Louisiana Hotshot

by Julie Smith

  “Darryl. Darryl.” The Baron spoke urgently, as if Darryl might get away from him. He seemed more wound up than he ought to be, even though he’d just performed. She knew perfectly well what that did to you. “You’re gonna hear about these boys soon. Kassim and Raynell, AKA Pepper Spray. They just cut an album on our label— look out for it.”

  Darryl said he was pleased to meet them and Thomas as well, and he was about to get a word in edgewise when a half-drunk dude came and leaned on the Baron and tried to give him a joint, which seemed to embarrass him. “Hey, Nito, come on. Come on, this ain’t no place for that shit. Come on, meet Darryl Boucree. Darryl, my buddy, Benito— Nito, you know who Darryl Boucree is?” Benito didn’t seem interested. “And who,” said the Baron, “is this lovely lady with the beautiful hat?”

  He extended a hand to Talba, and seeing his chance, Darryl said, “This…” He paused as if waiting for a drumroll, “is the Baroness de Pontalba.”

  At which the Baron looked utterly nonplussed, like he knew he ought to know her, but couldn’t quite place her. “You’re a rapper, too,” he finally said, as if he’d managed to put his finger on it.

  Talba smiled, and it wasn’t entirely phony. She sort of liked the guy. “A humble poet,” she said. “But I am a Baroness.”

  “Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” he said. “Because I am a baron.” He said it the way she did when she performed, emphasis on the “I”.

  “Hey, I know you. I know ya.” It was the brother.

  Oh. shit, she thought. He must have seen me at Baronial Records.

  “I know this chick’s into that shit. She got a book with one of your poems in it. I’ve seen it, man— remembered the Baroness thing. Hey, you really are a poet— how ‘bout that? Hey, Tujague, she the real thing.”

  “I can see she’s the real thing.” The Baron spoke with an edge of smarminess, the kind of automatic seductive note guys on the street affected without even thinking about it. “Ummm, hmmm.”

  No doubt he meant to be flattering, but this was the kind of thing that turned her off about the whole rap ethos. “Hey, maybe we could do somethin’ together sometime— you know, we both rhymesmiths— some kind of thing in the schools or somethin’. Get kids interested in poetry.” He turned back to his brother. “Like we been talkin’ about. Hey, whatcha think, Darryl?”

  Darryl smiled and settled into an easy slouch, as comfortable and natural as this man was overbearing and false. “You’re welcome at Fortier any time.”

  “How ‘bout that, Your Highness? You up for it?”

  “‘Your Highness’ isn’t necessary. ‘Your Grace’ is sufficient, thank you.” Talba gave a little curtsy.

  He looked at her kind of quizzically, as if he’d only just really noticed her. This time, when he spoke, his voice had none of the street smarm that had crept in before. “You got a real nice voice, you know that?”

  “Why thank you, Your Grace.”

  “No, I mean it. I’d like to work with you. You up for it?”

  “Sure. I’d love to.”

  “Okay, then, we got a deal. Darryl…” He held up a hand for Darryl to slap. “Good to see you, my man.” And he moved out among his admirers.

  “Real sincere dude,” Darryl said.

  “You mean my new best friend that I’m going to do a gig with?”

  “You mean my new best friend.”

  “Well, he did know you. He’s the one called you over.”

  “I guess I was wrong when I said he wouldn’t remember me from Fortier. But I guarantee you that’s the only place he knows me from. He wouldn’t know the Boucree Brothers from the Crips.”

  “What do you mean? You can’t know who comes to your gigs.”

  “Well, if he had, and he really was a fan, he would have introduced himself. Now wouldn’t he?”

  She thought it over, imagined a shy young wannabe and how he’d behave, but she couldn’t make the Baron fit the image. “I don’t know. He sure knew you.”

  Darryl shrugged. “The principal gave him an album when he came to the school. It was kind of embarrassing at the time, but she meant well.” He looked uncomfortable. “You want to get out of here?”

