by Julie Smith
She thrashed for an hour or two, mind racing, and about half an hour into it, it occurred to her to turn the thing to her advantage. She put her mind to the question, not of her father (anything to avoid that one for a while), but of how to find Toes, and in the morning, dug out one of the outfits comprising her “right demographics” disguise. She had a closetful of white blouses and navy skirts left over from her temp days.
She had been hired by her original mentor, Gene Allred, to plant a bug and do some other spying in an office in which most of the clerical workers would be young, black, and female. He even knew a temp agency that could get her placed.
The same thing would probably work again if she could just get past Eddie.
Eileen, a moonfaced, plainish girl under the best of circumstances, looked drawn and strained when she arrived. “Audrey just called. She says Eddie’s gonna be out another day. Wants to know if you can handle what needs to be done.”
“Oh sure, no problem.” On the one hand, this was great news— she’d be left to her own devices. On the other, what was going on here? “Eileen, does he get these headaches a lot?”
“They just started a couple of months ago— well, I wouldn’t say that. Before that, he’d have one every three or four months. Lately, he’s been missing a day or two every couple of weeks. I’m getting worried. I’ve got to tell you, I’m really starting to worry.”
“What does Audrey say?”
The girl shrugged thick, ungainly shoulders. “She doesn’t say anything. And that’s nothin’ like Aunt Audrey.” Eileen looked as if she might cry.
Talba’s stomach flip-flopped. Damn! Eddie’d gotten to her. Racist, sexist old tyrant that he was.
“What about Angie?”
Eileen made a face. “I’m not her favorite cousin.”
Talba saw what the problem was. Angie was all business. She probably thought Eddie ought to hire somebody bright and attractive and competent instead of offering charity to a woman she probably considered her slow-witted cousin. Talba decided to worry about that later. She said, “I guess we’ll just have to do the best we can.”
“Hey, I got you something.” She opened a drawer and came up with boxes and bags. “One cell phone, one camera, and one pager.”
“Pager?”
“Eddie said to get you one. He thought you’d like it…it being modern technology and all. He said to get him one too.”
Talba did like it, especially the fact that Eddie’d gotten himself one. It made her think he meant them to work as a team.
She went into her office to call CompuTemps, and asked for a man named L.J. Currie. “Hey, Mr. Currie, Talba Wallis. Remember me? From Gene Allred?”
“I remember ya.” He sounded downright unhappy about it.
“Now don’t be like that. You know I’m a great worker.”
He sighed. “Where ya need a job?”
For the right price— or if you had something on him— Currie could get you a job almost anywhere.
“Baronial Records,” she said.
“Sorry, they don’t use us.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve got connections, L.J.” She wasn’t sure he did.
“I could give you a referral to CompTask. Their Ms. Brown has that account, I believe.”
“I need a job today.”
“I’m sure Ms. Brown can expedite that, if you explain your problem right.” Talba thought, Cross her palm with silver. “Is there a referral fee?”
“Ms. Brown will take care of that.”
A kickback, then— for which Talba would no doubt be charged, plus there’d be some kind of bribe for Ms. Brown. But that was the cost of doing business. Talba could care less. It was the way the system worked, and she was going to use it.
Before she trundled over to CompTask, she checked the web for “spy equipment.” Remembering the bug she’d placed for Allred, it occurred to her she’d better get hold of some tiny transmitters. Probably Eddie wasn’t the bugging type, but Eddie wasn’t around.
It was amazing how easy it was to find this stuff. In five minutes, she’d ordered various bugs for telephones and other locations, but passed on what she really wanted— you could now get a GPS for tracking cars. You put it in the car (hardwiring it if possible), and then you could track the vehicle at home if you liked, on your desktop computer— or if you wanted to follow it, with your laptop in your car. Now this was really her style. Unfortunately, it was way out of her price range. But she was so impressed with the concept she phoned the seller, struck up a conversation, and eventually he mollified her with a couple of ancient “bird dogs” he knew how to get— old-style homing devices you could attach to a bumper. The problem, he warned her, was an extremely cumbersome and short-range receiver. Damn! She wanted that GPS.
