Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  Jason’s building was a rambling old Victorian that had been chopped up into apartments; he had the second floor front, and Babalu had said he usually kept the curtains closed so he could see his screen. Brown velvet curtains, she said; very masculine. Okay, fine. Apartment identified. Now the vehicle. Talba looked, with envy, for a dark blue Camry, and indeed there it was, its plate number nicely matching the one her trusty computer had just told her had been issued to a Jason Wheelock at this very address. All systems go. The bird was in the nest.

  The next issue was her own security. There was a reasonable amount of traffic, both vehicular and pedal, and there were plenty of black people in the general mix. She wasn’t going to stick out too much. She just wished her rental car weren’t white, which was all they had by the time she got there. She felt a little conspicuous in it.

  Yet she knew she probably wasn’t. Unless there was a neighborhood biddy who spent her days peering out the window, chances were good no one would notice her at all. The surveillance ought to be a piece of cake—anything would be, compared to the turn her afternoon was about to take. She hadn’t yet told Eddie about the accident.

  * * *

  Eddie felt himself shaking his head, which made him feel old. “Ms. Wallis, Ms. Wallis.” He wished he could come up with a better response, but his young associate had left him more or less speechless, and it wasn’t the first time. “Ya ran a stop sign?”

  She’d just told him that. He was trying to wrap his brain around it. “Well? Did ya hurt yaself?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “I, uh… I think I’ll be okay.” She was holding something back.

  He had a pair of reading glasses he liked to wear at times like this. He perched them on his nose and looked over them at her. “Spit it out, Ms. Wallis.”

  “Actually, my back was killing me, but I went to a body-worker to get the kinks out and now she’s our client. That’s who I—”

  “The babe with the tattoo?” He was annoyed. How had she turned an idiotic mistake into an opportunity for bragging? He changed the subject quickly. “Just how did ya happen to run a stop sign? Ya got carried away, didn’t ya?”

  Her hand closed into a fist. “I had him, Eddie. With a redhead about half his age.”

  He shook his head again. “Ya wasted three days’ surveillance running a stop sign? Ya know what I oughta do? Swear to God I oughta—”

  “Look, I can get him next week. He picked her up at her gym. She’s got yoga on Tuesdays—the client says that’s his golf day. What do you bet they have a standing date? All I have to do is show up at the gym right after her class and do an instant replay.”

  “Without the demolition derby, ya mean.”

  “I won’t even charge you for it—I mean, it was my fault I didn’t get it.”

  He considered. “Ya almost got yaself a deal, Ms. Wallis. I like the part about not chargin’ me. The only thing is, how’m I gonna explain to the client we need another week?”

  He thought he sounded pretty tough, but she had the brass to look him right in the eye: “Lie, Eddie. How else?”

  He’d taught her that. That and everything in the world she knew about lying. It was her worst subject, too. She was great on the computer, a lot better on electronic devices than a law-abiding citizen ought to be, perfectly good at interviewing, and a pretty fair little rainmaker. But she was a truly lousy liar. At least she had been when she first started working for him, and this was the most important element (even more important than the secret of the Tee-ball bat) in a PI’s bag of tricks. She was just starting to get the hang of it.

  And now she was flinging it back in his face. Damn Talba Wallis. She reminded him way too much of his daughter Angela—always getting the best of him.

  “You handle it, Ms. Wallis. It’s your mess, not mine.”

  “But, Eddie, how can I claim I’m in the hospital if I’m the one calling the client?”

  “You’re in the hospital?”

  “An Explorer hit me; I’m at death’s door.”

  “Oh, I wish. I just wish, Ms. Wallis.” He clenched his teeth. “All right, I’ll call Susie Q and tell her.” He looked at his watch. “But this time next week, I want the redhead wrapped up, and I want a full client report on this desk right here. Ya hear me?” He tapped his in box for emphasis. “Three p.m. Wednesday.”

  “Yessir.” She was looking smug. Damn. He should have done something tougher, but what? Fired her? No way in hell was he going back to computer-jockeying. The fact was, he needed Ms. Wallis. She was female, she was young, she was black—all of which he more or less disapproved of—and she was a pain in the butt. But for right now he needed her, dammit.

