Louisiana Hotshot

by Julie Smith

  She was so mad there was no question in her mind she was going to make good on the promise or die in the attempt. She had half a mind to take Aucoin down too, mostly because he’d called her “sister.” She was no sister to pond scum, she didn’t care what color he was.

  The question was, how was she going to protect two girls at two different schools, single-handedly? She couldn’t, obviously. She needed help. Darryl was out of the question for many reasons, one being that he not only wouldn’t do it, he’d try and stop her as well. Another being that she was damned if she was going to run to her boyfriend every time the going got tough. A third being that she needed someone in the business, someone cued in to the case. Eileen Fisher was the only person she could think of, and she was an even more absurd idea than Darryl.

  Angela, though— now there was a thought. A little on the hysterical side, but game, very game.

  Suddenly the solution occurred to her. Not Angela. Tony. He was an Italian male whose dad had been shot— and who had plenty of guilt about said dad. She figured he’d already have hit the streets if he’d known where to look.

  She reached him at the hospital. “Tony, Talba. How’s your dad?”

  “Hanging in there.” He sighed. “He’s still in a coma. That’s the scary part. Goddam, this is frustrating.”

  “What is?” she asked innocently.

  “I just wish there were something I could do.”

  “Tony, I think I know who did this.”

  “Who did it? You mean it wasn’t an accident?”

  “I don’t think so; I really don’t. You want to get together and talk about it?”

  They got together over some truly terrible hospital coffee, and Talba told him everything. She started with Cassandra, then graduated to Toes-as-the-Baron’s brother, the death of Rhonda, the disappearance of Aziza, the disinterest of the cops, and ended, finally, with the hit-and-run attack on Eddie. He listened with a great deal more attention than she’d have thought an Italian male had in him, not once interrupting her, until that last, crucial chapter.

  “Wait a minute. Hold it. Why just Eddie? Why not you?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Good question. Maybe not yet me. But I’ve been watching. So far, no tails.”

  He shook his head and made a sound like someone with a mouthful of food. “Mmmmf. Not yet’s right. If there’s anything to your theory, you’re an endangered species, baby.”

  She didn’t mind that he called her “baby.” She liked it. She’d long since realized that in a city as affectionate as this one, feminist objections applied only if there was malice involved. She said, “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s those two girls.”

  He stood up, slapping his own face. “Oh, shit. This guy’s not a crime wave, he’s a tsunami. He’ll go for ‘em. Sure he’ll go for ‘em.”

  “Yeah.” She was letting it sink in.

  “Maybe we can hide them somewhere.”

  “I thought of that. Cassandra’s scared, I can tell you that. I could try to convince her. If it worked, maybe she could help us with Shaneel. The problem is, their parents.”

  “Why don’t we just whisk them away?”

  “And face kidnapping charges? Besides, where would we take them?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Yeah, you right. I used to say that all the time.”

  “I still say it.”

  “Well, what’s the alternative?”

  “Just be there. Keep an eye on them— be ready in case he tries anything.” She flung her arms wide, feeling helpless.

  He pulled at his lip, maybe to stimulate thought. She had an image of him as a child, a fifth-grader maybe, doing the same thing and getting scolded for it. On the adult, it looked cute as anything.

  She kept talking. “The only problem is, they go to different schools.”

  “Well? There are two of us.”

  It was what she was hoping he’d say, but she was suddenly overcome with doubt. “I don’t know, it could be dangerous. And you’re about to get married— and with the baby and all…” What had she been thinking? But it was too late now.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’m a man.”

  You sure are, she thought. That’s how they think.

  They went back and forth a time or two, and then they were both in it, both determined, both unstoppable. And when it got to that point, they were partners.

  Talba volunteered to take Shaneel because this way, once and for all, she could follow her home and at last confront the parents. Maybe talk them into sending Shaneel away for a while. It made sense for another reason— Tony could recognize Cassandra by the picture of her that had run in the paper when her mother disappeared; he’d never find Shaneel in the crush at Fortier.

