Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  “That’s ridiculous, Talba. I want you to stay put.”

  “Hell, Skip, even Miz Clara doesn’t get to boss me any more.”

  Langdon’s gasp was the last thing she heard before she hung up. She was working on adrenaline and unable to stop. Adrenaline and anxiety. Damned if she was going to be passive when Eddie was in this kind of a fix—he wouldn’t if it were she.

  But she also knew her plan was better. It would save time, and it was simpler. The thing Langdon objected to was that Talba wasn’t a police officer, and the hell with that. Cop rules weren’t her rules.

  Catherine pulled up as Talba was checking out her tools and handed over the gun. Talba did two more things before starting her car again. She put her Tee-ball bat on the seat beside her, along with the gun; and she put Langdon on speed-dial. Then she took Loyola to I-10 and got on it, one eye on the computer on the seat beside her. Eddie’s car was almost at “the high rise,” the overpass above the Industrial Canal. Still heading east. She couldn’t shake the notion that they were taking him into all that swamp. They were going to kill him, there was no other reason for going there. She should have heard sirens. Why the hell didn’t she? Where were the cops?

  She looked in the mirror, impatient, and that was when she saw the Buick bearing down on her, not even making a show of hiding—the same white Le Sabre that tailed her before. How the hell had they picked her up?

  Maybe by accident. Maybe Stan was following his buddy and happened to run into Talba, also following his buddy. And now he was following her. Killing two birds, as it were, with one stone.

  Talba reached for the cell phone, but the other car started ramming her. She needed both hands to drive. The man had no respect for his own car, let alone hers.

  She assessed her situation. They had to know she’d called the police. Everybody had cell phones. But what they wouldn’t know was that she’d told them exactly where Stan was headed. Because they couldn’t know about the GPS.

  She really, really had to keep them from finding out. And, incidentally, it would be good to keep breathing.

  The car rammed her again. And again. It was getting damned bumpy. He was trying to force her onto the shoulder. Once she stopped, Stan could just shoot her and be on his way. She wished to hell she’d told Skip his name.

  Well, they didn’t know about the gun either. To her chagrin, she happened to know how to shoot a gun. Should she try to shoot out his tires or something?

  Negative. Surprise was all she had going for her, on any front whatsoever. She’d just pull over and when he came over to get her, blast him in the face with the gun.

  Except that she knew she wouldn’t.

  Not even to save her life could she do that. The better plan was to hit the ground running. She had now crossed the high-rise herself, and was somewhere near Jazzland. There was plenty of open land. She could draw fire, get him away from the GPS.

  It was foolhardy. She knew that. But she was a sitting duck in the car. She stuck the gun in her waistband, pulled over, grabbed her Tee-ball bat, opened the door, and started running, wondering if the guy was going to start shooting at her. Out here, she could shoot him. Just not in the face, at close range. Only out here, she’d probably miss.

  He squealed to a stop and a millisecond later was clomping toward her. It seemed to her there hadn’t even been time for him to open his door.

  Well, hell. She didn’t want to get too far off the road. Maybe here, a motorist would see them squaring off and call the cops. It would be an embarrassing place to commit murder, and the least she could do was embarrass him.

  Also, she would have the element of surprise once more if she went on the offensive. She’d read something once about self-defense against rape. Prison interviews with rapists had revealed certain very interesting things, the main one being that they didn’t pick blondes or prostitutes or cute chicks under thirty—they picked easy targets. For instance, they picked women with ponytails because they could grab them by the hair. They might pick a woman with her keys in her hand—keys meant nothing to them—but they’d avoid one with an umbrella she could use to keep them at bay.

  Listen, Talba thought, if an umbrella can stop a rapist, a Tee-ball bat can stop this bozo.

  She slowed to a crawl, pretending to be tired. When he was almost upon her, she turned, winding up the bat and shouting, “Hyaaaahhhhhh!” like some kid playing at kung fu.

