by Julie Smith
And, yes! The BMW was in the parking lot, conspicuous among the pickups.
Inside, the joint was a little too jumping for Eddie’s taste. A live band made it almost impossible to hear. He wished he had Miz Wallis’s young ears—though she probably wouldn’t be caught dead in a honky dive like this one.
As he suspected, Trey wasn’t dancing. He was just sitting at the bar talking to some guy—not even some woman. Eddie stood behind him, ordered a beer, and insinuated himself into the conversation, which was a piece of cake. Like a couple of walking cliches, the guys were talking about the Saints’ prospects for the upcoming season. It would take awhile, but Eddie intended to hijack the conversation—the trick was to talk about something the other guy couldn’t. And from the dim-bulb looks of him, that would be almost anything.
When he could get a word in, he said, “Where you boys from?”
“Right here,” the stranger said.
The kid said nothing. Eddie said, “Me too. I’m thinking to move to New Orleans, though.”
That brought his prey to life. “I envy you, brother; I really do. Sometimes I wish I could just get out of this place.”
“I hear you.”
The stranger said, “You ever been to a place called Michaul’s? They got Cajun dancing there.”
“No, I’m more of a jazz man myself.” Just hoping the kid was a jazz fan.
Trey said, “My sister used to talk about a place called the Tin Roof.”
His sister. It was a beautiful opening, but too soon to pick up on it.
Eddie said, “I know the Tin Roof. Jack Maheu’s place.”
“I don’t know, I never got there.”
“How come? It’s sure not very far.”
The kid got a faraway look. “In some ways, it might as well be on another planet.”
The stranger said, “Hey, what’s your problem, man? New Orleans ain’t but a few miles down the road.”
Eddie ignored him. “I know what ya mean, son. I know what ya mean. Philosophically speaking, it’s kinda like the Emerald City.”
The stranger said, “Huh?”
The kid said, “Exactly!”
“Ya ever feel like just gettin’ in ya car and drivin’? Going out for a pack of cigarettes and not comin’ back?”
“What do you mean? That’s what I just did.”
Eddie said, “Put ’er there, bro. That’s how I got to this town. This very moment? I’m a missing person in Jersey.” To the kid, he knew it would sound like this: “Dis very moment? I’m a missing poison in Joisey.” He didn’t even have to lay it on. That was just his native Ninth Ward accent. The stranger said, “Get out of here!”
Eddie said, “Ten years ago. Couldn’t handle it, had to go. Outta there. Never looked back. Know what I mean?”
“Let me buy you a drink, brother. I been needin’ to talk about the Emerald City.” The kid pointedly excluded the other man, who now scanned the room and headed finally toward a forty-ish brunette with too-black hair. “You really do what you said you did?”
Eddie nodded. “Picked Louisiana ’cause I liked the music. You really do it too?”
He looked surprised. “Do what?”
“Thought you said you went out for cigarettes yourself.”
Trey’s face twisted into a bitter grin. “Naaah. Just had a fight with the wife. I don’t guess I’ll ever really have the guts.”
“Ya still got ya wife, what could be so bad?”
The kid looked uncomfortable, like he had a rock in his shoe. “Hey, bartender. What’s the hold up? Goddammit, I need that drink.” He turned back to Eddie. “I’ve blown just about everything there is to blow and the whole town knows about it. And that’s just for openers.”
The drinks came. He drained off about half of his. Eddie sighed with satisfaction. He said, “So what’s the down side?”
Trey put an arm around him and laughed. “I like you, my man. I don’t meet many people like you.”
“Hey, trust me, you wouldn’t want to—name’s Eddie, by the way.”
The kid stuck out his hand. “Trey.”
“Trey?” Eddie was deliberately needling him.
“Oh, hell, why not just call me Little King. Everybody else does. Behind my back.”
Eddie lifted his glass. “You got it, Little K. Here’s to ya.” He drank and then said, “You a boxer or something?”