  He made his voice as gruff as he could. “Okay, what about Tattoo Tammy?”

  “Cheating boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend! Why doesn’t she just break up with him?” Something funny happened to Ms. Wallis’s face, something he’d never seen when she talked about a client, and they’d had plenty who had all her sympathy. She looked all fuzzy and mixed up, like a child whose mama’s in the hospital.

  “I don’t know. She’s clinging to him like a lifeline. I get the feeling she’s kind of stuck together with Band-Aids.”

  “And you don’t mind being the bearer of bad news?”

  All that sweet fuzzy-muzzy left her, all of a sudden she was the woman in the iron mask. “I just want to help her get the sumbitch out of her life.”

  “Ms. Wallis, Ms. Wallis.” He was shaking his head again. He hated it when she swore. Just hated it. “Ya mind keepin’ a civil tongue in ya head?”

  “She’s going away for the weekend—suggests we do the surveillance while she’s gone.”

  “Well, if the paramour’s married, that ain’t gonna work.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll start it tonight.”

  “Where’s the guy live?”

  “Lower Garden District.”

  “You’re not doing that alone. No way.”

  She gave him a cockeyed smile. “I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah, sure. When hell freezes over.” At least he could tease her.

  “Actually, I’m fine there. Nobody even notices me.”

  “I can’t even trust ya not to run a stop sign.”

  “You’ve got three other divorce cases. Who’s going to do the surveillance on George Richardson if you do this one? Not to mention Walter Carpenter and Gina Piccolo.”

  The hell of it was, she was right—he didn’t have the time. “Goddammit! Nobody in the whole town’s gettin’ along these days.”

  She smiled at him, knowing she’d won. “Except you and Audrey, I trust.”

  Why didn’t she stay the hell out of his personal business? He waved her away and didn’t give her or her tattooed buddy another thought until she phoned Friday night.

  The thing about these cheating cases, Talba had noticed, was that the wronged party usually had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Sure enough, just as Babalu had predicted, no sooner was she out of town than Jason closed his chocolate-brown curtains and walked down his front steps so obviously freshly showered and spiffed up for a date that Talba could almost smell his cologne.

  He got in his dark-blue Camry and drove to a restaurant on Magazine Street, where he met an extremely attractive woman who seemed a few years older than he, and the lovely couple had the good grace to sit right by the window. Talba got as good a picture as she could, but a flash wouldn’t have been cool in the circumstances.

  So far so good. So beautifully according to script she thought of quitting right then and there. But there could be lots of reasons for having dinner with a woman—maybe she was directing a play he was in; or maybe she was his aunt.

  She looked like she had money—nice haircut, good manicure, expensive casual clothes. Talba wished she’d gotten a look at her shoes and bag—these told the tale best. She was willing to bet they were expensive. This woman definitely didn’t seem a match for Jason, who, she had to admit, was quite a looker. But
a more or less unemployed actor. This woman was too rich, too straight, maybe too old. She probably wouldn’t even speak to a tattooed person.

  Eddie had a saying for domestic cases: The longer, the later, the stronger. So far as he was concerned, if the subject left the paramour’s house at one a.m., it was a lousy case. Three a.m. was a lot better. All night, of course, was pretty hard to refute. Talba had brought a Thermos of coffee with her.

  Maybe they’d hold hands at dinner. Or kiss in the parking lot. That would be good enough for Babalu—she didn’t need something to take to court.

  But, no, they didn’t. In fact, they maintained such a respectful distance Talba thought perhaps the thing was innocent. And after dinner they split up, Jason going to the parking lot the woman in a different direction.

  Oh, well. The night was young. Maybe he’d go to a bar and pick someone up. In fact he swung out of the lot and waited—until a white Lexus drew up alongside him. The driver was his dinner companion.

  Okay, here we go, Talba thought. We’re going to Sweet Thing’s house. That was what Eddie called all the female paramours: Sweet Thing. She hoped this one didn’t live in some white folks’ neighborhood where they’d shoot her on sight.

