Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw that her wish had apparently been granted. Corey’s BMW was gone, and the house was dark except for a porch light, left on for Talba. She crept in and turned on a living room lamp, but she nearly screamed when she saw that the room wasn’t empty. Her mother, clad in nightgown, robe, and her old blue slippers, was asleep in a rocking chair. That is, she had been asleep. She was now in the process of forcing herself awake.

  Her mother’s face was drawn, and she had taken her wig off, displaying a near-burr haircut that was actually very becoming. She wore it because she cleaned houses for a living. With a bandanna tied round her head, she was ready for anything. In the dim light, despite the tension on her face, she looked younger than she was, and quite pretty.

  “Talba?” she said, and her voice was oddly vulnerable. “Corey say that girl look just like ya, baby.”

  Her mother almost never called her “baby”—or anything else that passed for an endearment. A half-judgmental “girl” that made Talba wish she were something more acceptable, like maybe a boy, was about as close as she came.

  Without warning, Talba felt tears flow. “Oh, Mama!” she sobbed, and went to hug her mother. She had to bend down to do it, and it was awkward with Miz Clara sitting down, but her mother felt soft and comforting; Talba felt a rare surge of love. Most of the time, Miz Clara was just there, more or less a juggernaut. Talba knew that she loved her, but usually, she experienced her as an obstacle to be gotten around. Tonight she felt tender towards her, especially when her mother murmured uncharacteristically, “It’s all right, baby. It’s all right.”

  “Mama, you should be in bed.”

  “Tried that. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mama—I was trying to protect you.”

  The old spark flared. “You don’t think ya mama’s strong enough to know Denman Wallis got a grown-up love-child? How stupid ya think I am? I know he had a woman, I even know he had a baby—you know I know that. Stands to reason she gotta grow up, hadn’t she? What ya think ya doin’?”

  “I know how you hate talking about Daddy.” Miz Clara winced at the word—she’d forbidden her children to refer to Wallis as their daddy, a term she maintained he’d never earned, even though he fathered them.

  “This ain’t about Denman Wallis. This about my deceitful daughter, goin’ behind my back!”

  “Mama, I said I was sorry. Listen, I’m going to tell you all about it. You want a glass of wine?”

  Being a church lady, Miz Clara eschewed alcohol except on special occasions, which usually meant late at night when her daughter brought up the notion of forbidden fruit. As always, she treated the idea as an entirely unexpected and delightful invitation to a rare treat. “Why, I b’lieve I would,” she said.

  Talba went and poured them both a glass of Chardonnay, gulping down nearly half of hers on the way back to the living room. She handed the other glass to her mother and sat on the sofa.

  “The Reverend Clarence Scruggs told me to find her. He told me it was something constructive I could do after—you know.” She referred to certain horrifying revelations about her own childhood that came to light about the time she went to work for Eddie. She shrugged. “So I found her—and she didn’t want anything to do with me. What was the point of telling you? It would have just upset you.”

  “Hmmph,” Miz Clara said.

  “I only saw her once before this week. She called me yesterday—in the middle of Hurricane Carol.”

  Miz Clara smiled. By now she’d had a few sips of wine herself. “Hurricane Janessa,” she said.

  “You got that right. She’s a handful—did you hear her talk? She’s got the worst grammar of anybody I ever heard. But she’s a million times better than when I first met her. She was a mess then—fat, sloppy, didn’t care about herself; she didn’t have any hope, Mama. And she was stubborn! She didn’t want me in her life for any reason. Then when she called the other day, she told me I inspired her—that she knew if I was her sister, and I could make it in the world, she could, too. She was doing real well, too—until, uh, something bad happened. She called me to help her with that. So I’m trying to.”

  Miz Clara rocked for a while, maybe letting it sink in, maybe thinking. Finally, she said, “Ya did right, baby. Miz Clara’s prouda ya.”

  Talba started crying again. This just wasn’t the way her mother talked. “Oh, Mama, you really think so?”

  Her mother nodded. “I know so.” Talba suspected that the mention of the Reverend Clarence Scruggs—an old family friend—had something to do with her sudden approval. “This is a poor, deserted child Denman Wallis left helpless in the world, just like he left you and Corey. Miz Clara wouldn’t turn her back on some innocent child.”

