Louisiana Hotshot

by Julie Smith

  Valentino seemed hardly to notice the interruption. “Twenty-seven tops,” he said.

  Tops, my ass, Talba thought, and tried not to think about what Darryl was sending them. She was starting to perspire, partly from fear, and partly from the realization that she was doing it, she was going to get what she wanted. “Forty plus benefits.”

  “Of course benefits,” Eddie said. “Think I’m a piker? Twenty-seven and benefits.”

  Several thousand dollars later, when they had finally shaken hands, a well-dressed woman arrived, nervously twisting the nice-sized diamond she wore. Talba breathed a sigh of relief— apparently, she was able to afford an apprentice hotshot.

  Valentino was suddenly the perfect host. “Come in, come in, Mrs. Scott. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  The woman was tall, African-American, straight-haired, straight-nosed, and probably, if her clothes were any indication, straitlaced. She was dressed for the business world, and from the looks of her gray suit and gold jewelry, high up in it. Talba thought she looked like a bank officer.

  The woman addressed herself to Talba. “Mr. Boucree seemed to think you’d be able to relate to my daughter.”

  “Mr. Valentino and I work as a team. Excuse me a moment, will you? I’ll get another chair.” She was making it up as she went along, but it seemed to be working. The woman relaxed and sat.

  When Talba came back with the chair, Eddie was already talking. “What can we do for you?”

  “My daughter’s been molested.”

  Talba gasped, but she kept quiet, taking a cue from Eddie, who shook his head slowly, murmuring, “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.”

  “The thing is, no one will do anything!” Scott sounded whiny and at the end of her rope.

  “I’m so sorry.” Talba said, no longer able to contain herself.

  “She still has braces on her teeth.” The woman was twisting a tissue, but maybe, just maybe, she didn’t seem quite as anguished as Miz Clara might have been in her situation.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Eddie said quietly.

  Aziza Scott took a breath. “I read her diary. I don’t like to admit it, but I didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t acting right. Nothing made her happy all of a sudden— she was sullen and pouty all the time instead of only three-quarters of it.” She tried out a smile on this one, but none of the three of them had the stomach for it. “I thought maybe I could find out what was bothering her.”

  Talba didn’t think this was a first, the thing with the diary.

  “It was in there.”

  “That she’d been molested?”

  “That she’d had sex. Here. You read it.” She handed it to Talba, opened to a page with a section marked in yellow highlighter, and Eddie had no choice but to wait until she’d read it.

  ***

  He picked me over Shaneel! Bet that’s never happened to her in her whole life. “You,” he said. “Come with me.” Just like that. As soon as we were in the bedroom, he said, “Baby, you beautiful. Anybody ever tell you that? You got a bottom like somethin’ out of the movies. You want me to rub your back? Come on. Let’s go over to the bed.”

  Well! I’m embarrassed to write what happened next— stuff I never even heard of. Wow. I can honestly say he taught me things about my body I never suspected. Oh, yeah— all right! That part was real good. But it still hurt when we did it.

  Why doesn’t anyone ever tell you it’s going to? I asked Shaneel and she just laughed at me. I wonder if it always does— every time, I mean?

  At first I wasn’t going to do it. No way, José! Cassandra Scott from Catholic School? I don’t think so. But then, while I was lying there feeling like that, I just thought, why not? Why not do it with him? I’ve got to do it with somebody sometime, and he’s a grown man— been everywhere, done everything. Why not find out what it’s all about?

  Anyway, I made him wear a condom.

  ***

  Talba handed the diary to Eddie, and asked, “How old is she, Mrs. Scott?”

  “Fourteen. And you see what she says about him.”

  Talba said, “Statutory rape.”

  “Not exactly,” Eddie said, “Louisiana law is tricky. Here, it’s called ‘carnal knowledge of a juvenile.’”

  “But it’s still a crime. Why not go to the police?” asked Talba. Eddie gave her a look that told her not to rush things.