But of course Eddie would probably kill her if she used any of this stuff.
Feeling cocky, she hied herself over to CompTask, where, it seemed Ms. Brown hadn’t worked for three months. Damn, she was mad! (Mostly at herself, though she thought it entirely possible L.J. Currie’d shined her just to get her out of his hair.)
Okay, there was more than one way to skin a cat. She called CompTask and said she was from Baronial Records. She had a bit more up her sleeve, but it wasn’t necessary. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the auditory red carpet rolled out. She was switched to a Ms. Lewis, in whose mouth butter wouldn’t melt. Too bad for you, Talba thought. Here goes. And she did her best imitation of a bureaucrat in high dudgeon. “Excuse me, Ms. Lewis, but it’s nine-thirty and my temp isn’t here for the third day in a row. I’ve got a department to run— can you please tell me what in the name of God is going on?” As if the world would come to an end if the filing didn’t get done.
Ms. Lewis was flustered. “I don’t understand. I know Liza was there—”
“Oh, she was here— -just not when I needed her. Ms. Lewis, I’m sorry to be harsh, but the girl’s late for the third time— that is, if you even sent her.”
“Of course we sent her. But Liza’s never late— it just isn’t like her.”
“Are you sure she went to the right department?”
“Actually—”
“Yes? Actually?”
“Usually Ms. Regan in your personnel department disperses the girls— but since there’s only one today—”
Thank you, God, Talba thought.
“— there couldn’t really be a mistake. She’s been there a week, and she’s scheduled for another.”
“Let me get this straight, Ms. Lewis. You sent her to Purchasing, is that correct? She has not arrived. Maybe you’d better send someone else.”
“Purchasing? Liza’s in Legal. Oh my God, were there two work orders?”
Having now gotten what she wanted, Talba was feeling generous. “Millicent, what is it?” she said, as if speaking to an underling. “Oh. Very good. Ms. Lewis, I beg your pardon. Liza’s here; someone sent her on an errand.” She hung up quickly, hoping Ms. Lewis wouldn’t catch on that there weren’t actually two work orders.
The bad news was, there didn’t seem to be a way to get to Baronial today. Still, tomorrow would probably do. After a decent interval, she phoned Ms. Lewis again, said she was calling for Ms. Regan in Personnel, and they wouldn’t be needing Liza the rest of the week.
Still no call from the cop on Cassandra’s case. Talba’d had about enough of waiting for it. She called Skip Langdon again, got the name— Officer Dinel Corn— called Corn, failed to get her, and left a message.
Hell, she thought. That just isn’t good enough.
She called Aziza Scott at work and found her surprisingly pleasant. “Hey, Talba, how’re you doing?”
“Okay, thanks. How’s Cassandra doing? That’s the question.”
“She feels bad about Rhonda. And also Pamela— she can’t get through to her. I called that family, by the way. The Bergerons.”
“You did?”
“I got to thinking about what you said about Rhonda’s death being coinc
idental. I thought they should know. They wouldn’t even talk to me.”
“Well, their daughter was buried yesterday.”
“And they won’t let Cassandra talk to Pamela. You know what I think? They’re racists, pure and simple.”
Talba said, “I’m sorry about Pamela,” and she was. Sorry on Cassandra’s account. She had her own opinion about why the Bergerons wouldn’t want to talk to Aziza. “I just called to find out if you’ve heard from Officer Corn.”
Silence came from Aziza’s end. Finally, she said, “Is that someone I should know?”
“She’s the cop on Cassandra’s case.”
“Oh. I can’t remember things like that. Should I have heard from her?”
Talba itched to say, “Do you ever answer a question except with a question?” but thought better of it. Instead, she wriggled her way out of what was shaping up as an extremely unproductive conversation, and sat for a while staring into space.
She wanted to talk to Eddie.
She was starting to get a very uneasy feeling. Langdon had spooked her. Not hearing from Officer Corn was spooking her. What if she’d set something in motion that further endangered the girls?