  I hope to hell she’s innocent, Talba thought.

  “You bring that girl to me.”

  “What?” Talba wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

  “You heard me,” Miz Clara said, and went to bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Angie had her own snug house in the Bywater—not at all a safe neighborhood, in Eddie’s opinion, but she insisted the values there were great. She came running out to the car in black jeans, black Harley-Davidson T-shirt, and black bomber jacket. Now I know she’s a dyke, Eddie thought, but he didn’t say it. If it were true, he didn’t want to find out by making a stupid joke. And he didn’t want the revelation to screw up his focus.

  Eddie didn’t know every biker bar in town, but he’d figured he could go to one and find out where the others were. There were some on Decatur, in the French Quarter, and that was as good a place to start as any. Austin evidently wasn’t local and someone who wasn’t would naturally gravitate to the French Quarter.

  “I called around,” Angie said. “There’s this one bar on Decatur Street—”

  “Checkpoint Charlie?”

  Her mouth pursed in disdain. “That’s a pussy bar compared to this one.”

  “Angie, ya know I hate it when—”

  “ ’Scuse my French,” his daughter said. “Let’s go there first anyhow. Have a beer, get warmed up. We can park in that lot on Elysian Fields. You like my outfit?”

  “Where does a nice girl get a Harley T-shirt?”

  “Woke up in it one day.”

  He winced. “Christ, Angie. Couldn’t ya just say ya got it at a yard sale?”

  Her laugh trilled in the warm air. “Come on, Dad. Look at it. It fits perfectly.” Indeed, it clung to her breasts, though he didn’t feel too comfortable looking at them. “I was kidding.”

  He was too unnerved to say another word till they were in the bar, which was on the corner of Decatur and Esplanade, the border of the French Quarter and the Faubourg Marigny. Maybe that was why it was called Checkpoint Charlie; he’d never thought to ask. The sign outside said it was a bar, grill, “gaming room,” and Laundromat. One-stop shopping for your Quarter rats and Faubourg crawlers. Indeed, it did have a few washers and dryers in a side room, a bunch of video poker machines in the bar proper, and a sort of stage with a pool table on it.

  A band that didn’t seem to have practiced was blaring to a near-empty house. An older couple sat at a table, apparently rapt. Maybe their kid was the guitarist. Two guys played pool on the elevated space to the right. A couple of hard cases sat at the bar. And the bartender was holding his ears. Eddie put him at about fifty, but a rode-hard-put-away-wet kind of fifty. He was skinny and had bad skin. Heroin addict, most likely. His face was scrunched up from the noise.

  “Couple drafts,” Eddie said, holding up two fingers and pointing. When the man had brought the beers, he winked at the bartender. “Great band.”

  The man closed his eyes and held his head. “I’d rather be in Fargo.”

  “You worked here long?”

  “What?” the man shouted.

  “You want to fuck?” Angie hollered. Eddie felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

  “Say again?”

  Angie gave her head a “never-mind
” shake.

  “What the hell ya doin’?” Eddie said.

  She laughed again, but he couldn’t hear it in the din. She leaned close to his ear. “ ’Scuse my French, Dad. Just checking. If he didn’t hear that, we’re screwed.”

  He wished he thought it was as funny as she did. But what the hell, he’d bought two beers. Why waste ’em? He pulled out a bogus card he’d brought and showed it to her. It said, e. valentino and on the next line, heir hunter.

  He gave it to the bartender, who looked like he was about to pass out from the pain in his ears. The band seemed to be getting louder and louder. “Looking for somebody,” he shouted, and just about then the musical number ended. He’d broadcast the question to the entire assemblage.

  It really stole the band’s thunder. The rapt couple applauded madly—clearly their son really was in the god-awful band—but everyone else, including the musicians, stared at Eddie. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbled.

  One of the pool players started over to him. His eyes were wild, like he was on angel dust. “Hey, you guys cops?” he demanded. He had tattoos up and down his arm, a scraggly beard, and matted black hair. Gently, Angie touched his illustrated bicep. “Nice,” she cooed.