  As they walked over to Chartres, where they’d parked Darryl’s car, he said, “By the way, did you get what you went for?”

  “Are you kidding? An introduction to my idol, who offered to do a gig with me? We’re practically engaged.”

  Darryl was silent.

  “What?” she said finally. It was unlike him.

  “I don’t know. He seemed like he was on speed— never a good sign. But not only that… these rappers, I just don’t know— a lot of them really do seem to be gangsters. You check his rap sheet, Ms. Dick?”

  She shook her head. “Even I can’t get in the police computer. But you’re cute, you know that? To be so concerned.”

  “I’m not kidding. It spooks me.”

  “Hey, you called it a minute ago.”

  “I called what?”

  “When you called me Ms. Dick. Trouble is my business, know what I mean? Besides, he’s got semi-good manners, except when he thinks he’s being sexy. I think there’s a mama in the woodpile.”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Apt, I believe. If he’s from a good family, he wouldn’t want anyone to know it.”

  She thought about that. She hadn’t compiled a dossier on him, in fact had read only his own press about himself. She should do that first thing in the morning.

  Or maybe she should just call him up and say, “Hey, Baron, know anybody named Toes?” And he’d give her a name, and that would be the end of it.

  She needed to see him again. Well, hell— she checked his schedule, and to her surprise, he was doing something in the morning— first thing in the morning. And something weird, if you considered the lyrics of his songs, which were mostly about mayhem. He was on the program at a breakfast sponsored by the archdiocese. I wonder, she thought, if he’s running for office.

  But it occurred to her the answer was probably much simpler. The man was currying favor. Baronial Records was big, and it was probably going to get bigger. It was going to want more land and plenty of tax breaks, and who knew what else. The archdiocese was one of the most powerful political forces in the city.

  She didn’t see crashing the breakfast after meeting the Baron the night before— he’d probably have her arrested for stalking.

  Or wait. Maybe that wasn’t a bad idea. She could pretend to be a groupie— hang out, get to know some of the female hangers-on, and chat them up. She’d have Toes’s name within a week. Come to think of it, the man had practically invited it— that stuff about her voice and how he’d love to work with her. Sure. He’d just love it. He’d probably love a few other things as well, and that was the dicey part. How long could she hang out without having to put out?

  One thing, she thought ironically, she did have groupie credentials; she’d been with a musician the night before. For all the Baron knew, she went out with a different one every night of the week.

  The strategy was dangerous, but it might be the shortest distance between two points. Before she went to bed, she left a message on Eddie’s phone telling Eileen she’d be late, she had an errand to do.

  She woke up to a downpour.

  Chapter 11

  Miz Clara banged on her door. “Sandra, you gettin’ up? Who you think you is? Queen of the May?”

  That was what the title of the poem was about. When she was a little girl, her mother used to do that, and she’d think, If my daddy were here, he wouldn’t treat me like that. He’d treat me like I really was Queen of the May.

  She rolled over and laughed at herself. Queen of the May indeed! Where in hell had Miz Clara even gotten the phrase?

  She thought: What shall I wear to a prayer breakfast? Ah, I have it. How about a nice white shirt and a blue skirt?

  Uh-uh. Not if I’m playing a groupie. That calls for Baroness clothes.

  But
if Eddie comes to work, he’ll fire me.

  She ended up in flowing bronze with a change of clothes in her car. But as it turned out, she just could not make herself get out of her car and walk blocks in the pouring rain, ruining her Japanese silk kimono and her cute sandals that went with it. Absolutely couldn’t. Anyway, was a sodden groupie sexy?

  How about if I surveil him? she thought, and wondered if she’d just invented a word.

  The idea appealed to her. She parked half a block away from the Ramada Inn, where the breakfast was being held, and about fifteen minutes later the Baron walked out along with one of the men she’d met last night, and got in a warm, dry limousine.

  Right decision for once, she thought, and took off after the limo, trying to remember the name of the man with the Baron. Kassim, she thought. These people all ran together.