Pamela had the information she needed. If Eddie hadn’t forbidden her to talk to the Bergerons… but he had. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to go against his wishes.
She paced.
There was plenty to do. She could work on setting up Eddie’s website, and she could always work on the books— she’d promised, after all. But, somehow, it didn’t seem decent just to break into Eddie’s accounts and start organizing them without him.
So she did work on the website. And then, somehow or other, she wasn’t quite sure how, she found herself emailing Tony Tino. Just one sentence— “Are you Eddie Valentino’s kid?”
Within an hour, he answered: “Who are you? Is my father all right?” and she broke out in a sweat. She’d done it as a lark, hadn’t really expected him to answer…
Who’d believe that? she thought suddenly. Why the hell had she done it?
She sat with her head in her hands for a while, feeling paralyzed.
And then she began looking for her father. She spent several minutes getting into a search engine and locating a peoplefinder. She was all set to type in his name when she realized she didn’t know it. Stunned, she sat there holding her head, willing something to come to her. Donald, she thought. She had heard it once, at least. She had heard her mother and her Aunt Carrie mention her father in a conversation she wasn’t part of. She’d been ten or twelve maybe. The sisters probably didn’t know she was in the room. They were talking about a man they didn’t like, and Talba was pretty sure it was her father. Donald or David. Something like that. She figured she’d try both and once again was all set to begin when it hit her that she didn’t know his last name. Didn’t even know if her mother and father were married.
How could you look for someone when you didn’t know their name?
It might be on her birth certificate, she thought, almost certainly would be. Only she didn’t have a copy of it.
A scrap of memory flashed uncomfortably: Needing her birth certificate to get her driver’s license; her mother giving her a folded copy; unfolding it eagerly only to find herself staring, horrified, at the four words she hated most in the world.
Her name.
The unspeakably ugly words— Urethra Tabitha Sandra Wallis— shamed her so badly she refolded it without even looking at the intriguing tiny hand-and-footprints. At that point, it ceased to be an object of interest or curiosity, and became solely a rather unpleasant device to get her license. She handed it to the clerk, and later handed it back to her mother without ever unfolding it again.
She shrugged off the memory and checked her mail, just in case. Sure enough, Tony Tino was still on her case— he’d sent another email.
Okay, okay, she had to bite the bullet. “Didn’t mean to alarm you,” she wrote. “If Eddie’s your dad, he’s fine (though not nearly so tough as he thinks he is). I’m just a fool who works for him. Please forgive the intrusion— just couldn’t resist.”
To which he replied: “You couldn’t possibly work for him if you’re not a relative. And you couldn’t possibly be a relative if you’re in touch with me. Who are you?”
There was only one answer to that one: “Not to brag, but I am a Baroness. Check out my website, www.Baronessa.com.”
Twenty minutes later, he got back to her: “Wow. I’m impressed. But now I know you couldn’t work for my dad. Black, female, and smart? Uh-uh. I don’t think so.”
Suddenly the thing was a conversation:
“Your mom and Angie made him hire me.”
“How are they?” he fired back.
Why don’t you know? she wondered. She wrote: “They’re just great. Planning your dad’s birthday party.” As if she didn’t suspect anything was the matter.
And if it was a gambit— she wasn’t sure herself— it worked: “Wouldn’t know about that. My family and I don’t talk.”
“Figured as much— I’m a detective in training. :) Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know if I should. I don’t really know anything about you.”
“What? I thought you saw my website.”
“Are poets compassionate people?”
“Ezra Pound was an asshole. And Byron was a womanizer. Sylvia Plath was crazy; Anne Sexton molested her kid… but me? I am a Baroness. Eddie’s a difficult man. I like him a lot.”
“It’s not so easy for me.”
“You’re just lucky you have a dad. I’m not sure if I do or not.” Whoa, she thought. Where’s this thing going?
But he didn’t pick up on it. “Why’d you write to me? Is my dad really okay?”
“Actually, he’s home with a headache. Which, I guess, is why I wrote to you. Bored.”
“Thanks a lot!”