  The guy calmed down. “Always wanted to dance with a cop.”

  Eddie said, “Hey!” and now Angie touched him as well. “Take it easy, Dad. Things are just getting good.”

  Bringing her had been a terrible mistake. She had no idea how out of control a guy like this could get. The pool player put an arm around Angie’s shoulder, but she wriggled away. “Chill, cutie-pie. My dad’s givin’ away goodies.”

  Cutie-pie smiled evilly, and grabbed at her again. “Meanin’ you, baby? Tell the old guy adios.”

  She danced away, smiling. “No, really. Look at this.” She showed him Eddie’s card.

  The guy stared at it, so obviously out of his depth Eddie figured he couldn’t read. “Ya know what an heir hunter is?”

  “I know what an air head is. Hey, ya hear about the blonde with the two balloons in her bra?”

  “Oh, fuhgeddaboutit.” Disgusted, Eddie slid off his bar stool. “Come on, Angie. Let’s get outta here.”

  The bartender said, “Hey, I know what you are. Somebody inherits somethin’, you find him, you get a percentage.”

  “That’s right.”

  Angie winked at the redneck. “Hear that, baby? I’m Angie, by the way.” She stuck out her hand to shake. Don’t, Eddie thought you’ll prob’ly get AIDS.

  “Chuck,” the guy said, and kissed her hand. It was all Eddie could do not to knock his teeth out.

  Angie put on a disappointed look. “Well, you aren’t him then. Guy’s name is Austin.”

  Chuck was so loaded he couldn’t even follow the conversation. “What guy?”

  “Guy’s gonna get the coins.” She turned to the bartender. “What about you, sugar—you Austin?”

  “How much money is it?”

  Eddie said, “I’ll take that as a no.” He put a twenty on the counter. “Know any Austins?”

  The bartender looked doubtful. “My second cousin—but he lives in Oklahoma.”

  Eddie shook his head regretfully. “It’s not him. I mean—what’s his last name?”

  “Purcell.”

  “Uh-uh. Well, thanks for your help.”

  Chuck said, “Hey, Angie, you aren’t leavin’, are ya?”

  She turned to Eddie, as if all she wanted in the world was to stay and discuss opera with Chuck. “We have to leave?”

  Eddie shrugged, kind of getting into it wondering what she’d pull next.

  “Dad’s not so young as he used to be.” She patted her jacket pocket. “Needs a bodyguard.”

  Chuck’s eyes peeled back. “You packin’?”

  The bartender was starting to look slightly panicked. He flicked his eyes at the open door, searching for the beefy dude standing casually on the sidewalk. The bouncer took a step inside. “Well, thanks for all your help,” Eddie said again, and this time handed Chuck a twenty. He wondered if he should give the bouncer one, too, decided he didn’t really need to.

  As Chuck turned happily away, Eddie could see that the back of his T-shirt said, if you can read this, the bitch fell off.

  “What the hell ya tryin’ to prove?” he said when he had Angie to himself again. She started to cross Esplanade. “You could have started a riot in there.”

  “Oh, Dad, you think I’ve never been to Checkpoint before? Come on—I’m having fun. This other place is right up the street.”

  “She’s having fun,” Eddie mouthed, thinking maybe he was, too.

  “That place caters to off-duty wait staff. It’s nothing.”

  “That Chuck wasn’t no waiter.”

  “Wait staff and the occasional drugged-out loser. I think the bikers only come for certain bands. From the look of the bartender, it was his first night—no wonder he didn’t know anybody.”

  “Probably his last,” Eddie grumbled, “he don’t want to go deaf.”

  “I’m not sure of the name of this other place. My buddy said I’d know it by the bikes.”

  They walked a block or two in relative silence, except for Angie’s remarks to the various lowlifes who kept hitting on her. “How do you stand this place?” Eddie complained. “One thing I hate, it’s the French Quarter. Crime, noise, no parkin’ places—and the stink. Oh, man, the stink.”

  Angie inhaled deeply. It was a warm night and the air was particularly redolent. “Beer. Exhaust fumes. Vomit. You gotta love it.” He couldn’t believe she was the same kid he used to take to get ice cream cones.

  “Aren’t you hot in that jacket?”