  Talba gave him directions to Xavier Prep School and left, the better part of the day still ahead of her; school wasn’t out till after three. She decided to go to the office, just in case— there could be voicemail or email, or even snail mail that needed attending to.

  On the short drive over, she thought about what Tony had said about her being an endangered species, and what Skip had said about watching her back, and about the role she’d played in this case. If Toes wasn’t after her— and careful observation told her he wasn’t, at least so far— it could only be because he didn’t know about her. He certainly knew her as the Baroness; but if Cassandra hadn’t ratted her out, he’d have no reason to connect her with Eddie. Which still left a mystery— how the hell did he know about Eddie?

  Maybe Eddie’d called him. It was the sort of thing he’d do without telling her. Maybe it was something like that. And if so… well, then, she was free to approach Toes in her other persona. If she could think of a point to it.

  Was there one? She needed data.

  And if anyone knew how to get it, it was Talba Tabitha Sandra Wallis, AKA the Baroness.

  She was surprised to find Eileen in the office, trying to keep things together and keep the hysteria out of her voice. But despite a human presence, the place had a forlorn, ghostly feel. Talba shivered and turned on her computer, as if it could warm her. Whatever voice and snail mail there was, Eileen had already taken care of. Talba briefly perused the email and answered what couldn’t wait.

  Funny, there was one thing she hadn’t done. Depending on Cassandra to solve the Toes mystery with a photo I.D., she hadn’t bothered going online to research the Baron’s brother. She did it now— went to Yahoo and typed his name in: Thomas Toledano. To her amazement, he had his own website.

  Well, why not? He’d probably behave as his famous brother behaved— be much more savvy about self-promotion than most people— and a lot more arrogant about needing it.

  She clicked on the website and there he was, looking ugly as ever, sole proprietor of Big Easy Sound, whatever that was. Closer inspection revealed it to be a music promotion company, whose clients included Baron Tujague and various lesser rappers, all, Talba’d bet the ranch, Baronial artists. In other words, as far as she could see, Big Easy Sound— hence T. Toledano— was simply the promotion arm of Baronial. Probably, to give his brother a little dignity and something he could call his own, the Baron had spun it off as a separate company. For all she knew, it wasn’t even real— it stood to reason the Baron had actual professionals out there working for him. Maybe this was just a shell to make the brother feel good. Well, I’ll make him feel good, she thought. If only for a minute.

  A minute was all she needed, and a plan took shape in her head in another minute. The address on the website was in New Orleans East, probably on the Baronial campus, she figured. And she was almost right. It was about two blocks away, on its own little spit of property, though in truth it was a pretty primitive structure that might have been an abandoned garage. Several cars were parked on the premises. She checked them all out, even going so far as to record their plate numbers. If Toledano was Toes, at least one of them was probably his— she was betting on the Lincoln Navigator.

  She got out of the car and swept into the building,
hoping she was being observed. Despite her hurry to get here, she’d taken a quick detour home to get into Baroness mode. Royal purple was appropriate, she thought, and, fortunately, she had a lot of it— caftans, harem pants, flowing pants, even dresses. For this occasion, she dressed for freedom of movement, in a silk outfit she’d had made for her in the style of Indian pajamas— long, loose top over tight-fitting pants. She wore boots with it because she could run in them if she had to, and for warmth and dash, she threw over it a red-velvet cape. Finally, because it was intimidating, and also because it might jog his memory, she added the purple sequinned hat she’d worn the night she met him.

  This was a performance like any other. She intended to pass herself off as a representative of a distinguished organization— as well as royalty.

  Chapter 24

  The Toledano version of Eileen Fisher was quite a bit more glamorous, though not half so well dressed— she wore baggy bell-bottoms and a T-shirt meant for a smaller girl. Talba took a second look at her. She wasn’t half as old as Eileen, either. In fact, she looked a lot like Cassandra— same light skin, snaky little body, attitude to burn. She was chewing on a hunk of bubble gum as big as an egg.