  Her hopes were dashed when Sweet Thing drove straight to Old Metairie, a swish suburb nearly as snotty as Uptown. But whatever the social prejudices of the residents, just about none of them were black. There was no way she was going to pull off a night in front of a suburban mini-mansion without someone calling the cops. This was the bad part of surveillance—you never knew where you were going to end up.

  She called Eddie on her cell phone. “Boss, I need your help. I’m in Old Metairie.”

  “Well, hell. Get out.”

  “The subject’s in some lady’s house. I can’t leave now—I’ve just about got him.”

  She heard him sigh. “Miz Wallis. I’ll get ya for this.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and gave him the address. Eddie sighed. “I’ll take a taxi and get out a block away or something. All we need is two cars on this, things aren’t bad enough.”

  Talba cordially hoped it wasn’t going to be a long night. Not only was Eddie getting on in years, but he had the worst bags under his eyes of any human she’d ever seen—great tumorous bulges paved over with purple gator-skin. You could make a fine pair of shoes out of them, now that she thought of it. But on Eddie’s face, they looked like something from the lost luggage department. She sure didn’t want to see them get any worse.

  He slipped silently into the car. “Why didn’t ya call ya boyfriend to join ya? Be half as cheap for the client.”

  It wouldn’t though. She wasn’t going to charge Babalu for her half of the double hours. “Two black people in Old Metairie? Only thing worse than one.”

  “Naah. You could always start making out if anyone came by—nobody’d bother ya.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time.” It was a typical Eddie remark—maybe serious, maybe a joke, but at any rate not her idea of a fun date.

  “You take the first shift. I’m rackin’ out.” He leaned back and started snoring almost immediately. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and regretted getting him out of his nice cozy house on a Friday night—but she knew he’d do it to her.

  She let him sleep. As long as no one came along, she didn’t need him.

  It was after one when Sweet Thing’s door opened. Out came Jason and, sure enough, the lady was right behind him, in a Japanese kimono. He turned to kiss her good-bye, but she stopped him, pointing with her chin toward the rented car, which, if it hadn’t been white, would have blended a lot better. Jason wrenched his body around, and Talba scrunched down. “Eddie. Wake up,” she hissed.

  “Wha…?” He woke as suddenly and thoroughly as if a shot had been fired and assessed the situation. Talba sneaked a glance. “Omigod. He’s coming over here.”

  The two of them must have had quite a bit to drink. Jason was swaggering toward them, puffed up like John Wayne. Eddie said, “Put your head in my lap.”

  “Do what?”

  “Just do it!” He pulled her down, and as she floundered, struggling for breath, she raised an outraged face in his direction. He had his head back against the seat, mouth open, eyes closed, and he was breathing heavily. Getting the hang of things, she started to move her head in a rocking rhythm.

  “Excuse me!” Jason said loudly, almost shouting, whereupon Eddie raised his head, faked a beautiful deer-in-the-headlights, and then there was silence, as Jason realized what he’d interrupted—or thought he had. Talba heard nothing for a moment, and then laughing, as Jason apparently told Sweet Thing the coast was clear—there were neither casing burglars nor spying PIs out there, just a couple of crazies getting off.

  “Can I come up?”

  “Miz Wallis, I wish you would. This is playin’ hell with my dignity.”

  She sat up, pouting. “It didn’t do much for mine, either.”

  “It was a beautiful thing, though. Faked him right out. And look over there now.” The other happy couple, secure in the knowledge that no one was watching, were openly necking.

  Chapter Three

  Monday morning bright and early Talba matched the Metairie address to a Dr. and Mrs. Peter St. Clair, wealthy patrons of the arts who frequently gave bundles to various small theater groups. Apparently, Dr. Pete traveled and Mrs. Pete (whose name was Valerie) did what she pleased.

  It wasn’t any fun writing the client report. But on the other hand, Babalu certainly knew what to expect; maybe she wouldn’t be too upset.

  “Trust me,” Eddie said. “She will.”

