Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  Angie? Angela Valentino? Angie was about as likely to be in Central Lockup as Sister Helen Prejean. Angie neither relieved herself on the street nor smoked pot in public. She avoided bar fights and had no domestic partner to chase with a cleaver. She was a lawyer in good standing. What the hell was this?

  “Angie, hang on; I’ve got to dry my hands.” Talba set the phone down for a moment and found a paper towel. “What the hell did you do?”

  “Listen, I’m not the problem, they popped Alabama, too—planted drugs on us.”

  Big Chief Alabama Bandana, one of Angie’s most celebrated clients.He was a musician and Mardi Gras personality famous for his drug problem.

  Somebody could have planted drugs on him—or maybe that was just what Angie wanted to believe. “But… your parents…” Talba said. She couldn’t figure out why Angie was calling her instead of them. Talba’s boss was Angela’s father, Eddie Valentino, one of the best-connected people in town. If anyone could spring his daughter, Eddie could.

  “They went to the Gulf Coast for the weekend. Dad’s got his cell phone off.”

  I’ll just bet he has, Talba thought. Eddie was nothing if not discreet, but you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that the Gulf Coast had an aphrodisiac effect on his wife, Audrey. He took her there whenever he could and was always unavailable until they got back.

  “You know what it’s like in Central Lockup? God forbid you should ever find out. You get access to a phone, but no way to look up numbers.. You can only call numbers you know by heart.”

  “Oh. Maybe that’s why I get so many wrong numbers.” Talba heard herself babbling, aware that she was in shock.

  Angie said, “Huh? Listen, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got to get us out of here.”

  “Obviously. Where do I start?”

  “We’ve got to find a judge who’ll set bond on a Saturday night.”

  “Give me a name and I’ll call it.”

  “No, let my lawyer do it. Jimmy Houlihan. Problem is, I don’t know his home number. Look it up, will you?”

  “Your lawyer? Lawyers have lawyers?”

  “Jimmy’s a friend.”

  Uh-huh, Talba thought. Ex-boyfriend. Fingers shaking, she moved into her office and looked him up. “Not here—only his office. But I could call his answering service., I can’t call you back, right?”

  “No, but I can call you next time the phone’s free.”

  “Forget it. You’ve made contact—I’ll do the rest. You okay, by the way?”

  “I’m making lots of new friends, none of them deputies. No problem, I’ll live. I’m just worried about Al.”

  “Want me to call his family?”

  “You can try, but I don’t know his number by heart. His real name’s Albert Brazil; he might be listed..”

  “Okay, I’ll take it from here. Hang in there, okay?”

  “Thanks.” Talba heard the relief in her voice. “Listen, one last thing. Tell Jimmy it can’t be Buddy Champagne.”

  “What can’t be?”

  “The judge. Anybody but Buddy. Whatever happens, not Buddy. Even if we have to spend a week in jail.”

  “Got it. Not Buddy.”

  When Talba put down the phone, she noticed that her palm was damp, along with her temples. Whew. This was a blow.

  Well, so much for Michelle’s health-food greens. She went in search of Miz Clara, who was taking a preprandial snooze, secure in the knowledge that her daughter had dinner under control. “Mama? Can you wake up?”

  Miz Clara started. She was wearing a pair of old sweats and a T-shirt, the kind of thing she wore to work; no wig, and she probably wouldn’t put one on, either—this was just family. “Sandra, whassup, for heaven’s sake? I jus’ barely drop off and you come in here shakin’ me like somethin’ on fire.” She called her daughter a different name from the one Talba called herself, and thereon hung a tale—no one in the family ever mentioned Talba’s birth name, which was neither Sandra nor Talba. “Mama, Angie’s in jail.”

  “Angie? What she do, insult a judge?”

  “Says she was framed. Listen, I’ve got to get her out. The potato salad’s done; you mind fixing the greens?”

  Miz Clara looked at her watch. “Take two hours to make greens—I got thirty minutes.”

  “Mama, it doesn’t. Just put them in a steamer for awhile.”