  Somewhere not far away, a card game was in progress. The riffle of cardboard and dollars, the clink of change, the rat-a-tat fuck-fuck-fucks of young, black world-by-the-tails was so loud you couldn’t have heard the phone ring. Testosterone hung in the air like jasmine in spring.

  Bad time, Talba thought, and considered leaving. These dudes might be drinking, though, come to think of it, there was more in the air than hormones. Smoking made people mellow— at least she devoutly hoped it had in this case.

  The receptionist mouthed something, which might have been “May I help you?”, and Talba mouthed back that she was there to see Mr. Toledano, and then the receptionist put her hand behind her ear, engaging in what Talba could have told her was a losing game. She motioned for something to write on, and when the girl ducked to find it, saw Toledano himself, walking down the little hall behind the front counter, checking his zipper. Today, he was dressed in a deep red custom-made suit and walking like a pimp. Whether the walk itself was a pimp or whether the man thought he was fine, Talba couldn’t have guessed.

  He spoke before she could. “Well, hello, you fine thing. Be right with ya. Lemme just exterminate some vermin.” The phrase chilled her.

  He went into the room with the card players. “Listen up, y’all. We got royalty out here. Ya’ll get ya sorry asses out my office and do it now. Come on, yeah! Go ‘head and do it.” Like he owned the world.

  And in a moment, the men came out, baggy-jeaned and sullen, sneaking glances at the woman he had called royalty. When they had gone, he spoke to his young helper, “Mika, we got a Baroness here. Don’t she look fine.”

  Talba almost regretted the getup, but not really. She understood that it was what had moved him to action. This was a man who was into appearances, a man so unsure of himself the mere fact that she was in his office was an event.

  “I didn’t mean to break up your game,” she said.

  “Wasn’t no game of mine— motherfuckers come in every day, try takin’ over my office. Can’t get no business done, that racket goin’ on.”

  “I won’t take much of your time. I wonder if we could talk for a moment?” She’d decided, in view of his evident insecurity, to play it haughty. She remembered how he’d been the other night— overshadowed, seemingly overwhelmed by his brother; excited as a kid to report that he’d actually heard of her.

  “We can sure do that. You come right on in.” He led her into an office so littered with papers, CDs, cigarette butts, every kind of thing you could think of that she found it hard to believe he did any business here at all. He probably doesn’t, she thought. His brother probably just gave him this to keep him out of trouble.

  There was a round table in the room, piled high, with several chairs around it, and a desk with a chair for the owner and two facing it, for supplicants. He sat her in one of the supplicants’ chairs and assumed the owner’s position. Exactly what she’d expected.

  The desk had a nice lip on it, she noticed. Perfect for her purposes. How the hell to get him out of here so she could go to work? She could ask for coffee, but he’d probably just send the receptionist.

  “What I owe the honor to? Little bit unusual,” he said, “Baroness comes to call.”

  “I’ve got a proposition for you, Mr. T.” He opened his mouth, but she held up a forestalling hand. She wasn’t about to let him get going with that one. “Are you familiar with NOAAP?”

  “NOAAP?” She could see he hadn’t a clue; therefore, he was going to ridicule it. “What the fuck’s a NOAAP?”

  She chose that moment to start coughing. She screwed up her face and held her throat. “Allergic,” she managed to gasp. “Dust.” Hack, hack.

  He shouted, “Mika. Get your ass in here. We need some water. Now!”

  Talba was practically throwing a fit, bugging her eyes out, letting the tears roll down, twisting her whole body into scary spasms. “Mika!” He was out of there— -just couldn’t stand to look. She dipped a hand into her bosom and pulled out a tiny transmitter wrapped in a tissue. There was banging around outside. She took her time fixing the bug to the underside of the desk lip and then coughed some more into the tissue. Standing now, as if she could somehow calm her troubled body. On the desk she saw something that froze her— the burgundy binder Eddie used for client reports, with his name embossed on it.