  She saw his eyes before the bat connected. Startled. Not exactly a deer in the headlights—more like a dog when a cat arches its back. And the principle was exactly the same. She had to look a lot bigger and scarier than she was.

  The bat got him in the chest, and he was already raising his arm to take it away from her. Good, he was otherwise occupied, not watching her feet. She kicked him in the balls.

  Anyway, she aimed for the balls, and she almost hit the target dead on. If she had, she’d have disabled him. As it was, she did hit groin, but evidently not the most sensitive area. He stumbled but didn’t fall. The hand going for the bat faltered, and she momentarily withdrew her weapon, stepped back, then cracked it full in his face. Still, he didn’t fall. He grabbed again, catching the end of the bat, pulling it away from her. She let go, and this time he fell, the victim of his own momentum—sat down on his backside. Ha! Talk about your kung fu—his force working for her—yes! She felt so powerful she yelled again. “HEEEEEyaaaahhh!” If he hadn’t had so much blood in his eyes, he might have had that startled look again.

  She used the moment the yell bought her to whip the gun from her waistband and point it at him. “Don’t move.” She was breathing hard, and the adrenaline was starting to wear off. Her hands were shaking.

  He started to get up. She was wondering whether she could pull the trigger when she heard a crunching behind her. A male voice said, “Freeze, police!”

  Oh, God, was it the police? Turning around just wasn’t an option. She looked at Stan. He was just sitting there, staring past her, not getting up after all.

  She did what the man said and froze.

  “Put the gun down and turn around.”

  “I can’t put the gun down.”

  “Put the goddamn gun down or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  No arguing with that. She bent down and laid the gun gently between her feet, where she could kick it if Stan tried anything.

  “Both of you—put your hands up. You in the pigtails—turn around. Slowly. You on the ground. Stay there.”

  Talba turned slowly around, and a sob escaped her. She was looking at a sight more gorgeous than a tropical lagoon. Not one, but two white, redneck, fat-bellied, entirely dangerous-looking uniformed policemen were holding guns on her. That was beautiful, just beautiful. The problem was, she could only imagine the bureaucratic nightmare that lay between her and Eddie.

  Swallowing, she figured she might as well get the farce started. “I’m a PI,” she began.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you are.”

  “Yes sir, I know. I reported a kidnapping to Officer Skip Langdon at the Third District. Can you check with her, please?”

  The two guys glanced at each other, then at Stan.

  “By the way, I have every reason to believe that man is still armed.”

  One of them continued to hold a gun on her while the other one shook Stan down—finding a gun and a knife—and cuffed him.

  Was she next? Talba wondered. And indeed they frisked her, but gently. “Listen, my partner’s been kidnapped.”

  The thing about cops at work, they didn’t answer you; pretended they’d never heard a word you said. So she just kept talking.

  “Eddie Valentino—y’all know Eddie? This guy’s partner kidnapped him in his own car, but it has a GPS in it, and I have his location in my car.”

  According to police code (which she gathered from Officer Rouselle’s performance stricdy forbade minimal politeness to helpful citizens), they remained expressionless and silent, but she noticed one of them went over to h
er car and peeked in.

  She pressed her advantage. “They’re going to kill him. Could you call Detective Langdon, please? Use my phone—I’ve got her on speed-dial. She’ll verify what I told you.”

  Again, no answer.

  “At least radio Eddie’s location—see, it’s right there on that computer screen. Maybe there’s an officer…”

  One of them was talking on his own cell phone. And finally, he said, “Detective Langdon wants to talk to you.”

  “Sure, but your pal here’s still holding a gun on me.”

  The other cop holstered his weapon, and Talba couldn’t help herself. She gave him a flicker of a smug look, but only a flicker.

  “Skip, I’m sorry. Listen, I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Give me Eddie’s location.” Langdon was as poker-voiced and impersonal as either of the other two.

  Okay, she’d have to live with it.

  “Still on I-10, still heading east. Past Jazzland a couple of exits.” It had only been about seven minutes, but with minimal traffic, you could really move on the Interstate. Talba was panicked.