  “Mmph.”

  “Michelle likes them that way.”

  “She would.” Michelle came from a much fancier family than the Wallises ever thought about being.

  Talba could feel the minutes ticking away. Every second she wasn’t working on the problem was a second Angie and Alabama would have to spend in jail. “Go on,” Miz Clara said. “Do what ya gotta do. I’ll feed ya rats.” Cats, she meant. Blanche and Koko were more her cats than Talba’s.

  First, Talba thought, the musician’s family. An Albert Brazil was listed on Villere Street. That would be him. Most Mardi Gras Indians lived in Tremé. A woman answered. “Mrs. Brazil?”

  “Ain’ no Miz Brazil.”

  “I’m looking for the family of Albert Brazil.”

  The woman’s voice changed. “Somethin’ happen to Albert? Yeah, I’m Miz Brazil.” Just not legally, Talba thought.

  “Listen, Albert’s fine. But there’s been a mix-up, and I’m working on it. I work with his lawyer, Angela Valentino….”

  “Oh, Lord, don’t tell me he in jail again!”

  “Not for long, if I can help it.”

  “Who you? Why you callin’ ’steada Miss Angela? I ain’ know who you is.”

  “My name’s Talba Wallis. I’m a P.I. who works with her father, Eddie Valentino. We do a lot of work for Angie’s firm.”

  “Well, why ain’t Miss Angela callin’?”

  “She’s—uh—” Something told Talba to dissemble. “We’re both working on it. She’s trying to get a judge to set bond. Asked me to call you; set your mind at ease.”

  “Swear to God, this the last time! Albert done swore on the Big Book he clean, he stayin’ clean. He barely out of jail, and now he back in. You get him out, tell him he better not come home.”

  Talba knew she shouldn’t give out any more information than she had to, but she wanted to ease the woman’s pain if she could. “Angela says the drugs were planted.”

  “Oh, yeah! Uh-huh. That what he always say. They all say that; don’t you know nothin’?” She hung up in a fury, leaving Talba with uncomfortable nigglings. Everybody in jail said they were framed. She was well aware of that. She knew Angie well enough to know she wasn’t a druggie, but surely the lawyer was being naive where the Chief was concerned. Talba was inclined to agree with the self-styled Mrs. Brazil—there were probably very few innocent people moldering in Central Lockup.

  Talba didn’t bother with Jimmy Houlihan’s answering service. For someone with her computer skills, people’s private numbers were a piece of cake,. And after no more than twelve or thirteen rings, a man answered. “Mr. Houlihan?” Talba asked.

  “Jimmy? You want Jimmy?” The man sounded as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. In the background she could hear the buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and two different kinds of loud music, one involving drums. “Think he went to the parade.”

  Talba thanked him and hung up, surmising that since Houlihan lived on St. Charles Avenue itself—the main artery of almost every parade of Carnival—a parade party was in progress. Technically speaking, it wasn’t the first weekend of parades— Krewe Du Vieux had rolled the weekend before in the French Quarter.

  But it was the second day of the twelve days of almost constant parading that mesmerized the city while paralyzing its traffic every year at this time. The only break would come on the following Monday. Otherwise, there would be at least two parades a day in New Orleans itself, plus many more in the suburbs, until Ash Wednesday. No one who lived on St Charles or near it escaped entertaining. People with college-age children found themselves running impromptu dormitories and
soup kitchens; those with out-of-town friends who had the price of airline tickets became instant B&B proprietors; and anyone who was left who knew anyone at all pretty much held open house—whether they wanted to or not.

  Since it was only the second day, spirits would be high; nobody’d yet be burned out. No wonder you couldn’t hear yourself think at the Houlihan house. Talba was going to have to pay the lawyer a visit, and that wasn’t going to be easy, given the traffic. Still, she knew she could do it if she followed Eddie Valentino’s Foolproof Carnival Driving Formula, which involved staying on I-10 whenever she could and avoiding Magazine and Prytania as if they were St Charles itself—in other words, sticking to the lake side of the parade route. (It got more complicated the night of the Endymion Parade, which rolled in another neighborhood entirely, but there were ways, and Eddie knew them.)

