Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  Charmaine began to play with her napkin, her face betraying distress; hurt feelings, maybe—at the very least, confusion. “I never thought about it like that,” she said. “I guess I didn’t especially notice because all of a sudden I was so much busier than I had been—I’m a student at Southern, did I say that? And all of a sudden I was going to classes and going to meetings, and actually completing assignments. I don’t know, I guess I thought we just didn’t have time for each other anymore. But come to think of it, his life didn’t change. Maybe you’re right—maybe I just didn’t interest him if he couldn’t help me.”

  Talba said, “You know what I think? I think sometimes people come into other people’s lives, serve a purpose, and then they’re gone. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they’re ‘supposed’ to play a certain role—I don’t think we could presume to know anything like that—but my mama’s a church lady, and she probably would. I just notice it happens a lot.”

  Charmaine played with her hair. She seemed to enjoy flicking it over her shoulder and back again—and who wouldn’t? Talba thought. “You know, that’s just like Rashad. I thought your poem really nailed him—in a nice way, I mean. He does like to help people. See, Cassie… do you know about Cassie?”

  Talba shook her head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Well, she was having this awful affair with this big-deal writer. Big-deal married writer. I mean just horrible. Treated her like shit on a stick.”

  “You mean Hunt Montjoy? I’ve heard she might have been seeing him.”

  “Well, believe it. She was. That’s why Rashad took me to see her. She’d called him crying, saying she was going to shoot herself….”

  “Omigod!” Talba said, thinking of the gun. “Did she threaten suicide on a regular basis?”

  Charmaine shook her head so vigorously her hair swung back and forth, turning itself into a gorgeous heavy curtain. Talba suspected this was something she did often, perhaps for the sensation of it as much as the appearance. “I don’t think she did. But Hunt had humiliated her in front of a friend, and when she called him on it, he said she was lucky to have him, she was nothing but a little gutter slut, and a few other lovely things. Rashad had to go over and calm her down—part of his helping thing. He thought another woman might help. Didn’t, though. All I could think of to say was, she ought to cut the rat bastard’s balls off. She told me to stay out of it.” Charmaine smiled. “Can’t think why.”

  Good idea, Talba thought, hoping Cassie hadn’t belatedly decided to take the advice.

  “He’d invite Cassie to a party, be there with some other woman; make dates and stand her up; buy her presents and call her a whore if she took them. I mean, not then—not on the spot. He’d bring it up later.”

  Talba said, “I just don’t understand how she could have had so little respect for herself. And I really don’t see how Rashad could stand the bastard. I hear they’re good friends.”

  “Oh, Rashad! He sees the good in everybody. He said Hunt was a great writer and kind to him, but he was just horrible with women, and no woman should ever get mixed up with him. And Cassie! She’d tell these stories, and then say Hunt wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t drinking. Say sometimes he was real sweet to her, people just didn’t understand him. That’s some shit, isn’t it? I guess she thought she could sober him up all by herself.”

  “Tell me something. Did you ever hear that Hunt was involved with Allyson—Cassie’s mother?”

  Charmaine sputtered in her Seven-Up. “Well, if that’s not one for the books! No, I never heard that. But I’ll tell you one thing—it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Look, let’s leave the Cassie-and-Hunt show for a minute. What I’m trying to do is find Rashad. One thing I know—he had a girlfriend who was a crack addict. He used to turn up at crack houses and places where she’d go to crash, and pull her out of there.”

  “Oh, I know about that one. The one he couldn’t save. She died.”

  “What I’m getting at—could he have gone back to any of those places? To hide out?”

  Charmaine arranged her hair again; it seemed to be more or less her hobby. “I don’t know if I see that. Rashad couldn’t stand to even talk about that part of his life. I think he really did love that girl.”

  “Well, maybe he’s staying with an old girlfriend—he must have lots of them.”

  Charmaine shot her a look. “Not me, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t heard word one from him.”

  “But if you dated, he must have told you something about his exes. Was there anyone he mentioned that I could talk to?”

  She pulled at her lip. “There was Kerry. What about Kerry?”

  Talba remembered the name—Wayne Taylor had given it to her. “Somebody else mentioned a Kerry. Said she was suicidal, and Rashad helped her. But I don’t have any other details.”

  “I don’t know much about her, either. Just that she was white. She had some kind of bad home life, maybe her daddy beat her, I don’t know—another of Mr. Do-Good’s hard luck cases. What I do know is this—she lives in Mississippi or some place. North Carolina, maybe. Makes sense he’d leave New Orleans—if he’s running away, I mean. Maybe he went to see Kerry.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  She wasn’t surprised when Charmaine said she didn’t know.

  “Well, maybe he wrote a poem about her—do you happen to know if he did?”

  “Hmph.” For a moment, the elegant young woman sounded just like Miz Clara. “Never wrote one about me. Guess there were too many of us.”

  “For heaven’s sake, he’s only twenty!”

  Something mischievous flashed on Charmaine’s somber features. “Man’s sexual peak, they tell me. But listen, kidding aside, I asked about that—with Kerry, I mean. He said, ‘Oh, no, I could never write about it.’ Naturally, that got me curious. So I asked him why, and he just said, ‘It’s not for public consumption.’ Kind of mysterious.”

  Talba wanted to get away to chew on this information morsel, but she felt obliged to stay awhile, keep Charmaine company, see if anyone else came forward. All the same, she excused herself long enough to call Darryl to see if his daughter had gone to bed and he wanted company. She was high from her gig and she didn’t want to wait till tomorrow.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was a long night. They hadn’t seen each other in a while and there was plenty to talk about. And talking was never enough; two or three athletic events ensued as well.

  It was just what Talba needed—that and a lazy day just hanging out, and then maybe a Saturday night dinner at some nice restaurant. It occurred to her not to answer when her cell phone rang at eight-thirty.

  But there was too much at stake to let it go. Janessa could have heard from Rashad again, or maybe Charmaine had—Talba had given her a card. The last person she expected to hear from was Eddie, considering the wild-goose chase he’d embarked on yesterday. “Don’t tell me you found Austin,” she said excitedly.

  “Uh-uh. He found me. Looked me up in the phonebook.” The name of the agency was officially E.V. Anthony (after Eddie’s son, and also to get in the “A’s” in the Yellow Pages), but Eddie never missed a bet—both he and Talba were listed separately as well.

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Allyson’s. He asked me to breakfast. Want to come?”

  “Oh, man.” Talba was half-awake and wholly stunned. “Oh, man, you have got to be kidding.”

  “Never more serious. Guess he liked me. You mind picking up some coffee and bagels or something?”

  “Bagels, hell. How ’bout I whip up some cornbread? Maybe grits and grillades. Won’t take but a minute.”

  “Ms. Wallis, Ms. Wallis. Cranky as usual. Guess ya didn’t make it over to Algiers last night.”

  “Well, I did, matter of fact—and I was up late, if it’s any of your business.”

  “That’s the last thing it is, Ms. Wallis. Whatever ya do, don’t tell me about it. Allyson’s at ten, okay? Better
yet, come a little late. So ya don’t scare him to death before I get there. Angie’s comin’ too—the both of y’all’d spook a pit bull.”

  She hung up and broke the news to Darryl, who seemed too sleepy to figure out what she was saying. And then she dressed again in her Baroness clothes, thinking, what-the-hell, it would really annoy Eddie, and that couldn’t be bad.

  Instead of bagels, she opted for muffins, which she purchased from the PJ’s on Camp, thinking maybe, just maybe, she’d see Rashad there. But two fugitives in one day was way too much to hope for. She came away with nothing but a bag of muffins and four cups of coffee.

  Being perennially punctual—it was nothing she could help—she arrived exactly on time, thinking to wait a few minutes if she didn’t see Eddie’s car. The house was still marked with yellow crime-scene tape. In New Orleans, crime scenes are rarely sealed unless there’s a good reason for it, but in this case, the cops apparently had already gathered their evidence. If they hadn’t, too bad—Eddie and Austin were inside. Audrey’s Cadillac was parked on the curb, Austin’s hog inside the yard. Talba figured that one had Allyson spinning in her grave—or would have, if she’d been in it. The autopsy had been done, but Arnelle had decided to postpone scheduling the funeral, in case the prodigal brother turned up.

  I guess, Talba thought, her worst fears have been realized.

  The man who answered the doorbell wasn’t exactly the one she was picturing. He was about five-ten with long lean muscles, and plenty of them, rather than the barrel-chested look she expected from a biker. He had longish, light brown hair, slicked back with water, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, and he wore khaki shorts, a guayabera shirt, and no shoes or nose ring. If it hadn’t been for the tattoos on his arms, she’d have had to say he looked like a preppy with redneck leanings, something on the order of Hunt Montjoy. His face was weather-beaten and a little craggy—attractive, but just short of handsome. The look on it said he’d have been less surprised to find a deb in a ball gown on his porch than the person he was looking at.

  She was amused. “Oh, hi,” she said. “Eddie didn’t mention I was coming? I’m his associate, Talba Wallis.” She held up her bag of goodies. “See? I’ve brought breakfast.”

  He laughed. “You’re Eddie Valentino’s associate? I was expecting someone named Sal or Vito.”

  Eddie walked up behind him. “For Christ’s sake, it’s the Baroness. I thought Ms. Wallis was coming.”

  “Had a gig last night. You guys want your coffee or not?”

  Austin moved aside. “Sorry. Come in. I thought at first you were a friend of my mother’s. I mean—no particular friend. You’re her type, that’s all.”

  When Harleys fly, Talba thought. She said, “She did invite me to a party here once—or rather, Burford Hale did. I’m a poet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “A PI poet! Bet Mother loved you.”

  “Not so far as I could tell, actually. Shall we take this stuff to the patio?” Not waiting for an answer, she headed that way, forcing the men to follow if they wanted coffee. She set it on a table and turned around to face her host, already regretting her flipness. “Mr. Edwards, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  A cloud passed over his features. “Thank you. I’m still trying to make sense of it.”

  “We all are.”

  The bell rang again. Eddie said, “That’ll be Angela. Let me get it.”

  Austin turned to Talba. “Angela?”

  “Eddie’s daughter. She’s a lawyer.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I might need one.” He unloaded one of the coffees and began adding cream and sugar.

  Talba was about to say Angie already had her hands pretty full with Rashad and Janessa, but she figured that could come out in good time. She only smiled as Angie followed Eddie back to the patio, wearing jeans and a pink tank top. It was the first time Talba’d seen her in anything but all black. “Angie, you look fabulous,” she blurted. Something about the pink seemed to bring out color in her face that Talba had never seen before. Her hair was in a ponytail, but the short ends at the front hung loose around her face. Today she wouldn’t even have scared Janessa.

  “You can be my lawyer any day,” Austin said. Talba sensed Eddie prickling. And maybe his instincts were working—when Austin and Angie shook hands, Talba could have sworn they locked eyes. “Angela,” their host said, “have you had breakfast yet? I was going to make omelets.”

  “Sure, I’d love one,” Angie said, and sat down at the round table where Talba had set her muffins and coffee.

  Talba served both Valentinos their coffee and went into the kitchen to find a plate for the muffins. She smelled better, fresher coffee brewing, and saw that Austin had prepared piles of cheese and onions and peppers and was already breaking eggs. Angie followed. “Can I do anything?”

  Austin whirled rapidly, almost bumping into her. Again, he seemed to pause a moment, and when he spoke his voice was gentle. “Sure. You can set the table. Let’s eat on the patio.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  Talba arranged her muffins and took them back, to find Eddie staring into the pool. “Didn’t Janessa say something about a cat?” he said. “I don’t see any cat.”

  “Oh, Koko. Arnelle has her. She offered her to me—along with Cassie’s cat.”

  “Ya gonna take ’em?”

  “I’m thinking about it. Sure wish they could talk.”

  “Naah. If cats could talk, think of the business we’d lose.” He grabbed a muffin and began tearing it apart. He picked out a raisin and ate it.

  “Strange remark coming from you,” Talba said. “This case being such a money-loser and all.”

  It was an opening for him to say, Okay, absolutely no more time would be spent on it after this weekend, but he only raised an eyebrow. Good, Talba thought, I’m not bringing up the two-day deadline if he isn’t. What he said was, “Ms. Wallis, ya ever read The Great Gatsby?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Everybody says Allyson reminded ’em of Gatsby, but ya know what? I think there was a lot of Jordan Baker in her. Nick Carraway’s girlfriend, ya know?”