  The limo turned around and threaded its way back down St. Charles to the interstate. Evidently it was going to New Orleans East, where Baronial Records was. She followed on 1-10. The car took an East exit, all right, but it didn’t go to Baronial Records. Instead, it stopped at the Shoney’s near Home Depot.

  She did a double take. Shoney’s? All the money in the world, and these guys were having fast food. She figured they’d send the driver in for supplies, but instead, four men tumbled out of the limo and went in as if one of them wasn’t one of the hottest stars in the country. She parked in the lot, thinking the groupie routine wouldn’t fly in this all-male atmosphere. These dudes were definitely not going to be in the mood for chicks.

  The rain had let up, and she could actually see pretty well through the window. The four guys met two others, and they all sat down to have breakfast. Real breakfast, unaccompanied by prayers.

  The record company was pretty close— maybe this was a hangout, someplace where the Baron knew he could go and be left alone.

  Surely you wouldn’t take a business acquaintance to Shoney’s. And she recognized three of the men— Kassim, Raynell, and the Baron’s brother, Thomas. These were probably the rapper’s best pals, and the brother fit the description Millie had given: he was pretty much a toad and had a name starting with an “T”.

  She decided to take a chance— if it paid off, she was the hottest shot in Louisiana. If it didn’t, she didn’t think she’d lost anything.

  She got out her camera and her cell phone, got the number from information, crossed her fingers, and dialed Shoney’s. Someone answered on the fifteenth ring.

  She said, “This is Cassie from Baronial Records. Is Toes in there with the Baron? I’ve got a little emergency here.”

  The employee who answered put the phone down on the counter and went over to the table. She could see just fine, but she couldn’t hear. What did the woman say? Did she say “Is one of you Toes?” or did she say, “Emergency at the office”?

  Oh, who cares? she thought, I’ll just photograph them all when they come out.

  But her heart speeded up when the Baron’s brother got up to take the call.

  Could it be this easy? She moved her car, so she’d be in a better position to photograph them when they came out, but even so, she only managed to get two, the brother and one of the ones she didn’t know.

  She dropped the film off at a one-hour-processing joint and hurried back to the office. Too late, she remembered she’d forgotten to change clothes. If Eddie was there, it was going to be embarrassing.

  Eileen Fisher’s bland features showed something, but Talba wasn’t sure what. Excitement, maybe.

  “Is he here?”

  Fisher nodded. “He wants to see ya.”

  Glancing into his office, Talba couldn’t bring herself to enter. Eddie was like a dragon in there, breathing so much fire she was afraid of getting scorched from the doorway. What in hell had she done?

  Well, plenty, but what that he could know about? Where to start? She decided on, “Eddie, I’m sorry I’m late…”

  He said, “Where in the hell do you get off?”

  I’m fired, she thought. Damn. I was liking it, too. Crazy little job, but never boring.

  “Listen. Eddie. I think I’ve got the guy.”

  He stood up and shouted her name. Shouted it. “Talba, sit down.”

  She was quite honestly afraid to. She hovered at the door, not sure whether to flee or what.

  “Goddammit, get in here.” He sat down and spoke a little more softly.

  Okay, he’d backed off a little. She took a tentative step into the room, but she wasn’t about to sit.

  “Sit down, goddammit.” The bags under his eyes were black. Nothing like her own skin, which was brown and smooth. These were darker, a mottled gray-black that she hadn’t associated with human skin. It crossed her mind that he was really very ill, that the headaches were either a cover story or a symptom of something much more dire than she’d imagined.

  She more or less slunk into a chair. “Are you all right?” she said, unable to focus on anything else.

  “Whaddaya mean am I all right? Do I look all right?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he said, “Or do I look like I’m about to kick your ass all the way to Canada?”

  She closed her mouth, thinking that this was no way at all she’d expect him to speak to a woman. Whatever she’d done, it was worse than she thought. Her mind leapt to the worst. Had she endangered Cassandra? It must be that. There must be some eventuality she hadn’t foreseen. Her skin was suddenly clammy. “Has something happened to Cassandra?”