  Talba followed the Valentino blueprint, ending up on Baronne and wondering where she was going to park. But as it turned out, she needn’t have—many of Central City’s most enterprising entrepreneurs had set up temporary lots at twenty dollars a spot. This had to be a place where they just couldn’t wait for Mardi Gras to come around. It was a dicey neighborhood, the kind where, on a normal night, you might not be all that surprised to find a car window broken or a lock smashed when you returned. Talba figured that tonight the twenty dollars not only paid for the spot, but ought to cover protection as well. Best of both worlds, she thought, admiring capitalism in action, and, despite herself, catching the festive feeling of the neighborhood. Carnival might be a pain, but once you broke down and gave in to it, it sucked you in like a purple, green, and gold patch of quicksand. She certainly hoped Jimmy Houlihan was a good enough friend of Angie’s to resist the irresistible.

  The Houlihan house was overrun. It was a big brick edifice with columns, decked out with Mardi Gras garlands that failed to make a good showing against the red brick, but a Mardi Gras wreath on the white door took up the slack. The door was open now, and the porch was jammed with white people, glasses and go-cups in their hands. A pale guy in a pinstriped shirt, obviously thinking Talba didn’t belong, asked if he could help her.

  “Happy Mardi Gras,” she said. “Jimmy said to pop by if I could.”

  He planted a big one on her. “Happy Mardi Gras,” he rejoined. “Bar’s inside.”

  Talba grinned at him, dying to wipe off the slobbery kiss, but thinking it might be rude. “Jimmy around?”

  He shrugged. “Saw him awhile ago. Look for a Mardi Gras rugby shirt.”

  She checked out the crowd. Half the men in the crowd wore green, gold, and purple shirts. “Thanks a lot.”

  She left him guffawing, obviously having had a beer or two, and made her way inside the house. A woman in jeans, smooth hair in one of those neat pageboys favored in this neck of the woods, spotted her and snaked her way through the crush, probably wondering if Talba was someone off the streets, attracted by the crowd. Talba waved as if she knew her. “Hiii! You must be Patsy Houlihan.” She’d found the name on an opera Web site. “I’m Talba Wallis.”

  “Oh, uh, hi. Uh. Talba. You must work with Jimmy.” She looked a little confused.

  Good. Talba must have guessed right. “I’m a client.” She let it hang there awkwardly, forcing the other woman to make some kind of move.

  “Well. Let’s get you a drink.” She turned, expecting Talba to follow her to the bar, which Talba did.

  The bartender was African-American, like Talba herself, wearing a white waiter’s jacket. “Just water, please.”

  The guy didn’t smile at her, didn’t seem to be enjoying his work. She tried Patsy again. “I was hoping to say hello to Jimmy.”

  Patsy swiveled her head. “Oh. Jimmy. He may have gone out to the street.”

  Better fess up, Talba decided. “Actually, I’m kind of a client by proxy. I’ve got an emergency, but unfortunately I don’t know Jimmy by sight.”

  The white woman’s features froze. She was one of those bird-like, gym rat types whose day was probably all about getting her fingers and toes painted. The kind who had a garage that opened with a remote and never parked on the street for fear of getting mugged. She might not be a racist, but Talba had a feeling this was the first time an African-American who wasn’t on staff had ever been to one of her parties. And she wasn’t adjusting any too quickly.

  Talba had a feeling mentioning Angie’s name wasn’t the way to go. “I’m a P.I.,” she said. “My firm works with his firm.” It might even be true. Eddie’d been around so long he’d probably worked with every lawyer in town at some point.

  “But I… but it’s Mardi Gras!” In some other context it might have sounded shallow, but in New Orleans, everything stops for Mardi Gras. Talba could grasp Patsy’s displeasure. This was like appearing at someone’s house on Christmas morning.

  She was almost out of ideas, but at that moment a man in a Mardi Gras rugby shirt danced up. “Hey, darlin’, you’re missing the parade.” He put a well-shaped hand on Patsy’s shoulders, and was rewarded with a scathing look.