She could see it was starting to deteriorate into one of those insufferably boring email exchanges, and so she made a quick exit. “Oops, phone. Nice talking to you.”
“We didn’t really talk,” he answered, leaving her feeling oddly betrayed. Did he mean they hadn’t exchanged meaningful thoughts, or simply that email wasn’t talk?
She worked on the “locates” and employment checks Eileen placed in her in-box. Eventually, the day crawled by.
Eddie didn’t have a real reason to get mad at her for temping at Baronial Records, but he might anyway. She half hoped he wouldn’t be back the next day. The less he knew, the better. Still, no way around it. She scribbled him a note saying she’d be out all morning, thinking she’d call in at noon.
Instead of going home, almost without making a decision to do it, she went to visit her aunt Carrie.
Aunt Carrie lived across the river in a little brick house— a very little house— with window bars protecting a lifetime of souvenirs and mementoes. Aunt Carrie was poor, but that certainly didn’t keep her from shopping. She had little of value in her house, but she made that up in volume. The place was chockablock, a jumble of junk that necessarily collected dust and grease. Talba didn’t know how she could stand it.
Like her sister Clara, Carrie had no husband, but she had had one once. Uncle Frank— a man, unlike her father, whom she could vaguely remember. She had only one cousin, La Jeanne, a girl Talba’s age who’d had a baby in high school, but married later and had another baby. Talba was happy for her. Miz Clara had nothing but contempt— she wasn’t president and she wasn’t a doctor. If you don’t watch out, ya gonna end up like ya cousin La Jeanne. Talba’d heard it a hundred times.
She rang the doorbell, knowing Aunt Carrie was there. She was home all the time when she wasn’t shopping. She was on disability on account of asthma and some other things— Talba didn’t really listen when she started talking about it.
She came to the door with a kid clinging to her— La Jeanne’s younger boy, who was three. Carrie babysat him for a few extra bucks. She had other things she did too. Sh
e sewed a little, she gambled some, with mixed results. She kept thinking she’d win the Lotto.
She was wiping her hands on an old frayed apron, like some stereotype of a nice aunt. “What’s wrong with Clara? Oh, Lord, what is it?” Dread sat like a spider on her round face.
“Nothing. She’s fine. Why?” But Talba knew why. Belatedly, she realized she’d never showed up at her aunt’s door unannounced, certainly not at this time of day.
“What you doing here, child?” She made no effort to move aside, to let her niece in.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I need to talk to you.”
“Come on in, then.” Reluctantly, she opened the door and Talba entered. It was obvious Aunt Carrie felt the visit boded poorly.
Talba didn’t know how to put her at ease, realized she didn’t know her aunt well anymore; since she was nine or ten she had seen her mostly as an extension of her mother. In truth, once La Jeanne and Talba were out of the toddler stage, the sisters hadn’t had much use for their offspring when they were together, preferring to chatter like squirrels with each other. What they talked about Talba hadn’t really noticed, except that one time when she was sure it was about her father.
“Hey, Marcellus,” Talba said, thinking it polite to talk to the kid. “How ya doing, boy?”
Marcellus took off as if chased by bears. She laughed. “Looks like he likes his grandma all to himself.”
“You want a glass of tea, girl?”
“Sure.” She followed her aunt into the kitchen, hoping they could sit at the small table there. For Talba’s money, the kitchen was the least oppressive room in the house. In addition to being full of junk— and dusty, greasy junk at that— Aunt Carrie’s house was dark, the curtains always drawn in an effort to keep the place as cool as possible, save money on air-conditioning.
But the kitchen wasn’t bad. It was cluttered, two or three meals worth of dishes always piled on the counters, jars of strawberry preserves and peanut butter open with knives left in them; but at least dishes, by their nature, had to be washed now and then. Talba couldn’t understand how her mother, who ran such a tight ship, and her Aunt Carrie could possibly have come from the same family. They could both cook, though; she’d say that. You couldn’t tell one of them’s gumbo from the other’s; either could win prizes. Aunt Carrie had a pot of it on the stove now. She nodded at it. “La Jeanne coming for supper.”