  “Talba, the officers told me what just happened. Do you have any idea how much danger you were in?”

  “Skip, I’ve got to go now.”

  She heard a big sigh on the other end. “Okay. Give me Officer Charvet.”

  Talba handed the phone to its owner, who talked a minute and got off with a frown. “Langdon’s sending backup to pick up the prisoner. That way one of us can stay with him and the other can go to the scene.”

  The other cop shrugged. “I’ll stay with him.”

  Charvet looked like he was about to pop, as eager to get there as she was. “Mind if I borrow your computer?” he asked, suddenly tame as a puppy.

  In a pig’s eye, she thought. She tried out a smile on him—might as well practice her people skills. “No problem. But you have to borrow me too.”

  “Huh?”

  “The computer stays with me. Give me a ride, why don’t you?” She figured that was about as likely as a sudden snow flurry, but what the hell—a police car was going to be a lot faster than hers.

  The two cops looked at each other, evidently trying to marshal arguments against it. The one who wasn’t Charvet shrugged again, unable to think of any. Finally, Charvet said, “Get in.”

  She ran for her computer, and in a moment they were speeding toward Eddie. “He’s almost at Michoud Boulevard. I sure hope you’ve got somebody close.”

  Charvet didn’t answer.

  Talba tried again. “Is anyone there yet? At the scene, I mean—with Eddie?”

  Charvet had evidently taken a vow of silence.

  Okay, fine. She didn’t need any new friends.

  The car on the screen was still moving. There were only two people in it—Eddie and his kidnapper. Surely, the guy wouldn’t shoot him in a moving car.

  She and Officer Charvet were slowing. Traffic was coming to a near stop. Then a full stop.

  They were stuck.

  Charvet got on the phone. She heard him say, “Traffic just stopped. What’s going on?”

  And then it started moving again, slowly at first.

  Charvet said, “What are you telling me?” And then, “Shit! Goddammit to hell!”

  Fingers of fear closed on Talba’s throat. She looked at the screen—Eddie’s car was still moving. So it wasn’t Eddie—he ought to be fine.

  “What is it?” she said, pretty sure she wasn’t going to get an answer.

  The big cop didn’t disappoint her.

  Enough of this, she thought. There’s no law they’ve got to act like apes. It’s probably discretionary.

  “Look, I haven’t done a damn thing to you today. Matter of fact, I’m doing my level best to help. Matter of further fact, I’m no helpless dip. If Eddie and I are right, that man your partner’s got is a professional assassin who’s killed at least four people that we know of, and he’s gotten away with it. He’s in the employ of some extremely important and powerful people in this state—he’s like an assassin to the stars. And guess what? I took him out with a Tee-ball bat. Little moi.”

  The guy did a double-take in spite of himself. He said, “My kid’s got a Tee-ball bat.”

  “Yep. A kid’s toy. I used that and a well-placed kick—if you know what I mean.” She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it. She didn’t exactly feel like Superwoman, but she wasn’t lying.

  “Stow it, Pigtails. What about the gun?”

  “Borrowed.”

  “Who from?”

  “Another PI.” Talba avoided giving Mathison’s name, unsure whether or not she had a permit for it.

  Charvet let it pass, opting instead for his famous cop-statue imitation.

  She gave him a couple of minutes, then asked, “What’d you say was happening here?”

  “Traffic jam.” But the flow was getting back to normal.

  “Not that. The ‘shit goddammit to hell’ thing.”

  He pointed to the road up ahead. “They took out a police car.”

  “What?” Talba leaned so far forward, trying to see, trying to make sense of it that she almost knocked the computer to the floor. And it was coming into view—a police car, now on the side of the road, having just been pushed there. It must have been shot at—which might mean there were two men with Eddie now, one driving and one shooting. The first one could have stopped to pick the gunman up.

  Nervously, she glanced at the computer. The car was still traveling.

  Officer Charvet rolled up to the district car. “What happened?”

