Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  Crab Louis brightened. It was amazing how many people responded to a call for help. “Sure, man. What’s up?”

  Eddie explained what an heir hunter was.

  “You gotta be kiddin’,” Crab Louis said. “Ya mean that’s a job?”

  “Yeah, but it’s hard damned work. Ya gotta search all the records, find out who’s got somethin’ comin’ to ’em; then ya gotta find ’em. I’m not retirin’ anytime soon.”

  Crab Louis looked disappointed. But then he cheered up again. “Yeah, but think how happy ya make people.”

  “I try. Right now, I don’t know—guy I’m lookin’ for’s named Austin Edwards. Ya know him, by any chance?”

  “No, I don’t know no Austin. What’s he look like?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. But what ya bet he’s got tattoos?”

  Crab Louis got a big laugh out of that one, too. “Look, what kind of biker is he? Outlaw? Old, like Hell’s Angels? Does he belong to a club?”

  “Like I said, I’m out of my depth here.”

  “See, different kinds of bikers go to different kinds of bars. Now what age is he? Ya gotta know that.”

  Eddie couldn’t remember, but he took a guess. “ ’Bout thirty, I guess.”

  “Oh. Young guy. You could try the Saturn, maybe.”

  “The Saturn on St. Claude?” It was a pretty famous bar in New Orleans—but not, to Eddie’s knowledge, as a biker bar.

  “Lot of the young guys hang there—the real hip ones. You know—white punks on hogs. Blacks go there. Ever hear of bikers who’ll hang with blacks? These new kids—man! But I been there myself. I’ll never go back, but I been there.”

  “Hey,” Eddie said. “Thanks, man.”

  He laid a twenty on the bar, but Crab Louis pushed it back at him. “Uh-uh. No, man. Glad to help.”

  Appearances could certainly be deceiving, Eddie thought, as he wandered back to find Angela. She had shed her jacket and acquired a small circle of friends, both male and female. She made the “come here” sign. “Hey, Dad! Over here.”

  He made it back to her, pointed at the door.

  “Gotta go,” he heard her say. “That’s my dad.” He felt a surge of pride—she’d admitted to being related to him. She grabbed her jacket and joined him. “Johnny White’s,” she said. “Or the Saturn.”

  “Yeah, I found a guy said the Saturn.”

  “Well, Johnny White’s is in the neighborhood. Why don’t we go there first?”

  As they walked, he called Janessa on his cell phone. She answered with a rude “Yeah.” But Eddie let it go, knowing she hadn’t had the benefit of Miz Clara’s parenting.

  “Hey, sweetheart. It’s old Eddie. You all right?”

  “Eddie! Ya find Rashad?”

  “I’m tryin’, honey. Ya sound sleepy. I’m sorry to wake ya, but I got a question—what’s Austin look like?”

  “Austin? Thought ya was lookin’ for Rashad.”

  “I think Austin might be able to help us. Did you know they were friends?”

  “Uh-uh. They ain’ friends. You shoulda heard the way Austin talked in front of him.”

  Eddie gave up on that one. “Well, look. What does he look like?”

  “Like a white guy. How’m I s’posed to tell one from another?”

  Eddie sighed. “What color hair?”

  “Brown, I guess, Kinda long.”

  “Height and weight?”

  “Not too tall. Heavy, kind of.”

  Typical biker, Eddie thought.

  “I mean, not fat like you or anything. Just kinda stocky. Oh, wait. He got a fish on him.”

  Eddie waited.

  “On his arm, ya know? Real pretty fish. All colors.”

  A fish tattoo. “The forearm or the bicep? Left or right?”

  “Near the hand, kind of. He got other tattoos, too, but can’t remember ’em. Colors, though. All around his arms.”

  “Piercings?” Eddie said, figuring this couldn’t be far behind.

  “Oooh, yeah. His nose, man. Got this big thing in his nose. Silver, like.”

  “Okay, dawlin’, you go back to sleep now. We’ll let ya know if we find Rashad.”

  He said to Angie, “Real good detective work. We should have been looking for a guy with a fish and a stud in his nose.”

