Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  Well, well, well, she thought, perhaps we have common ground.

  As preparation for the interview, she popped by Calhoun’s headquarters and got herself a campaign button, figuring she was going vote for him, so why not?

  Calhoun was a decent enough guy, by all accounts, if a bit on the lackluster side. But the incumbent, Jack Haydel, was spectacular—in just about every unpleasant way you could mention. He was a sleazeball closely tied to gambling interests. In fact, he’d once been indicted for bribery, but he’d beaten the rap. Talba had no doubt he was guilty of that and much more. But Haydel had an even worse strike against him. A famous election a few years back had spawned a famous bumper strip: “Vote for the crook. It’s important.” In that one, the other candidate was a racist. Jack Haydel had the distinction of being both a crook and a racist.

  So, sure, she’d wear a Calhoun button—and proudly.

  The next morning she got up early to drive to Baton Rouge, her plan being to catch the senator on his way into the office. That way, if he couldn’t see her then, she’d have the rest of the day to get him to work her in. (Also she had a reading that night—she wanted to get home early.)

  She arrived in time to be there when the capitol building opened, made a beeline for Blue’s suite, and simply loitered until she saw him get off the elevator. Truth to tell, he hadn’t changed that much, hadn’t turned into the literal fat cat of her imagination. He still had a bounce to his walk and most of his hair. He had a familiar look, as if they’d met.

  She was wearing her blue business suit, so as not to look like a secretary, and she carried a briefcase, which contained a tape recorder she’d just turned on.

  “Senator, may I have a moment?”

  “Yes?” She thought his expression changed as she came into focus for him. “I’m sorry, I have an appointment.”

  “I have a… There’s no easy way to say this. I have a death message for you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A former client of yours has been murdered—his mother thought you’d like to know.”

  Blue drew back from her a bit, and instead of the shock he was supposed to register, she thought she saw fear. Wariness at the very least. He was practically checking the place for the nearest exit.

  She waited a moment for him to calm down. He could hardly refuse news like this. Finally, he said, “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you… Donny Troxell was killed in a street robbery a week ago.”

  “Donny!” He went white.

  “Senator, are you all right?”

  “Donny Troxell?” he said.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  “I didn’t even know he…” Blue stopped there, and Talba said, “Oh, yes, he’s been out of prison several years.”

  “Donny never… Damn, that’s a shame. Donny never had a chance.”

  Talba thought it about time to haul out her bona fides. “Senator, I’m an investigator looking into his death—”

  “You’re no cop!” He spoke with such vehemence it startled her.

  “No sir, I’m not. I’m employed by the family.” Never mind which family. She knew for a fact that Jason had family, and as long as he was part of it, she was employed by some family.

  “This kind of thing is best left to the police.”

  “There may be a little more to it than a simple mugging, Senator. Did you realize Clayton Patterson also died a few days ago?”

  “I did.” He bit off the words, mad now, though Talba wasn’t sure why. The blood had come back to his face, which was fast turning red. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I was hoping to ask you what you remember about Troxell’s case.”

  “Young woman, do you think I don’t know who you are? Just what the hell are you trying to pull here?”

  He could have spoken to her in Chinese and she wouldn’t have been more surprised. He knew her? What a ludicrous idea!

  She said, “I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

  But he said only, “I have nothing more to say to you,” went into his office, and slammed his door.

  What the hell was that? she thought, wondering how on earth she’d managed to blow it so fast, with so few words.

  It came to her on the drive home. He must have seen her before, at Clayton’s funeral. He was just another white face, while she was the all-too-obvious object of everyone’s scorn. It explained why he’d looked so familiar to her, but there was a lot it didn’t explain—like the way he turned white when she told him about Donny.

  Only one explanation, she thought. He sold Donny out.

  She wondered if she should try to get a transcript of the trial. But that would take a while and cost several hundred bucks. There were other people she could talk to—the judge, for instance. Also, everyone in the Patterson family.

  She could try, anyway.

  The day was shot by the time she got back to New Orleans. She didn’t even bother going back to the office—just checked for messages on her cell phone and headed for Baptist Hospital.

  Michelle was nursing the baby. It was the first time Talba’d actually seen her niece, and all she really saw now was the back of her head. But what a precious little back of the head!

  “Hey,” she said.

  Michelle raised her adoring glance. “Hey, Talba. Look what I’ve got.”

  To her extreme amazement, Talba felt herself start to choke up. “Not bad,” was all she said.

  “Did Corey tell you what we’re calling her?”

  “Uh-uh.” That had been the last thing on their minds the night before.

  “Sophia.” She pronounced it “Soe-fye-a.”

  “Sophia Pontalba.”

  “What?” Talba nearly jumped out of her skin. Surely they weren’t naming their baby for her—they didn’t even accept her name.

  Michelle shrugged. “Corey likes the name. I think it’s a little pretentious…”

  Of course you do, Talba thought.

  “…but he likes it.” Michelle squeezed out a smile. “And we thought of you, of course.”