  “Cassandra says she doesn’t know who the man was. I tried to get it out of her, and I did go to the police. They say they can’t do a damn thing without a name. Then I went to find that little bitch Shaneel, and the idiot counselor wouldn’t even let me talk to her. Goddammit, you see how frustrated I am? No one will do anything!” Talba remembered what Darryl had said about her causing a scene in the counselor’s office. She hoped it wasn’t going to be repeated.

  Grasping at straws, she said, “There’s no name anywhere in the diary?”

  “Oh, yes, there’s a name. Toes.”

  “Toes.”

  “My daughter had her first sexual experience with a man named Toes.” She twisted the tissue till it tore, and at this moment, her anguish seemed real to Talba. She didn’t care much for the name Toes herself.

  Eddie said, “We need to talk to the girl.”

  Scott nodded. “Might as well. She doesn’t talk to me, that’s for sure. But I don’t think it’s— I don’t want to be rude, but I really think she’d respond better to Ms. Wallis.”

  Take that, Talba thought. Take that, Eddie Valentino. I’m the right demographic— young, female, and as dumb as the kid when it comes to guys. Scratch that. Formerly as dumb as the kid.

  She was feeling magnanimous. Instead of letting Eddie do the dirty work, she jumped in ahead of him. “I’ll be happy to talk to her, but we do work as a team. Okay if Eddie comes along?”

  “I guess it can’t hurt.” Scott didn’t seem happy about it.

  Chapter 4

  She was pushy, she was smart-mouthed, she was probably brilliant (or thought she was, which was just as bad). She was also cute as a button, and the whole package added up to one large pain in the ass. But after the reading, once he got home and got sober, Eddie found he didn’t hate her at all. In fact, he had to admit she reminded him of someone— an awful lot, as a matter of fact. Except for the little matter of skin color, she was just about a clone of his daughter Angela.

  The thing he hated was Angie and Audrey pushing her down his throat. Sometimes it seemed like he never got to make any decisions on his own. They worked on him all the way home from the damn reading— both of them seemed to think she was Sherlock Holmes and Robert Frost rolled up in one— and in the end he ran out of excuses.

  Yes, she could probably make his life easier. And yes, she was about ten times more qualified than anyone else he’d probably be able to get. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to make the mere facts that she was black, female, pushy, and had an uncanny ability to get around him outweigh the rest of it. Matter of fact, not a single one of the four facts could even be mentioned outside a poker club in Arabi.

  Plus, that poem about her father had really gotten to him. He hated it when she read it because it made him so goddam sad— like maybe he was missing something. He didn’t see why it was anybody’s business to go and make him feel like that. But the girl really loved her father. You couldn’t fake a thing like that. That had to count for something.

  “Okay, okay, okay. I know when I’m licked,” he had said, slamming the door of his Buick, and Angie had given him a big sloppy kiss. That part was okay, but he hated it when she followed it up with crap like, “Dad, I’ve been so worried about you.”

  Worried about him, hell. He could damn well run his business by himself.

  Anyway, he thought he could until the damn Baroness stuck a gun to his head and walked away with everything he’d ever worked for. That was what he was going to tell Audrey, but actually, once he realized how much she was going to save him on the financial reports, he didn’t min
d that much— might even come out ahead.

  That was an interesting thought. He had business— had plenty of business— but to his recollection, he’d never had an African-American client who wasn’t referred by a lawyer. What if there was a nice little market there, and Ms. Talba Wallis could tap into it for him? Blacks did business with blacks, and now he had one on his staff. He could even give her a little commission for each new client she brought in— sweeten the pot a little, get her to put the word oµt.

  He was most impressed with Aziza Scott as a client. Not only hadn’t she balked at his considerable hourly fee, she’d turned out to be a hospital administrator. Hospitals were big businesses. They got sued; they had employees who stole; they had plenty of investigative needs. Also, from the looks of her, Ms. Scott was plenty well-fixed and likely had plenty of friends who were— and who might need a little divorce work or something.

  If he could just do something about her mouth, the Baroness might work out.