Trey laughed, and the sound was a sharp crack that disturbed the landscape, like a twig breaking. “Or somethin’,” he said. “You got that right, Eddie. I’m somethin’, all right.”
“No, seriously. What’s with the Little King routine?”
Trey turned toward the bar and stared into the depths of his glass. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. Except my dad’s the king, see?”
“You’re losin’ me there, son.”
“Yeah, you know, he is.” Trey had now lit a cigarette and was starting to gesture with it like a teacher using a ruler—something Eddie had noticed people do when they’re getting good and drunk. “I never thought of it like that before. It’s like my dad’s king of the whole damn town, and ya know what that makes me? Little King. Hell of a note, huh? How would ya like to be ‘Little King.’ ”
“We gotta upgrade ya, son—could ya handle ‘Crown Prince’?”
That caught the kid in mid-swallow, and he thought it was so funny he almost spit on the bar—did, a little bit. “Funny! Hey, Eddie, you’re a funny one, man. Crown Prince! Oh, yeah!” His voice turned bitter again. “Prince of nothing, man. Prince of nothing.”
“Hey, it can’t be that bad.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I don’t know the eighth of it.”
The kid turned toward the bar, laughing uncontrollably, in the manner of drunks, and Eddie hyena-ed right along with him. “Well, lemme tell you about eight things. My dad’s king of the place, right? And me, I drink too much, cheat on my wife—who hates me, by the way.” He stopped and nodded, as if Eddie had tried to contradict him. “Yeah, she does. She really hates me. And I pretty much hate her too—ain’t that a hell of a note?”
Eddie sipped his beer and squeezed out a niggardly half smile. “Hell of a note.”
“And I hate practicing law too. Long as we’re having true confessions. Therefore I don’t do it to the best of my ability. In other words, I’m lousy at it.”
“Man, I never saw anybody needed to go get a pack of cigarettes so bad.”
“Huh? Wha?” And then he got the reference. He stuck an elbow in Eddie’s ribcage. “Hey, you’re all right, man.”
“I mean it. That’s some bad shit. Excuse my French.”
“Well, it still ain’t the half of it.” He leaned confidentially close and whispered in Eddie’s ear, his breath warm and fume-laden. “My sister was murdered last week.”
Eddie turned a shocked face to him. “Did you say what I think you did? Ya sister was—”
Trey held a finger to his lips. “Shhhh. Quiet, man. We’re not supposed to talk about it. They all say she committed suicide.”
“But you think she was murdered.”
“Hell, I know it.”
“Hey, man, you’re giving me goosebumps. Next, ya gonna tell me ya know who did it And let me tell ya something, if you do, don’t even stop for those cigarettes. Just get in ya car and start drivin’.”
Trey pulled himself back and looked into Eddie’s eyes, searching for truth. “What you talking about?”
Eddie shrugged. “Whole thing sounds dangerous, that’s all.”
“What you mean?’
“Well, ya did say she’s dead, right? And now you’re tellin’ me there’s some kind of cover-up?” He shook his head like there was no hope in the world and he knew it. “It don’t sound good, man. What the hell happened, anyhow?”
“I don’t know. I swear to God I just don’t know.”
“Thought you said—”
Trey put up a placating hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know what I said. Well, let me t
ell you somethin’. Anybody in this whole goddamn town could have killed her.”
Eddie took a long pull on his beer, feigning disinterest.
“I’m not kidding, man. You know how many people wanted to kill her? My dad; my mom. Old Sheriff Ransdell. Just about everybody their age. I’m tellin’ you, Eddie…” He hiccupped, and Eddie was terrified he was going to stop there, maybe just pass out cold. “I’m tellin’ you… it’s like a goddamn conspiracy.”
“Come on, son. Why would they want to kill their own daughter? Don’t make sense, what you’re sayin’.”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. She knew too much, that’s why.” He polished off his own drink in one huge gulp. “Whole damn town’s in on it. With their goddamn high and mighty goddamn Baptist goddamn…”
Eddie’s heart was beating fast, and he was perspiring. He felt like a poker player holding four aces and going light—desperate to hold out just a little longer, keep them all convinced of his harmlessness just long enough to…
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Eddie Valentino, from N’Awlins.”
It was a voice he knew. “Sheriff Brashear, as I live and breathe.” He turned around to face him. “Hey, Junior.”
“What you doing, talkin’ to this ol’ boy here?”
“Ya mean my friend, Trey? Well, we were just—”
Eddie had his back to Trey at this point, didn’t have any idea how he was taking all this, but Junior Brashear interrupted him. “Hey, Trey. This guy mention he’s a private eye out of Noo Orleens?” Junior paused, reading Trey’s face. “Didn’t think so.”
“Goddamn it to hell.” So that’s how he was taking it. Eddie felt the back of his head and neck go wet, as the kid’s drink hit it. An ice cube slid down his collar. Trey passed him on his way out.
“Junior, you better stop him. He’s too drunk to drive.” Junior swiveled his head, confused, and Eddie reached into his pocket.
He caught up with Trey and pressed his card into his hand. “Call me when you sober up.”
Sure, the kid hated him now; tomorrow he might not even remember him. But Eddie’d found out one thing—he had a rudimentary conscience.
Chapter Twenty
Talba had a friend in the police department, and it was a high-up friend—Homicide Detective Skip Langdon. Actually, due to the departmental policy of decentralization, the homicide division had been dissolved and Langdon now worked out of the Third District. But she was still a homicide detective. And she carried a lot of weight. Talba phoned her first thing Monday morning.
“Hey, Skip, it’s Talba.”
“Baroness! How’s the PI business?”
“Be great if Eddie weren’t such a grouch. How’s the police business?”
“Be great if people weren’t so rotten to each other. What can I do for you?” She sounded distracted.
“You know a policeman named Calvin Richard?”
“Calvin Richard… hmmm. Calvin Richard… Is he a short white guy with—”
Talba interrupted. “Different Calvin. This one’s black. And a sergeant.”
“Well, I can figure out where he’s detailed if you like.”
“Actually, I was hoping you’d call him for me. I think he might have been warned about me and—”
“Warned! What did you do?”
“Asked a bunch of questions that were none of my business.”
The detective laughed. “I’m all ears.” The distracted air had disappeared.
“Well, there’s this murder case I’m working—only y’all are calling it suicide.”
“Oho.” Langdon was one of the best investigators in the department. “You must mean Clayton Patterson.”
“Now, how’d you know that?”
“I’ve had my doubts about that one myself. I even asked to see the autopsy report.”
“And?”
“Let’s say I still have my doubts.”
“Any chance the case’ll be reopened?”
“Negative. None.”
“Skip, Clayton was a friend of mine. I can’t tell you who my client is, but I’ve got a personal stake in this thing. You think you could get Calvin Richard to call me? Honest to God, I need a little help here.”
“You’ve got my curiosity up.”
Talba could see Langdon was angling for a quid pro quo. “All right, look. Clayton was the victim of a crime when she was sixteen; and Richard knew her in high school.”
The cop waited. When it was plain that was all Talba had to say, she said, “So?”
Talba said, “Sounds pretty far afield, doesn’t it? I think it could be related to this case. He probably won’t call me unless you ask him to.”
“Talba. I get the feeling there’s a lot more to this.”
“I thought you were going to scoff at it.”
Langdon was silent, but Talba thought she heard something—maybe the hum of little wheels turning. The cop was trying to figure out how to get some more information. Finally, she just came out and said it: “Hey, look. If you get anything interesting, give me a call, okay? I’ll see what I can do about getting it reopened.”
“Now that’s an offer. I sure will, Skip. Be glad to.”
“I’ll have him call you.”