  The driver of this one was a black female. She said, “Shot out my radiator.” I wonder, Talba thought if this one’s nice. But remembering Sergeant Rouselle, she didn’t have much hope.

  A white male, also in uniform, was looking under the hood. “Who’re you?” the black cop said.

  “I’m a PI. Talba Wallis.” Talba offered to shake hands. “You know Skip Langdon?”

  To her amazement, the woman smiled. “Skip? We go way back. I’m Shaquita Radford.”

  Officer Charvet was infuriated. “Radford, goddammit, ya comin’ or not? Call ya partner.”

  Talba’s hands were sweaty. If they didn’t quit arguing and get there soon…

  Radford yelled, “Hey, John, get your butt over here.”

  Charvet said, “Get in the back, Pigtails.”

  Talba was all too uncomfortably aware that the back was a cage. “Why?”

  “ ’Cause we’re picking up two officers, that’s why.”

  “But—”

  “Look, ya want to go or not? Officers outrank civilians.” He jerked an aggressive thumb over his shoulder. “Move your ass.”

  What the hell. She was just glad to have a ride. Clutching her computer, she got in the back. The cop named John joined her, and then they were burning up the road, Charvet’s siren squealing.

  “They’re stopping,” she said.

  She was staring at the screen in terror. If they stopped, they must be ready to kill him. But surely they wouldn’t, with cops on the way—had they thought Radford’s car a coincidence?

  “Where are they?” Charvet asked.

  “Just up the road.” She swallowed. “They got off at Michoud Boulevard.”

  Radford said, “Pray, honey. If you know how to pray, do it.”

  Talba was considering the possibility when she heard another siren… actually, it sounded like two more. There were other cars in the area.

  Radford said, “Step on it, Charvet!”

  And Charvet pointed downward. His foot was on the floor. They were all silent for the next few minutes. The scream of sirens filled the air; the beating of drums filled Talba’s chest. They took the Michoud exit, turned left, went over a bridge, and came to a dead end.

  And what they saw there made them laugh, a momentary release of tension. Ten or twelve district cars were ahead of them; had built a semicircle around the parked Cadillac.

  Okay, so they weren’t that badly needed
. But the fat lady still hadn’t sung.

  An officer was speaking over a megaphone. “Hands on your head and walk towards me.”

  Talba turned off the computer and collapsed against the seat “Whew!”

  And Radford said, “Wonder if they got here in time?”

  Talba’s palms started sweating again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  They pulled up, parked, and piled out like kids at the beach, Talba swiveling her head frantically, trying to make sense of things. Of even one thing.

  There was a wall of cars and a throng of cops, guns still drawn. The tension was like another wall.

  Talba could see two prisoners now, being frisked and cuffed. But no Eddie.

  “Eddie,” she called, more or less to the passing breeze. “Eddee!”

  Radford shouted also, to the officer in charge, whoever he was. “Hey, her partner was in that car.”

  Two officers moved forward, opened the doors, and shook their heads. “Well, he’s not now.”

  And then Talba became aware of a soft thudding. The two guys looked at each other and turned toward the trunk. One of them shouted, “Hey, Eddie, you in there?”

  Three loud, staccato thunks answered.

  “Hang on, now. Hang on. We’ll get ya out.”

  His partner went to get the key from the prisoners. And then they opened the trunk and helped Eddie out. He was in one piece; he was walking.

  But he kind of had a hand over his face. When he removed it, Talba saw he’d been hit—with a gun, probably. The left side of his face was swollen and already purple.

  With no hesitation, no shyness at all in spite of her audience, she hollered, “Eddie, you all right? You okay, Eddie?” and started toward him.

  He looked up at her and grinned. “Ms. Wallis. See—the cops got here first. Told you that damn GPS was worthless.”

  ***

  Eddie dreaded looking at the paper the next day. And the day after that, and the third day as well. Six months into it was the worst.

  A lot of men in his position would have killed for the kind of press he was getting, and so would he, except for one thing: his daughter, Angie.

  As the days went by, the headlines escalated: