn’t a wife unless he was a liar, and whoever heard of a liar who liked poetry? (Oh, well, scratch that one—Byron, for instance, had probably had a mendacious streak.) But she didn’t think it could be a wife. Probably a mother or something.
The exciting thing about Darryl Boucree, and perhaps the thing that had most drawn her to him, was that he was a musician. Creative people understood each other. Well, actually they didn’t, if one were she and the other Lamar, but at least they had a good shot at it. And Darryl was actually one of the Boucree Brothers! (Though he had explained to her that the membership of the band changed nightly and they weren’t all brothers—some were uncles and cousins and fathers and sons.)
What must it be like to be from a family like that?
When she asked him that, he laughed—said it was just like any other family, but she didn’t believe it. In fact, she knew it wasn’t—it was nothing like her family, which thought her crazy and irresponsible because she was a poet.
I hate to think what they’d do if they ever found out about the dicking.
The thought, mundane as it was, set off some little pleasure center in the back of her skull, made her feel warm and chocolatey-sweet for a second. What was that all about?
Ah, she had it. The “dick” locution reminded her of Darryl, because he’d thought it up and they’d had that little exchange.
Something had definitely been set in motion. Oh, well. Que sera. Which reminded her of something else—in addition to his other sins, Lamar didn’t like Alfred Hitchcock movies. He didn’t like anything to do with honky culture; it surprised Talba, but she did. Everything was too mixed up together to throw out big chunks without a damn good reason.
She got off at Canal and walked the rest of the way. The name she had, the dude she was supposed to report to, was Edward Favret. She found, to her utter delight, that he was in the same department she’d been in before, Acquisitions and Property. She thought, as they shook hands, That fifty bucks I slipped ol’ Currie must have done the trick.
But Favret quickly disabused her. “Ms. Wallis, it’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Oh, shit. She thought she’d kept a low profile.
“Robert Tyson says you’re the best temp he’s ever worked with, and we ought to hire you permanently—maybe that’s a thought, if you’re interested.” He gave her a look that made her nervous. He didn’t even know her. She hoped.
But she smiled and nodded, and a line rang through her head: All nice like a good little pickaninny. That was how her poems started sometimes—as lines that she expanded on. I’m fixin’ to write about being a temp for Big Oil, she thought, and wondered if she could do it on company time.
“Anyway, we’re revamping here—we’ve got a lot more stations that have to go in. I can really use you.”
Not good, she thought. Best not to be noticed at all. But can I help it if I’m a hell of a nerdette?
He left her alone.
Robert Tyson, hidden by some office module that looked like it belonged in a spacecraft, scooted out, and gave her an amused grin. “My favorite genius. Welcome back to wage slavery.”
“Hey, Robert. How’s it going?”
“Better now that you’re back. You ever think of applying for a permanent job? You ought to consider it. You’re good, girl.”
“You really think so?” You don’t know the half of it.
“I really do. We could use you around here. And it’s not a bad gig, except when they treat you like a nigger, which in my case is about half the time.”
“Been laying a lot of wire, huh?”
He grinned again. “No, actually, I can’t complain. I had a few weeks doing what I was hired for—real interesting project. Dynamite project.”
Normally, she’d have loved to hear more about it. She was starting to miss programming. But at the moment she was anxious just to get him out of the way so she could steal her file—which was going to be a snap, due to the little alteration she’d made last time she was there.
She said, “But if I came here, I wouldn’t get to do squat—’cause I’m black and female.”
He grinned again. “No, that’s better—the old double-minority dodge.”
She grinned back. “Whatever works,” she said, and bent over her computer, waiting for lunch.
She planned to lift the file she needed as soon as he left. Technically she could do it with people around, but the last person who had that file had died. For all she knew, even nice Robert Tyson couldn’t be trusted.
After a while, she watched him fetch his brown bag and head off to the coffee room. Okay, good. She connected to the now-shared drive on Fortier’s workstation, once more brought up the “Find” command, typed in “Skinacat,” clicked the “Find Now” button, and murmured, “Come to Mama.”
The status line read, “0 Files Found.”
They must have changed the name of it, she thought. Especially if they know it’s been stolen.
What to do next?