  “Huh?” Talba knew she sounded like a junior high kid, but she wasn’t expecting literary allusions out of Eddie’s mouth.

  “Ya remember what Nick said about her? ‘Dishonesty in a woman is something you never blame deeply.’ Shows how times have changed, huh? People sure as hell mind it now.”

  Talba looked at him accusingly. “Eddie, you’ve been to the library.”

  “Whassamatter, think I’m stupid?”

  Angie reappeared with place mats and napkins, and Talba jumped up to help her. “Hey, Ange, did you know your dad’s into American lit?”

  Either she didn’t hear the question, or her mind was elsewhere. She only said, “Y’all just make yourselves comfortable. We’ve almost got it happening here.”

  When she had disappeared again, Talba said, “Burford Hale minded. A lot.”

  “Who the hell’s Burford Hale?”

  Talba gave him a mini-report while Austin and his new assistant created breakfast. The next time they saw Angie, she was setting down two plates of omelets and home fries. Austin followed with another two.

  This is pretty weird, Talba thought. One minute this guy’s a fugitive, the next he’s having a brunch party at his dead mama’s house. She was wondering what it was all about when Austin started explaining.

  “That’s better,” he said, and Talba saw that he’d consumed a substantial portion of the food on his plate in approximately forty seconds. “Nothing like a lot of grease and gunk for a hangover.”

  Eddie said, “I take it that means you imbibed a little yesterday?”

  “Uh-uh, brother. You’ve got me wrong. I imbibed a lot yesterday. Sorry about your car, by the way. I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

  Eddie waved a gracious hand. “Ah, it needed the workout.”

  Austin had nearly cleaned his plate and was putting apricot jelly on a muffin. His face cr
acked in one of those self-conscious grins that Talba noticed passed for an apology with certain men. “I guess it was shock. All I could think of was not thinking of what I should have been thinking of. You understand what I mean at all?”

  Eddie looked a little bewildered, but Angie said, “Totally. It’s the broken leg syndrome.”

  Both Austin and Eddie went blank. “You know,” she said. “All you can think is, ‘Damn! I’ve got a run in my stocking.’ ”

  “That’s it!” Austin shouted, muffin crumbs strewing out of his mouth. “That’s it exactly. I had to sign the payroll checks and I had to get my ride. That was all I let myself think of. And then when I’d signed the damn checks, and gotten on the Harley, it hit me. I mean… the bad news hit me. I turned right around and came back here and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way. And then I got here and I drank and watched old movies, and… ummm… cried.” He looked back down at his plate, picked up his fork, and searched unsuccessfully for one last morsel of food.

  Talba could believe the drinking part, but the crying didn’t convince her. Except that, when Austin raised his eyes, they were a little too shiny. “I couldn’t believe my little sister was really gone. And my mother. She was like a force of nature. Nothing could hurt her. I fell asleep and finally I woke up and almost called Arnelle. You don’t know what a big deal that is.” He turned up his palms. “…Anyway, I finally believed it. So I drank some more and slept some more and this morning I woke up. Really, really, really hungry.”

  Everybody was embarrassed. Talba decided to change the subject ever so slightly. “Did you know I’m Janessa’s sister?”

  “No! How the hell could that be?”

  Talba shrugged. “Long story. But here’s what I’m curious about—she says you insulted Rashad Monday night; other people say you were friends.”

  “Oh, shit! Goddammit, I’m going to quit drinking. Yeah, Rashad’s my friend. Look, I’ll tell you the story on that. I don’t know how to say this but… well, basically, my mom was no mother at all. She always treated us like a big inconvenience—except for Cassie, that is. She more or less treated Cassie like a boil on her behind.” Talba winced, but to her amazement, Angie smiled. “So, what can I tell you? I never grew up. When I saw her so happy with Rashad, treating him like he was her son… this old, ugly junior-high jealousy just bubbled up, and I said mean things to him.” He held up apologetic palms again. “I don’t like to admit it, but she could make me turn into a six-year-old who wanted his mama. So I act like a six-year-old sometimes. Where is Rashad, anyway?” He did the guilty-grin thing. “The police make him leave? I need to apologize.”