  His daughter said, “Well, I figured. About the stud.”

  “Hey, Ange—think I’m fat?”

  She looked at him carefully. “ ’Course not. Why would you say that?”

  “Just wondering.” But maybe he’d lay off the Ferdies for a while.

  They worked Johnny White’s, using both Austin’s name and the body adornments, but only got more suggestions to go to the Saturn—that, and, in Angie’s case, certain other suggestions.

  When they were in the car, Angie said, “Oh, goody. I haven’t been to the Saturn in ages.”

  “Angie, ya leadin’ a secret life or somethin’? Anything ya want to tell me?”

  She laughed again. “You and Mom should get out more, you know that?”

  “We ain’t got the right body art. Say, Ange, ya got any tattoos?” To his mortification, she pulled her jeans down on the left, exposing an inch or two of white hip. “Check out my dragon.”

  Eddie kept his eyes on the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see something slightly greenish, but he figured he didn’t need a better look. “Keep ya pants on, Ange,” was all he said. And she laughed again. He didn’t know when he’d seen her so happy.

  It was a slow night at the Saturn, and Eddie couldn’t say he was sorry. Another good thing—his daughter didn’t seem to know the bartender.

  The Saturn was well known to natives—even the stodgier ones, like Eddie—as one of the more colorful bars in town. He’d heard that, but he’d never been in it. Even though its reputation preceded it, nothing prepared him for the place. It seemed to have once been a corner store and still had characteristics of one, like packages of food piled on the counter, cases of beer on a chair here and there, a refrigerator more or less in the middle of the floor. There were three jukeboxes that he counted, only one of which seemed to work, and a couple of defunct cigarette machines as well. But the place had strange stabs of hipness going for it—leopard covers on inconceivably lumpy furniture, some kind of neon chandelier thing, a ceiling painted with clouds. It also had a lot of paintings, most of which looked to have been done by neighborhood retirees or else kids with more nerve than talent.

  Toward the back of the place was a replica of the Statue of Liberty and beside it were three photos—of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Marlon Brando. There was also a crudely painted portrait of the late Princess Di. A back room contained a pool table piled with the kind of thing most people keep in their garages and a sign that said be nice or leave. On one of the beer cases a bumper strip read i’d rather be at the opera.

  A mummy hung from the ceiling.

  The night was so slow you couldn’t really tell what the regular clientele was, in the event there was one. But one thing Eddie could see—both black and white people came here, some of whom seemed to be from the surrounding neighborhood. There were also preppy-looking folks from Uptown or the ’burbs and people in outfits that ranged from mildly bohemian to outlandish. He didn’t see a soul who looked like a biker.

  “Probably too early,” Angie said. “Or maybe they come on weekends.”

  One thing—it was a lot less scary here than in those French Quarter dives. He didn’t really have a lot of hope, but at least he wasn’t afraid of being beaten to death. That is, until some fuzz-faced young punk sidled up to Angie and said, “Hey, babe. Ditch the old guy.”

  “Forget it, Junior,” she answered. “I only need one asshole in my pants.”

  The guy’s face took on a volcanic fury, but Eddie figured he could probably take him. “You heard the lady.”

  The kid backed away, muttering.

  Angie said. “Just like in the movies. Very John Wayne.”

  Eddie shook his head. �
�I don’t know where ya got that mouth.”

  “Talk to the women, okay?”

  She turned to her left and started pulling the earring thing again. The bartender didn’t look friendly. Eddie looked around for someone who did, and his eyes lit on a woman about his age. She was blond and dressed in black—tiny black tank top with boobs hanging out, upper arms flapping in the wind, little bitty skirt above her knees. Good legs. What the hell, he thought? Angie’s idea wasn’t bad; women very rarely took a swing at you.

  “Quiet night,” he said to her.

  “How would you know? I never seen you in here.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” he said. “My daughter never brought me here before.” He pointed to Angie.

  “That’s ya daughter? Doesn’t look like ya.”

  “Takes after her mother,” he said, and realized she’d said it with him.

  He started to laugh, but she stopped him. “Next, ya s’posed to say, ‘Thank the Lord.’ ”

  “Yeah, I was going to. Buy you a drink?”

  “Sure, you can buy me a drink. You a cop?”

  He signaled for the drink and smiled. “No, I’m not a cop.”

  “Ya ‘daughter’ a cop?” This woman was no Crab Louis.

  “No, but you’re on the right track. We’re investigators.” He brought out the card, started to go through the heir hunter spiel, but she wouldn’t move on. “Hey, a father-daughter detective team? Really? She really ya daughter?”

  “Swear to God.” He raised his voice slightly. “Hey, Ange—come here a minute. Tell this lady you’re my kid.”

  Angie finished her conversation and turned back to her father. “I’ve got what we need.”

  The blonde said, “Y’all aren’t related. No way. This girl’s from Uptown.”

  “Am not,” Angie said, and put her arm around her dad. “We’re from out by the lake.” She put out her hand. “I’m Angela Valentino, and this is my dad, Eddie. Mom’s Audrey, brother’s Tony.”

  The woman shook Angie’s hand, very ladylike. “Jo Ellen Coulter.”

  “Dad, I found someone who knows Austin.”

  “Austin? Austin who? Hey, what’s this about?”

  Eddie touched her arm. “It’s all right. Look at the card. Austin’s about to come into some money.”

  Jo Ellen beamed. “Hey, he is? Well, good for Austin.”

  Angela said, “You know Austin, too? What Austin?”

  “Austin-with-the-fish. Never caught the rest of his name.”

  The woman Angie’d been talking to joined the conversation. “Austin Edwards. Lives in Venice; comes in on weekends. Cute guy,” she said in a proprietary way. Eddie saw that she might have had occasion to know Austin intimately—she was blond, too, and young; very cute in a wholesome kind of way. Like Angie.

  “What else do you know about him?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothin’. We just talk once in a while.”

  “Owns a bait shop down there,” Jo Ellen said.

  That sounded right, Eddie thought. He’d lived in a succession of little fishing towns and he sounded like a notorious underachiever.

  “You know the name of it?” Angie asked.

  But she didn’t. A quick canvass of the bar indicated no one else did either, though most of the regulars had seen the “The Fish Guy” at least once.

  “Angela, ya did good,” Eddie said when he dropped her off.

  Audrey was still up when he got home. “Well? How’d it go?”

  “We bonded.”

  “Aw, Eddie that’s wonda’ful! She loves ya, ya know? She just doesn’t show it.”

  “Showed me something, though. You ever seen her tattoo?”

  “Oh, sure, Eddie. Angela’s got a tattoo, all right. Like I got my nipples pierced.”

  Eddie grinned. “It might be a thought,” he said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Talba got to work early and barreled into Eddie’s office without even stopping for coffee. She was shocked to see him looking about a hundred and five. Actually, he was just a hair over sixty-six, but he had bags under his eyes the size of her backpack, and on some days, they were the color of raw liver—on others, cooked liver. She never knew whether the color varied with his degree of fatigue or just with atmospheric conditions. Some days they were even kind of green. Today was a raw liver day.

  She said, “You feelin’ okay?”

  “Never better. Why?”

  “You look a little peaked.”

  “Well, I feel like I’m twenty-five. Spent the evening running down Austin. Turns out he lives in Venice. I need to get down there today, but there’s a lot to do first. Good work on Dufresne, by the way.”

  “How about the poetry? What do you think?” This was the part she was excited about.

  He nodded. “You could have something there.”

  She was a little offended. “You sound pretty underwhelmed. I thought it was a brilliant deduction—Celeste and all that.”

  He raised a placating hand. “Ya think ya Sherlock Holmes, do ya? Okay, get ya magnifying glass, let’s take a ride to the river.”

  She smiled. In Eddie-speak, it meant she done good. “Your car or mine?”

  “Mine. Audrey’s, I mean—the port police are less likely to mess with people in a Cadillac than a beat-up old Isuzu.” He opened a drawer and took out a handgun. She winced.

  “What’s that for?”

  “The kid could be a murderer. You know that.”

  “You left your Tee-ball bat at home?” This was Eddie’s weapon of choice. It had a nice heft to it, like a blackjack, and it was perfectly legal. His unvarying cover story was that his granddaughter’d left it in the car.

  Talba didn’t like the gun, and chose to show her disapproval by not speaking until they were in the car. But she couldn’t keep it up—her curiosity got the best of her. “What’s the deal with Dufresne?”

  “I went to see Marlon after you called. Said he didn’t know where his brother was, but I think he thought he knew. He rode out to Dufresne’s house after I left. Didn’t go in, though. I want to know what her connection is. If we don’t find the kid at the wharf, I want you to go see her over at the assessor’s office. I’m gon’ go round up Austin in Venice.”

  “You’re actually sending me out to a New Orleans city office?” Eddie never entered one if he could help it.

  “Better you than me,” he said as they neared Celeste Street. “I remember when all this was like a beehive.”

  “See, there’s the abandoned factory—from the poem.”

  Eddie turned onto the service road behind Tchoupitoulas. “Old power plant, I think. Whoops! That wharf’s in use. Nobody’s hidin’ in there.” There were a number of roll-down doors on the sky-blue building, the metal corroding away. Some of them were open, revealing piles of lumber currently being removed by a team of workers and heavy machinery. The busy little scene belied a sign saying the wharf was permanently closed.

  “I thought it was abandoned,” Talba said.

  “Let’s call the port.” Eddie stopped the car and placed a call to the port’s information officer. “Hey, I got a question about the old Celeste Street Wharf. What are they using that thing for these days?” No pretext no identity; just the question. Talba would never have thought of that. Eddie listened for a few minutes and snapped the phone shut.

  “They don’t berth ships on the other side anymore, but they still warehouse stuff in there.”

  “Bet anything it’s deserted at night. Rashad could still sleep there. Wonder what he does in the daytime?”

  “Dream on, Ms. Wallis. He’s not there.” He started the engine and began to back up. “I’ll take ya over to City Hall—I gotta go to Venice.”

  “City Hall? What for?”

  “Felicia Dufresne—you forget already?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Ya want to stop somewhere and get pralines?”

  “It wouldn’t work for me—I don’t have your charm.”

  Ba
ck in the old days, before he had an associate to do his dirty work, Eddie used to arm himself with candy for the bureaucrats, as a kind of low-key bribe. This was because New Orleans civil servants had an even worse reputation than New Orleans cops did before the department clean-up. They were generally considered slow, sullen, rude, uncooperative, and incompetent, for openers. It was common knowledge that every PI in town would rather hire someone to do a records check in Orleans Parish than face that mess himself.

  In Talba’s experience, the bad rap was more or less deserved—when she went to get fingerprinted for her PI license, she nearly got arrested because of someone’s bad mood. But in her opinion, the bureaucrats probably came by their bad moods honestly: They had to work in the ugliest building in town. In a city of great architecture, citizens have to do their municipal business in the great, flat, beige blight that bears the name City Hall.

  “City Cell Block” would have been more appropriate.

  The assessor’s office was on the fourth floor, and it was all business—a wide pass-through lined with waist-high light gray counters, sections of which were designated for the various wards. Talba had a long wait before anybody bothered to see if anyone was waiting, though once she caught a clerk’s eye, opened her mouth to speak, and was told, “I’m on break.” Could be understaffing, she thought, unwilling to pass judgment.

  Twenty minutes later, when she was finally granted enough of an audience to ask for Dufresne, she was turning into Sandra Day O’Connor.

  But when Dufresne herself appeared—in another ten minutes—she seemed as pleasant and cheerful as a hostess. “What can I help you with?” she chirped, in that positive way that indicated she was actually going to help. And she smiled when she said it. Talba was stunned at what a good-looking woman she was. She wore a periwinkle suit and a pair of neat black pumps, and her hair was pulled into a sleek twist. Everything about her said she was a successful woman and happy employee. Maybe, Talba thought, I’ve lucked out.

  But that was before she said the magic word. As soon as Rashad was out of her mouth, Dufresne froze. “And you are…?”

  Talba was suddenly so intimidated she almost froze herself. “I’m an investigator working—”