Damn, damn, damn! If only she’d kept the names Allred had given her. It was true what she’d told the cop—once she was done with them, they were out of her head. But if she could just remember one of them, and the renamed “Skinacat” still existed, she could use the “Find” command to sniff out the file.
She closed her eyes and focused.
“Talba! You’re back.” It was one of the secretaries she’d met when she worked here before.
“Hey, Rochelle—look at you! Your due date must be about yesterday.”
The woman stroked her distended belly. “It’s got to be a boy—anything this big…”
Talba was too impatient to swap wives’ tales about carrying high or low. “When are you due?”
“Not till the middle of next month. Do you believe that?”
Another voice said, “Rochelle, who’re you talking to? Talba! How long you here for?”
Rochelle said, “Come on, Talba—let’s have lunch.”
Talba gave in. People were prowling about, coming and going from lunch, and she probably wasn’t going to have a moment’s peace. Meanwhile, she could let her unconscious work on the problem.
And sure enough, the answer came in the coffee room. One of the women had a child who went to a private school named Newman, and she remembered that was one of the names on the disk. Marion Newman—she recalled the first name because it was so unusual.
Back at her desk, she asked the “Find” command to locate Marion Newman and once again found herself looking at “0 Files Found.” That could mean only one thing—somebody had removed “Skinacat.” Good-bye, $1,500.
That was completely unacceptable. Talba’s mind turned it over as she did her legitimate nerd work. Maybe, she thought, I spelled it wrong. Maybe it was Marian. Or Neuman, or even Neumann. She decided to break it down, trying each word individually. She typed in “Newman” and was instantly rewarded—there was a file named that.
She was just about to check it out when she looked up and saw Edward Favret leaning over her cubicle. He had a slightly sloshed look, being apparently just back from lunch. “Brought you a cookie.”
She looked at him curiously, wondering. Yes, no doubt about it. He was flirting. She said, “Thanks, Mr. Favret, but I’m on Sugar Busters.”
“Oh, Christ. Not you, too.” It was the diet of the moment. “You don’t need to lose weight.”
She smiled, all nice again. “It’s not that. I’m already sweet enough.”
“Isn’t that just the truth? “ he said, as if he’d thought of it himself. He wandered off dreamily, the cookie still in its Mrs. Fields bag.
It was too narrow an escape. Talba decided to wait till after work to finish, when Robert Tyson had gone, and Favret had gone, and Rochelle had gone, and she could get a moment’s peace.
Tyson was the l
ast to leave. “ ‘Bye, good-looking. See you in the morning.”
“ ‘Bye, handsome.” She spoke absently, not even looking up, to discourage conversation.
He stopped anyway. “Working late?”
“I’m leaving in about five minutes. I’m just at the end of something.”
“I’ll stay a minute and walk you out.”
Shit! she thought. What if he decides to help me?
But at that moment, her phone rang.
Lamar, goddamn him. She picked up. “Well, no problem,” said a vaguely familiar voice. “I asked for Her Excellency, The Baroness de Pontalba, and they put me right through.”
“Darryl? Darryl Boucree, is that you?” She looked up at Robert Tyson and watched a slow smile spread across his features. Evidently grasping the situation, he waved and went on out. “How’d you get my number?” she asked the phone.
“Your mother. Who else?”
“Good thing I don’t have any enemies. She’d probably give them my address and everything.”
“She said she thought I sound nice.”
“Well, you do, darlin’. Can I call you back? I’m just finishing up here.”
“Great. That’s what I was hoping. Want to grab a bite?”
“I don’t know—I’m … um … let me call you in a minute?”
“Sure.” He gave her his number and hung up.
In fact, she more or less had a date with Lamar. Or anyway, Lamar would expect to see her, as he did every night or so, and if she was suddenly busy, he’d come to the correct conclusion. However, she noticed she hadn’t refused. She sat alone in the office, mulling over the situation; trying to figure out a way to have her cake and eat it, too.
Damn it! I like this man.
But if I go out with him, it’s good-bye to Lamar. Am I ready for that?
It took her only a moment to come up with the answer: More or less.
Now what to do? Call Lamar and come clean? Was she going to do that?
That was easy: Hell, no.
Well, then, what? Say I’m sick. Or better yet, lay the groundwork—say I really need a night off, and if he asks questions, that we can talk about it later.