  One thing about it bothered him a little— the coincidence of Scott making a scene at Talba’s boyfriend’s school at the very moment she was negotiating her salary. He decided to let it go. He knew it had to be a setup and a pretty transparent one— but if Scott’s money was good, what the hell did he care? Let the Baroness play games all day and all night if she wanted; if she thought she was fooling him, so much the better. Being underestimated was always an advantage.

  After the client left, he said, “Ya got a car, Ms. Wallis?”

  She came back with, “How about if we do ‘Talba’ and ‘Eddie’?”

  Damn, she could be irritating. It was his place to say that, right? Who the fuck did she think she was? But what the hell, it was going to come to that, anyway. So he just said, “Whatever Your Grace desires. Ya got a car or not?”

  “Yes sir. Nice little Camry.”

  “Well, get out to Delgado and sign up for the next investigators’ course. But first call up the state Board of P.I. Examiners and apply for your apprentice license.” He paused. “Oh, and by the way— nice of ya to include me in on the interview with the kid.”

  She gave him a smile he could only construe as mischievous. “I thought I had to.”

  “Ya damned right ya had to. Ya can’t do a damn thing on this case— or any case, ya got that?— till your apprentice license comes through.” He paused, his gaze boring right through her— this was something you couldn’t mess around with. “Ya know why?”

  “My mama always said, ‘because I told you not to’.”

  “Well, there’s three thousand better reasons— one for every dollar I’m gon’ get fined if ya do. Now get outta here.”

  While she was out, he and Eileen rearranged the copy room so she could use it for an office.

  Talba was touched to find the little office they’d carved out for her— Eileen had even put some flowers in there. Still, it wasn’t quite what she expected. The obvious space was the room down the hall, the one that appeared more or less empty.

  “What’s with that one?” she asked. “Is there another employee?”

  Eileen shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s the video room. It’s Eddie’s pride and joy.”

  “What do you need a video room for?”

  “We do these ‘Day in the Life’ things, see? Like if somebody gets mangled up in a car accident and they’re suing. We do a little movie showing how tough their life is when they can’t even move their little finger.”

  Talba winced. “Omigod. I hope I never have to do that.”

  “No fear. Uncle Eddie loves it— he’d do nothin’ but that if he could. That and divorce work— anything, so long as it doesn’t involve computers.”

  “Did you say Uncle Eddie?”

  “Oops, did I? ‘Scuse me, I’m not supposed to do that. Anyway, it’s on Aunt Audrey’s side.”

  That was good information— there’d be no antagonizing this one. Eileen said, “Make me a list of what you need, okay? There’s already a phone line in there. Oh, and I’ve ordered you a cell phone. Eddie thinks you should have one. You got a camera?”

  “Not a very good one.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you one.”

  “I’ll probably need another phone line for the Internet.”

  “Sure. He said to get you whatever you want.”

  “Great. How about a nice green Jaguar?” Talba slipped into her new office and started setting things up. There were a bunch of folders in her in-box with a note on them: “Not to be touched until you have your license.” They were mostly credit checks. Easy-peazy. She had them nearly all done by five-thirty, and the interview with Cassandra was at six. Eddie didn’t say a word when she laid them on his desk.

  “Pontchartrain Park,” he said as they piled into his Buick. “Birds of a feather still flock together.”

  Talba racked her brain, but in the end had to give up. “Eddie,” she said, finally, “what language was that?”

  “It’s where we’re going. Where the rich black folks live.”

  She almost said, “I don’t think so— or my brother’d be there,” but that sounded snotty even to her. She settled for, “Oh. Thought that was Eastover.”

  “Pontchartrain Park’s older— must not be fashionable anymore.”

  “Well, I sure wouldn’t know. I live in the Ninth Ward.” She said “de Night Wawad,” like a native, and actually got a laugh out of him.

  The neighborhood was on the lake and nicely appointed with a golf course, but by nineties standards it was really pretty modest— a tasteful collection of ranch-style brick homes, nearly fifty years old by the looks of them.

  Aziza Scott’s was no different, being well-kept and sedate, though the Mercedes in front was one of the better cars on the street. The inside, by contrast, was mildly chaotic.