  “Well, that’s really nice of you, Michelle. I don’t quite know what to say.”

  Her sister-in-law looked gaunt after her ordeal. She wore no makeup, and for the first time since she’d known her, Talba felt as if she might be talking to a real woman, not a mannequin.

  But that might be me, she thought. Not her.

  “I’m real mad about one thing, though—I liked being the only baroness in the family.”

  The baby quit nursing, rubbing her head against Michelle’s breast, as if to say, “Take me away, now.”

  Michelle turned her around and held her up to Talba, who said, “Hello, Baronessa,” and held out her arms.

  “Woooo. This is one sweet baby.” Suddenly it really penetrated that she had a niece, and she was holding her.

  And that she loved her.

  Just like that she’d fallen in love. She was absolutely nuts about the soft little bundle without a bit of personality, and she didn’t even question it.

  The rest of the visit passed in cooing over the baby and getting used to Michelle—to the idea that she was going to be around the rest of Talba’s life, probably, and Talba actually preferred it that way. It was a little disconcerting, but it beat the alternative.

  The baby shook something loose in her, something that might not be resolved for many years, maybe not for the rest of her life. She knew perfectly what it was—it was some kind of hormonal thing. It was something that came over women from time to time and never left some of them. She sighed, wondering where it would lead, and vowing to open up a little toward Raisa.

  And out of the blue, as she was driving home, something else struck her. I wonder, she thought, what my little sister’s like.

  How the hell did you find someone with a name like Winters?

  She went over what she’d done. Once sh
e had the name, she’d started out by calling information in New Orleans (in accordance with Eddie’s rule). Then she’d done the same in Memphis, to no avail. She could do a nationwide search for anyone named Mozelle Winters, and maybe she should. She could just call them all, one by one. Mozelle was an odd name—there probably weren’t that many. But then again, Mozelle might be married, or married again.

  She was in a kind of daze when she arrived home, completely focused on something that shouldn’t have concerned a woman who had a performance to do that night. Actually, she was just reading at a restaurant and bar down on Carrollton Avenue, something she did at least once a month. But she thought of all her readings as performances. It befitted a baroness.

  Without even taking off her jacket, she pulled out a phone book and looked up “Winters.” She couldn’t have said why; maybe just to verify that the words Mozelle and Winters didn’t appear together in print. There was an M. Winters, but she already knew that from calling information, had already called that number. But there was no Mozelle.

  However, she learned something from this simple act—something important. Common as it sounded, Winters was no competition for Johnson or Smith. There was only a column and a fourth of Winterses. Quickly, she counted them. About seventy-five.

  Doable. Very doable. She could simply call them all and ask for Mozelle. The idea excited her—turning up a relative was really the best thing that could happen when you were looking for a woman, since you could never depend on women to keep the same name. This, she’d long since learned, was one of the most frustrating things about detective work.

  She had worked her way from Alan through David before she realized she had to pull herself together—had to get a few minutes rest, forage something to eat, and find a fabulous outfit. Something orange, she thought. She had an orange T-shirt she could wear with a great African-print, sarong-type skirt she’d ordered from the Essence catalogue. What she really needed to go with that was a turban, but it was too late to make one. She started rummaging. Hmmm. A tie-dyed orange and yellow scarf. Very turban-like when properly tied. And a multi-strand brown bead necklace. That should do it. Her outfit figured out, it was time for a ten-minute nap. Ever since she discovered those little bean bags for your eyes, she’d become a great cat-napper. She lay down with the bag on her eyes, but it wasn’t thirty seconds before she was up and scribbling.

  Three Sisters

  What’s a sister, anyhow?

  Someone you raised with?

  Somebody black?

  Somebody African-American?

  (Thank you, Brother,

  I be BLACK if I want to.)

  Maybe she got chains on her wrist and

  She white as a Celt and

  She touch me.

  She touch my body like a mama touch a baby.

  And I feel the pressure of her hands

  And I feel the muscles of her hands

  And I feel the muscles of her love

  And I feel the muscles of her dread.

  And I feel her dread.

  And I feel her.

  And I feel her dead.

  She died my lifetime ago (though not hers)

  ’Cause we kill her, my mama and me.

  We got our reasons; oh, yes…

  We got ’em, child Corey.

  Anybody kill—

  they got reasons, don’t they, honey?

  Don’t they, sweet baby?

  Let me help you, precious.

  But don’t you say that “S” word.

  Don’t you do that now.

  You say that word, child—

  You utter those innocent syllables,

  Mama feel her pressure rise in her vessels

  Like a horse

  Rarin’ with that rider on it (You know the one.)

  Big brother drop his scalpel;

  World

  tilt on its axis.

  Me

  I got my private things to think.

  I got a sound like thunder and a river like blood;

  I got things that can make that child a orphan;

  And don’t you mention it, now.

  Uh-uh, no. Not ever.

  Not how

  They ate her alive, my sister;

  Not how they bit her and chewed her

  Not how they spat her and shat her.