Talba hung up, wondering about something. Whatever was going on here, whatever was being covered up, might not just end at the Clayton town limit. Something about Skip’s unaccustomed interest suggested pressure had been applied in New Orleans.
The problem with going through Langdon was that Talba had to wait for Richard, and she hated waiting. Nonetheless, it wasn’t as if she had nothing to do—like half a dozen employee checks and a couple of fiancé frisks—her name for prenuptial investigations. These tended to make her wince—if people didn’t know each other well enough not to need them, they shouldn’t be getting engaged in the first place.
Also, Eddie wanted to see her. She was about to go in and see what he wanted when Eileen Fisher rang. “Jason Wheelock to see you.”
Damn! The client. He slunk in with an uneasy look Talba didn’t like at all. He’s going to pull the plug, she thought. “Hey, Jason—things are really hopping. Did you get my interim client report?” It was her second one, actually. “Interesting, hmm?”
“Yeah. More than interesting. Looks like Donny didn’t do it. So how close are you getting to finding out who did?”
She was afraid he’d ask that. When in doubt lie; that was Eddie’s motto. She wasn’t sure it applied to dealings with clients, but nonetheless, she said, “Really, really close. Should take another week; maybe less. That transcript ought to make a big difference.”
“God, Talba, speaking of that, I’m running out of money.”
Damn! What about the rich parents? The trust fund or whatever it was? The easy way he’d authorized the transcript?
“Jason, I’m going to solve it. I swear I am.” She crossed her fingers.
“I don’t know, Talba. I’m really having second thoughts. I wonder if I’m playing with myself here. Maybe we should just wait till the transcript comes and then reassess.”
She just stared, wondering where all this was coming from.
“I mean, I can’t help her now. I started thinking: I’m not doing this for her; it’s for me.”
Talba spoke from the heart: “Jason, something really bad happened to Clayton—twice. At least two other people are dead—”
“What two other people?”
“Donny Troxell and his father. And the police aren’t investigating any of the three cases. Something’s going on here, Jason. Something pretty big.”
Silence; silence eloquent as Shakespeare. “I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”
She was starting to panic. “Jason, listen…”
“Talba, I just can’t justify any more money until we know what’s in the transcript.”
Something like grief came over her. She couldn’t part with this case—not in the middle, like this. “I’m sorry,”
he said, “I know you say you’re close, but neither of us really has any idea where this is going. Maybe it’ll end next week, or maybe the week after… I can’t just go on spending money like this.”
She sat there for awhile, trying to absorb it. Finally, she said, “Let me go talk to Eddie.” He looked at his watch. “Honest I’ll just be a minute.” Eddie could sell snow to Eskimos—she wanted to get him in there and get his tongue going.
This morning the duffels under his eyes were brown with a slightly greenish tinge—the color varied according to atmospheric conditions. Or maybe Eddie’s body chemistry. It was enough to make you believe in the medieval theory of humors.
Green must be a good sign, she thought. He was smiling, looking as close to happy as he ever got. She hated to ruin his day.
“Ms. Wallis, good morning. Sit down. Sit down.” He was downright expansive. She was suspicious.
“How come you’re in such a good mood?”
“Took a little drive up to Clayton Saturday night.”
“And you didn’t get arrested? Maybe we should drink a toast.”
“Had a pretty interesting time, Ms. Wallis. Pretty damned interesting.”
“Eddie, listen…”
“Had a man-to-man with Little King.”
She gave it up for the moment, figuring she might as well hear him out. “Trey.”
“A very drunk Trey. Thinks his sister was murdered. Says there’s a cover-up and a conspiracy.”
“All right! Now we’re getting somewhere.” She was so excited she put up her hand to high-five him, but he made a face at her.
“Get back, Ms. Wallis. You know I hate that black stuff.”
“Oh, loosen up, Eddie. Come on—gimme five.” Reluctantly, he slapped her hand. “See? It’s kind of fun, huh?”
“Infantile,” he said, but the corner of his mouth was twisted, like he was trying to hide a smile.