  Talba didn’t ask her to come to the office—just couldn’t put her friend through it. If Babalu was going to cry, she could do it in the peace of her own home.

  Babalu’s face was drawn, her cheeks too bright. Talba said, “Are you okay?”

  “I just…” Babalu seemed to be moving in little jerks. “I’m fine, really.”

  She seemed so birdlike, so unable to keep still, Talba wondered briefly if she could be on speed. But she quickly dismissed it—there was hardly a less likely candidate in the state of Louisiana.

  She declined her hostess’s offer of tea in favor of just getting it over with. “Babalu, I’m sorry. You were right about him.”

  Babalu’s head went slack against the back of the sofa, revealing a tiny scar at her scalp. “You deserve much better,” Talba continued. “This guy is…” She finally settled on a word that might make her client laugh. “…a slut.”

  It didn’t work. “We’re talking Jerk City here. Mondo dickhead.”

  Babalu wasn’t into female bonding. She seemed to want to be alone with her pain. But just to be sure, Talba kept still, waiting for a sign.

  Finally Babalu said, “Do you know who the woman is?”

  “Someone named Valerie St. Clair.”

  This produced a completely different reaction. “Oh, shit! Oh, fuck! How could she do that to me? Oh, my God, what a bitch!”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a client, damn her eyes! Big patron of the arts. I introduced them.” Big ironic sigh. “I thought she could help him.”

  “Mmm. That’s rough. I feel for you.” She would have, even if the client had been a stranger. But she knew Babalu. Knew how nurturing, how kind she was. How much she wanted to be loved. “Listen, let me make you some tea.” And so she stayed awhile, trying to heal the healer, and thanking the stars for her own boyfriend, the admirable Darryl Boucree.

  That night, thinking about Babalu’s pallor, her herky-jerky movements, her near hysteria, Talba was so disturbed she couldn’t watch TV with her mama, and, in the end, couldn’t even enjoy a recreational session of surfing the net. She wanted nothing so much as to call Darryl, to be reassured by the kindness and decency of her own man. Darryl was a high school teacher, musician, and sometime bartender, a guy who worked three jobs to help support his out-of-wedlock daughter. But he had a gig that night, and anyway, she
would see him the next.

  Images kept coming to her. In the end, the only thing to do was write a poem. But even at that, she wasn’t successful. The images were of birds in an oil spill, soaked and miserable, so much tinier than when their feathers were fluffed; doomed if they tried to remove the taint. They were too disturbing to work with.

  As if he knew—as if he’d guessed—Darryl arrived the next night with flowers. “I don’t deserve you,” she blurted.

  “You do. You are a baroness.”

  “True, so very true.” Baroness de Pontalba was the nom de plume she used, and when she said it, she always emphasized the pronoun—as in, “I am a baroness.” She had named herself after the pioneering nineteenth-century white woman who developed and built the famous Pontalba apartments at Jackson Square. Quite a figure in her day, she was hated by her father-in-law, who eventually pumped her full of lead. But the intrepid baroness survived and, with two fingers missing and two bullets in her chest, went on to earn a place in history, which was more than you could say for the father-in-law. To this day he’s remembered only as the man who shot the baroness.

  But none of that was the reason Talba chose the name. She picked it for two reasons—the first was that she wanted to steal something from a white person, or rather from white culture—in fact, very specifically, she wanted to steal a name. She had her reasons for this, and they had nothing at all to do with hating white people, which she didn’t at all, or else she wouldn’t have been able to abide Eddie Valentino.

  The second was that she wanted to be a baroness.

  “Does Your Grace plan to invite me in?”

  Actually, Talba hadn’t planned to. The fact was that, after a string of losers, Talba had finally brought home a boyfriend who delighted her mama so much Talba suspected her of wanting him for her own. Miz Clara would offer him supper and try to keep him around as long as she could. And Talba desperately wanted to go out. Now.

  Even now, Miz Clara was getting impatient to see him. Talba could hear real shoes clicking behind her instead of her mama’s accustomed scruffy blue slippers. “ ’Zat Darryl Boucree I hear?”