  Not how her own kin

  Devoured her,

  (and not out of too much love, either.)

  And certainly not

  how they hunted her down.

  And not…

  How they did it again.

  In her death

  they did it again.

  And my sister was born yesterday.

  But my sisters are dead…

  All three.

  And I miss them.

  All three.

  And I love them.

  All three.

  (Or maybe I do)

  And I hate at least two

  And this poem is for Babalu.

  The poem was purely impulse; the reading had been planned for months, ten poets lined up to perform. Six of the ten read poems for Babalu.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Into the belly of the beast, she thought as her alarm went off. Maybe she would talk to that judge today. One thing was sure—she was going to talk to somebody in Clayton. In fact, everyone she could pin down, even for a minute.

  She made herself some oatmeal, thinking of her niece—her littlest “sister”—and of the poem and what it meant. She didn’t know half of what it meant, and she might not find out for years. That happened a lot. What she did know was that writing it had made her calm again. For the past few days—ever since Babalu’s funeral—she’d been in a strange state of heightened feeling, almost of desperation, and the poem had somehow snapped her back into harmony. She wondered if clarity came with that.

  Whether it was false security or not, she felt strong and competent as she drove to Clayton, able to meet these white people on their own turf and make them sorry for what they’d done. That was what she wanted more than anything. To clear her friend’s name among her own people. And yet why should she? she wondered. They were so unequivocally not worth it, she’d have laughed if anyone else had made the same confession.

  Here was what she thought: if Donny Troxell hadn’t attacked Clayton—and Clayton herself had told Donny’s father he hadn’t—then the people most likely to know anything (other than the defense lawyer) were the ones in the house at the time.

  But what a lovely time she was going to have with them! Already they just adored her.

  She put off talking to them by going to the library again, reading up on the Pattersons and their doings.

  She’d sure been right about that country club thing. Well, the paper didn’t actually say those words, but it had them going to parties and chairing events, even, in some cases, working for a living.

  She already knew King was a banker; it developed that Trey was a lawyer, and Deborah, Mrs. Patterson, actually dirtied her own hands with honest labor—or something approaching it. She was a decorator. There were even quite a few clips on Hunter, the little sister—not that she worked for a living, but she did have an interest. She was an actress in local productions, and a pretty girl too. She’d once been married, though she might not be now. Her wedding picture, taken only four years ago, showed a baby version of Clayton.

  The person who was most in the news was Deborah. She was not only on every board in town, she was a member of every multifaith organization as well. Which meant she was a church lady. And not the nice kind, Talba surmised, like Miz Lura. The scary kind, like Sister Eula.

  The person least in the news was Trey’s wife, who only appeared once, on her wedding day. Lonna, her name was. Talba kind of liked it. It wasn’t pretentious, like Hunter or Clayton.

  Or Pontalba.

  Whom to approach? she wondered. The no-doubt racist dad? The good ol’ boy son? Both of them had had their pictures in the paper with animals they shot
and fish they caught. Talba didn’t take this as a good sign.

  The impeccably groomed, model-of-rectitude professional-woman church-lady mom? The notion was a bit on the terrifying side.

  And the daughter-in-law hadn’t been there.

  That left pretty young Hunter. Because she was young and had an interest in the arts, Talba thought she might have some affinity with her. On the other hand, she was twenty-four, according to the local rag. That meant she’d have been only eight when her sister was assaulted.

  Still, Talba thought. Still. She might have heard people talk. And if she remembered that night, she’d remember it well.

  Talba had arrived with everyone’s address in hand, already gleaned from online sources. She drove to Hunter’s house but, for some reason, couldn’t bring herself to go in. The mellowness of the early morning hadn’t yet left her, and she had a need to absorb this young woman, to try to get some sense of her, before presenting herself.

  The house itself was modest. The husband, if he was still around, probably wasn’t much older than she was, just starting his career. There were curtains at the windows, but they seemed normal ones, not those balloon pouf things white ladies loved so much. The neighborhood was pleasant which, in Talba’s opinion, meant it had trees that had had time to grow a while.

  Talba sat for about fifteen minutes, not sure whether she should make this a kind of surveillance or just go knock on the door, when it opened and out popped Hunter herself, in white capris and a tank top, bundling her baby into a stroller.

  Well, that was a fine thing. Eddie had taught her how to follow a person in a car, but not the only person on foot in a white neighborhood. She’d have to wing it. She let mother and baby get a pretty good head start then started the car and slowly passed them, cruising on down the street. After a few blocks she turned and parked on a side street hoping Hunter kept walking in a straight line. When she passed, Talba did it again, but this time she spotted a small neighborhood park.

  Bet she’s going there, Talba thought and went there first, still remaining out of sight in her car. She’d gotten her first PI job because she had “the right demographics,” and even Eddie deemed her race a plus, but here in Clayton, black wasn’t a damn bit beautiful. That is, if you wanted to keep a low profile.