  ***

  “Cassandra?” Eddie stared at her, absolutely blank. What the hell kind of monkey wrench was this? Who the fuck was Cassandra?

  The call had come half an hour before. He had simply picked up and the voice, a voice he didn’t recognize, had said, “Dad, it’s Anthony,” and there was a collision in his brain.

  It was the last goddam thing in the world he wanted to hear. And yet, all the turbulence, all the spiked, barbed, jagged, nasty, hateful projectiles flying around in his head had suddenly stopped their yammering and all was quiet in there, as if their motors had turned off and they were gliding now, gliding peacefully, simply sailing around between his ears in harmonious silence. He had listened to the silence for a while, not a thought in his head. Shock, he thought later. It must have been shock.

  “Dad, are you there?”

  And that’s when the collision came. The motors that had turned off flicked on at triple speed, so that everything flying around in there, everything in that momentarily peaceful cavity, everything ugly and barbed and jagged, crashed into everything else, and threatened to blast his skull open. It sounded like a thousand ringing phones, a dozen roaring beasts, a season of hurricane wind. “I can’t talk to you,” he said to his son, and it was literally true.

  “I got an email from someone who works for you. She said you were out sick. I thought I’d call and see how you are.”

  Eddie couldn’t stand the noise, couldn’t take the roaring and the ringing, the cacophony, the stroke it was giving him, the apoplexy. He was going to be dead in a minute. His heart was going to stop from the strain of this.

  “I can’t talk to you,” he said again, and his voice was raspy, something like the sound a bear might make after a winter of hibernation— aggressive but none too alert.

  He hung up the phone, and when it rang again, he let Eileen Fisher take it and when she came into his office bearing a pink message memo, he said, “Where the hell is Talba Wallis?”

  He had sat there staring at the wall until his assistant came in, letting the debris inside his skull grind itself into particles, letting it grind his soul along with it, letting it grind up what was left of his life, and when she appeared in the door of his office, dressed for Mardi Gras or something, he had to restrain himself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her till her teeth rattled.

  Cassandra.

  Cassandra was the fucking client, that’s who Cassandra was. What was wrong with this girl?

  “How the hell should I kno
w how Cassandra is? What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?” He didn’t even bother to excuse his French.

  To his utter frustration, she said, “What have I done?”

  He truly couldn’t believe it. “Idiot! Goddamn little idiot!”

  “Did they fine you the three thousand dollars?” She was almost whispering, she was so scared.

  “The what?” he said, and suddenly got it. She was a retard. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Fuck the fuckin’ three thousand dollars. Where in hell do you get off talking to my kid?”

  But there was no contrition on her face, only bewilderment. “Angie? I haven’t talked to Angie today.”

  “Anthony!” he bellowed.

  “Anthony? Oh, Tony. I didn’t talk to him, I emailed…”

  “For God’s sake. That chair is smarter than you.”

  And finally, she caught on. He could see the light dawn on her face. She talked fast, shaking her head. “Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.”

  “I got family problems, all right? Ya think that’s ya business? Who the fuck ya think ya are?”

  She shrugged in that helpless way people do when they’ve exhausted their reservoir of apology. “I never thought he’d call you. I thought we were just talking.”

  “What right did ya have?”

  “I didn’t have any right. I don’t know. I just…” She squirmed, trying to think up some excuse. “I just think he’s lucky to have a dad,” she blurted, and looked as if she could die of embarrassment. What an unspeakably stupid thing to say, he thought. She rambled on. “I mean, I don’t even know if I’ve got one.”

  “And so you thought you’d fix us up. My son and me.”

  “No, it wasn’t that.”

  “What are you saying, then?”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to him. I was being playful, I guess.”

  Without realizing he was doing it, Eddie rose up out of his chair and stood over her, his face close to hers. “Playful? You were playing with other people’s lives?”