  “Jimmy?” Talba said, before Patsy could recover. Can this marriage be saved? she thought.

  The man removed his hand from his wife’s shoulder and offered it to Talba. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  There were a lot of different ways you could say that phrase. This man said it gently, sincerely, as if, despite its stiffness, it came naturally to him. Talba saw that he was tall, with good shoulders and a big chest. He had silky brown hair—quintessential white-dude hair—and small, stylish spectacles; one of those pinkish Irish faces; a rounded nose, but an oval face, an open one. An attractive man, someone Angie could be friends with.

  She gave him a broad smile. “Sorry to barge in like this. One of your clients asked me to get in touch, but when I called…”

  “Oh, God, no telling who answered the phone.”

  “It was someone who didn’t seem to know where you were.” She glanced nervously at Patsy. “I wouldn’t have come, but your client’s got a sort of emergency.”

  He laughed. “Don’t tell me he called from Central Lockup.”

  Talba lifted a wry eyebrow. “Guess it’s happened before.”

  Houlihan seemed to be uncomfortably aware that his wife was taking in every word, and doing a slow burn at the same time.

  “Patsy, you go on and have fun. Let me see what I can do for this lady.”

  Patsy drifted away, apparently determined to keep up appearances, but Talba surmised that her house at Mardi Gras had the same rules as an exclusive men’s club—no business was to be transacted on the premises.

  Talba smelled a spat in the making. She felt sorry for him. “It’s Angela Valentino,” she said.

  “Geddouttahere!”

  “She was with Al Brazil when they got popped. You know, Chief of the Poison Oleanders?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows Big Chief Alabama. By reputation, anyhow. What happened?”

  “She says somebody planted drugs on the Chief.”

  “That Angie. What a little Pollyanna.”

  Talba was getting impatient. “I work with her dad, so she called me. Said to get you to get a judge to set bond for both of them.”

  He nodded. “I can do that. Hey, no problem whatsoever. We got a couple judges soakin’ up the suds right out on the porch.”

  “Well, one thing. She said anybody but Buddy Champagne.”

  This time he was the one speaking eyebrow language. “Well, that do make it harder.”

  “Champagne’s here?”

  Houlihan shrugged. “He’s a neighbor. Easiest thing in the world to set it up.”

  “Loosely translated, she said she’d rather rot in jail.”

  He laughed. The judges weren’t the only ones soaking up suds. “Hey, you’re a pretty sharp cookie. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Talba Wallis. I work with Angie’s dad. He was away, so she called me.”

  His face clouded. “But why didn’t she just call me directly?”


  “They don’t give you a phone book and she didn’t have your number memorized.”

  “Well… she used to.” She could see the regret in his face and thought that anyone married to Patsy Houlihan could be forgiven for having a wandering eye. “Angie’s really in jail? Little Angie?”

  “Last I looked, little Angie could take ten men about your size.” It was true, though it had a great deal more to do with attitude than Angie’s own size—she was a perfect size eight, maybe even a six.

  “Woo. ’Tain’t it the truth.” Houlihan sighed. “Okay, let me go do the honors. Make yourself at home. I’ll find you when it’s done.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard.” Talba waved at the sea of white faces. “I kind of stick out in this crowd.”

  “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “Patsy’s in charge of the guest list.” He melted into the melee. If he and Angie had been an item once, he seemed nostalgic for old times.

  Making herself at home was a good trick, Talba thought, when your hostess hates you, but she set about making friends with the sour bartender. “Long night, huh?”

  The man sighed. “Long as a piece of balin’ wire.”

  “I heard that,” she said, rolling her eyes. Evidently she wasn’t the only one who had her differences with Patsy.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like a little something in that water?”

  Talba handed him her glass. “Little more ice, maybe. I’ve got to be alert—got to go bail someone out in a while.”

  “I’m sure sorry to hear that.”

  Talba raised her freshened glass. “Happy Mardi Gras,” she said.