  Scott had had time to change into khakis and a T-shirt, but her makeup hadn’t had an update for hours. “Would you like to talk in the living room?” she asked, and Eddie shook his head, perhaps thinking the room too formal. That it was, but it needed a good dusting.

  Scott said, “Cassandra’s watching TV,” and started toward the back of the house.

  The dining room table was piled high with papers and files— work stuff, probably the mom’s or dad’s, and they’d spilled over onto a buffet with a silver tea service pushed to one side.

  Eddie asked “Is your husband home?” and Scott said “I’m divorced.” She tried out a wry smile, but it never really took off.

  Talba glanced off to the right and saw that the kitchen looked, as Miz Clara used to say, like a cyclone had struck it. A whiff of garbage that needed emptying drifted out of it.

  Scott waved at it. “The cleaners come tomorrow.”

  Teenage girls contemplating pregnancy should be forced to visit, Talba thought. The house was a powerful argument against single parenthood.

  The family room where they ended up, by contrast looked a little better. Scott must have admonished her daughter to clear out discarded socks and leftover pizza before the visitors arrived.

  The moment Talba saw the girl she had a bad feeling. Cassandra was a tall drink of water well on her way to babehood, clearly with little else on her mind. Her skin was a luscious golden color, lighter than her mother’s, and her hair was curlier. She had pulled it through a rubber band somewhere near the top of her head so that it formed an exuberant pouf while exposing a graceful neck. Spidery arms protruded from a sleeveless shirt that failed to cover her navel and skinny legs from a pair of abbreviated shorts. Her bare feet revealed green-painted toenails. Sullenness enveloped her like a thick, sticky cloud.

  For the first time, Talba’s confidence faltered. I don’t know if I can do this, she thought. The girl was clearly a bird with a broken wing, but not only from the rape, Talba thought. The wounds didn’t seem fresh.

  She and Eddie sat down while Scott turned off the television. Talba caught the way the girl looked at her mother, something nasty flashing suddenly from her eyes, and then turned away from her, to
ward Talba, her mouth hanging slightly open, giving her a somewhat retarded look and showing a mouthful of hardware. Perhaps the braces made it hard for her to close her mouth, Talba thought, and felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Pretty as she was, she was profoundly awkward; and so deeply unhappy you could see it from ten paces.

  I know this girl, Talba thought. I’ve been there. Being fourteen is like a prison sentence.

  Aziza, the mother, was trying to help her out. “Ms. Wallis is a poet, Cassandra.” Darryl must have told her. “And a detective. How’s that for a combo?”

  Talba smiled at the girl. “Poetry doesn’t really pay the bills. I’m a pretty good computer jockey too. You on the Internet?” She was trying to get down to it right away, find out if the girl had met her attacker on the net.

  Cassandra shook her head, not deigning to speak, her mouth still hanging open and hatred coming out of her pores.

  Another shrug.

  “She sings in a choir,” Aziza said.

  Talba tried to sound enthusiastic. “No kidding!”

  The girl flared. “I don’t see what you’re trying to get at.”

  Eddie ignored her. “My little grandson’s into hip-hop. Ya know what? Some of that stuff’s pretty good. Ya like tigers?”

  Talba could see that the girl was getting ready to shrug again, and fairly nastily, but she stopped in mid-motion, apparently taken aback by Eddie’s non sequitur. “There’s a band named Tigers?”

  “No, I mean tigers like at the zoo. I was askin’ ‘cause my grandson volunteers over at Audubon Park, and they’ve got this new baby tiger he was telling me about.”

  For the first time, the girl seemed actually interested. “Oh, wow, really?”

  “He said it’s just like a real big kitten— cutest little thing you ever saw.”

  “He gets to pet it?”

  “Yeah, sure. Hold it and everything.”

  “Ohhhhh. Lucky!” Talba could hear the longing in her voice and thought that Cassandra was someone who seldom got what she wanted. She realized that, in spite of herself, the girl was taking to Eddie— that somehow or other he’d gotten around her. And that Aziza had been completely wrong: Talba would get nowhere with her. So far, she was anything but an asset.