  It was Aziza’s; had to be. Which left little doubt about what had happened to her.

  She understood that she could go to Skip Langdon with this, that this was evidence Sergeant Aucoin couldn’t brush off. She needed a picture of it, though, and footsteps were coming down the hall. She hacked a little harder.

  Toledano handed her a glass of water; Mika followed him into the room, carrying a pitcher. She drank long and convincingly, she hoped. “Thanks. It happens sometimes. If there’s— uh— dust.” She paused, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “Or mold, of course. Do you have allergies, Mr. Toledano?”

  The question was meant to throw him off-balance, and did. “Shit, no, I ain’t got no allergies,” he said, sounding half-furious, half-embarrassed. Perhaps he found it an affront to his masculinity.

  But maybe he had something else to be angry about. She was undoubtedly named in the client report. Would this ape connect the poet with the baby detective? Probably not, she thought, if he’d even read the thing— Mika’d probably given him an executive summary.

  “Say, what you think of Mika?” He was admiring the rear view of her as she returned to her post.

  Talba was so taken aback she almost started coughing for real. “She my girl,” he said proudly. “My oldest.”

  “Your daughter?” Now, there was a wrinkle. “She’s beautiful. Smart too, I bet.”

  He nodded. “Yep. We got her fillin’ out applications for college. She gon’ be the intellectual in the family.”

  That won’t take a lot, Talba thought, unless the mother has it quite a bit over this piece of garbage. God, she hoped the girl hadn’t seen the client report. “Well, anyway, about NOAAP,” she said, eager to stop thinking about this man as someone with a family, people who loved him, and just as eager to leave behind the recognition of Mika’s similarity to Cassandra.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Ya proposition.” He was almost smiling normally, hardly leering at all.

  “It stands for New Orleans Association of African-American Poets.”

  He nodded again, looking almost alert.

  “We had this idea. We’d like to put together a book of rap lyrics.”

  “And you’d like to use some of the Baron’s.”

  “We sure would. And some by those artists I met the other night— Pepper Spray, wasn’t that it?— and some by other indigenous groups. The idea’s to use only New Orleans artists…”

  She half expected him to ridicule the word “indig
enous,” since she figured he hadn’t a clue what it meant, but instead, he said, “Now what’d we want to do that for?”

  “You’re the Baron’s promotional manager, aren’t you?”

  “Ya got the right department. I’m just askin’, what’s in it for us?”

  “Money, you mean?” She perfected her posture, looking elegantly down her nose; she could do haughty pretty well. “I wasn’t under the impression the Baron really needed any.”

  “Get real, lady. Ain’ nobody work for nothin’.”

  “They certainly do, Mr. Toledano. It’s called pro bono.”

  “Pro boner?”

  She ignored his stupid shit-eating grin. “The collection will benefit children with birth defects caused by drugs—” She was making this up as she went along. “— I recall that the war against drugs is an important cause of the Baron’s.”

  “Lady, you got to be kiddin’.”

  “But…” She made herself the very picture of confusion. “Wasn’t that how we met? He wrote that song… we thought it could be the centerpiece of the collection… the title could come from it, perhaps…”

  “Shee-it!” He was laughing now. “The Baron don’t care ‘bout that shit. That was just P.R. Ya know what I mean? Just P.R.”

  She smiled, ever so knowingly. “And so would this be, Mr. Toledano. So would this. We thought you could get quite a lot of good press out of it— and so could we. It wouldn’t cost anybody anything— the songs have already been written. And the kids would get a little money, too. Which is really the important thing.”

  The light dawned on his slow features like the first rays of the day. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, tha’s the important thing. I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I thought ya was hustlin’ me when ya first come in wi’ that. But I see you really got somethin’ to say. Ya really got a idea there.”

  “I thought you’d think so.”

  “I’m gon’ run that by the Baron. I think it’s somethin’ he might like to do.”