  “Very hot. Just ask Chuck.”

  Eddie thought, At least he’s a guy.

  “Hey, look up there. That must be the place.” She pointed to a section of sidewalk heavy with hogs. “Ugh. Yamahas. Another pussy place.”

  “Angie, ya just gotta talk that way?”

  She pulled his baseball cap over his eyes. “ ’Scuse my French.”

  Eddie looked for a sign announcing the name of the bar, in case he had to tell 911 where to come. It didn’t seem to have one.

  “Let’s go in,” Angie said. Mercifully, no band was playing. But the place was a lot livelier than Checkpoint.

  All the men seemed to be dressed in black, with greasy jeans and greasy hair. He felt out of place in his never-worn Levi’s and polo shirt but figured it was nothing to the way Angie must feel. The women had on halter tops that barely covered their nipples. Next to them, she looked like a nice kid from out by the lake.

  Which in no way prevented her instantly attracting the attention of every male in the place. Eddie could feel a dense cloud of testosterone ooze from their pores and engulf her. She didn’t seem to notice.

  The bartender was young and thick through the shoulders. Like the last one, he wore a ponytail. Some kind of uniform, maybe. But at least his hair was clean.

  “Hey, Joe,” Angie shouted. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

  “Hey, Ange. Long time no see.”

  “Hey, this is my dad. Dad, Joe. He used to work at Port of Call.”

  Eddie thought the man blushed, like maybe Angie had had a fling with him. Who the hell was this girl?

  “Hey, Mr.—uh—”

  “Valentino,” Eddie said. For God’s sake, she’d taken the guy home and hadn’t even mentioned her name. He wondered if it was his shirt she was wearing. Joe shook hands with him, and said, “What can I get for you?”

  “The usual,” Angie said. “Dad?”

  “Draft.” He waited to see what Angie’s “usual” might be. Joe brought her an Abita Amber, the universal New Orleans yuppie beer. At least that part made sense. Kind of. Joe turned to another customer.

  Eddie said, “Nice friends ya got.”

  “Who, Joe? Used to date a friend of mine. If ‘date’ is the operative word.”

  “He’s got a crush on ya,” Eddie ventured, wondering if “friend” was a euphemis
m.

  She nodded. “Yep. He does. Nice guy. Hey, I see a couple of guys in aloha shirts. I bet Austin wears aloha shirts—what do you think?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “I’ll ask Joe if he knows ’em. Hey, Joe, how long have you been here?”

  “Couple months.”

  She pointed out the men in question. “You know those guys?”

  “No. Why?”

  But she didn’t have time to answer—someone yelled for his attention. She leaned back against the bar. “Nice little place,” she said.

  Eddie looked around and wondered what planet she was from. “If you like beer and puke fumes.”

  Angie sniffed. “Home, sweet home.” He wondered how much of this was an act and how much was real. “Let’s just hang awhile before we start asking questions. See if we can make a few friends.” She turned to the woman next to her. “I love your outfit. Mind if I ask where you got those earrings?”

  Next thing he knew she was embroiled in heavy girl talk. Miserably, Eddie tried to figure out who looked friendly enough to approach. He finally went to the end of the bar, where a guy in a T-shirt much like Angie’s was drinking by himself. The guy was burly with the requisite long hair, gray in this case, and a healthy beard—probably a chest and backful, too, Eddie thought, and knew Audrey would say, You should talk. The guy’s skin was grayish, as if he’d smoked away his color, and he had eyebrows that could intimidate a squad of marines.

  Eddie figured the Saints was always a good place to start, and it turned out the guy was a rabid fan, plus his glass was empty. So after a little football chat and another round, Eddie introduced himself.

  “Louis,” the guy said, offering a handshake like a wrestling hold. “My friends call me Crab Louis. Ya don’t want to get me mad.”

  “Uh-uh,” Eddie said. “Oh, no! Think I’m crazy?”

  Crab Louis thought that was pretty funny, so Eddie presented him with a card. “Look, I’m a little out of my depth. I’m looking for a guy likes bikes; I saw ya here and thought, ‘That looks like a knowledgeable guy.’ Wonder if you can help me with somethin’.”