P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof

by Julie Smith

  “You know what I’m doing. I’m trying to help them.”

  “Best thing you could do is get the hell away from them.”

  “You want to at least tell me where the Dorands live?”

  “Round here.”

  “Can you be more specific than that?”

  “No. I sure couldn’t.”

  She couldn’t figure out why he’d turned so hostile. She tried another tack. “Okay, next subject. Were you here the night Buddy was killed?”

  “Are you crazy? Of course not.”

  “Well, who was? Is there a night watchman?”

  “Yeah, there’s a night watchman.” He spoke in the mocking, know-it-all tone of a twelve-year-old. “The cops already talked to him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “None of your goddam business.”

  Royce finally came out of the office, and joined them. “Name’s Wesley Burrell. He doesn’t know a goddam thing.”

  Talba took out a notebook. “Mind telling me where he lives?”

  “Goddam Kristin LaGarde,” he said, and went back in the office.

  Talba took advantage of the moment with Brad, figuring, when in doubt, try the direct approach. “What’s wrong, Brad?” she said. “Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?”

  When he turned toward her, his face was livid. “You goddam little bitch! What the hell are you trying to do here?”

  She must have hit a nerve. “Must be something on your mind. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so mad. What was Buddy doing here that night?”

  Making a sound like a growl, Brad turned around and walked down the pier, much as Royce had earlier. After a moment, he broke into a jog, the better to work off his anger, Talba thought. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked when Royce returned.

  Royce stared down the pier after his friend. “He doesn’t like you much. You blame him?”

  “Not really.” She smiled. “Got that address for me?”

  “Wes lives in Arabi. Ya gon’ leave us alone now?”

  “Thought you wanted me to find your daddy’s killer.”

  Royce winced, and went back in the office. She followed him. “Listen, one more thing.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “The kitten’s down by my car and she looks hungry.”

  His face relaxed slightly. “Oh, Gumbo. Take some shrimp to him, why don’t you? Hell, take him home—he’s just going to die out here, anyhow. Everybody else does.”

  Despite its mama’s admonitions, the kitten was so hungry it ate out of her hand. Talba grabbed it by the scruff. Royce was probably right—and Raisa was going to love this animal.

  She was also going to love Talba for bringing it to her.

  Gumbo—if that was its name—seemed to think the worst had happened, but fortunately Talba had a few more shrimp, which she laid on the seat beside her before releasing the cat. Apparently, as far as Gumbo was concerned, rules were meant to be broken. The cat was far too hungry to stand on ceremony.

  Talba turned her attention back to the interview. The two men were almost laughable. They seemed to be trying to play good cop-bad cop, except that neither of them was convincing as the good one. It was more like each had come to the other’s rescue when he had to.

  She wondered why the hell they hadn’t just clammed up—and then realized, with some frustration, that they more or less had. They hadn’t said what Buddy was doing at the marina, they hadn’t given her the Dorands’ address, and they hadn’t even told her where Wesley Burrell lived.

  Chapter 13

  Ben Izaguirre might as well be next, she thought, and then the Dorands. Izaguirre’s restaurant was more or less in the neighborhood, in the Lake Catherine area, going toward the Rigolets, and she figured he’d probably be there in the middle of the morning.

  The restaurant was a musty-smelling old white-shingled dockside joint that looked like it didn’t do much business anymore, if it ever had—the kind of family-owned eatery that was getting harder and harder to find in New Orleans these days, but probably served great seafood. A sign out front announced, FRIDAYS BOILED SEAFOOD—BIKERS WELCOME.

  Talba wasn’t too sure what to do about the kitten; but it was a cool day, so suffocation ought not to be a problem, and it was busy sleeping off its meal. She figured it could fend for itself for a while.

  Inside the restaurant, two or three formica-topped tables looked as if they’d just been deserted by the breakfast crowd and hadn’t yet been cleared. Each of the others was equipped with salt, pepper, Tabasco, ketchup, horseradish, small bowls of lemon wedges, and tiny paper cups for cocktail sauce.

  A white woman was already setting up for lunch, busily ignoring the mess. She was overweight and motherly, the kind of waitress who calls you “dawlin’” and makes you feel like she’s serving her own cooking. Talba was willing to bet she’d lived in Lake Catherine all her life.

  “Mr. Izaguirre here?” Talba asked.

  The waitress put her hands on her hips. “Sorry, dawlin’, we not hirin’.”

  “Tell him I’m a friend of Angie Valentino’s. I work with her father.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” The woman was clearly dismayed, knowing she’d screwed up. “I’ll get him.”

  In a moment, a squat mushroom of a man waddled out behind her, beaming, hand already sticking out like a fin. “You must be that detective gal.”

  Talba let him pump her hand. “Oh! You heard about me. I’m Talba Wallis.”

  “Ben Izaguirre.”

  Like Brad Leitner, he was bald, but in his case, it was natural. He still had a fringe of white to prove it. “Ya want some shrimp? Guaran-damtee ya it’s Louisiana wild-caught. Got some nice ersters, too.” Oysters, he meant. Eddie’s pronunciation.

  Talba smiled. She liked him; he reminded her of Eddie. “Maybe some coffee,” she said.

  “Denise, coffee for the lady,” he told the waitress. “Iced tea for me. Sit down, sit down—anywhere ya like.”

  Talba obeyed, and he lowered his bulk into a chair at a right angle from her. “Sure ya wouldn’t like somethin’ to eat? Least I can do’s feed ya. Miz Valentino says ya did a real fine job over at Buddy’s, rest his evil ol’ soul. What can I do for ya?” He didn’t stop to let her answer. “It’s a terrible, terrible thing they did to Miz Valentino and that Indian fella. Real shame about that. And all she cared about was her client—didn’t think about herself at all. Fine, fine woman, Angela Valentino. Don’t come any better than her.” His face hardened. “Listen, whoever knocked off ol’ Buddy did us all a favor. Thought about it myself once or twice.”

  “Somehow, I don’t see you as a murderer,” Talba said truthfully.

  “Oh, I got a temper on me. Ask Denise—or my wife. Anybody’ll tell ya that. More than once I thought about takin’ the law into my own hands. But no need, no need; thanks to Miz Valentino. And you, of course. I have to thank ya for what you did.”

  “It kind of backfired on me, though. I didn’t mean to get the judge killed.”

  He patted her hand. “Course ya didn’t. Man like Buddy, though, he had enemies.”

  “Sure you didn’t kill him?” Talba smiled when she said it.

  “Killin’ him wasn’t exactly my fantasy. I had one, though—don’t think I didn’t. Thought about torchin’ that hellhole more than once. Too close to home, though; mighta spread.”

  “The marina, you mean?” she asked, wondering whether he was serious.

  “Garbage dump’s more like it. Buddy’s shrimp mighta been ‘wild-caught,’ but I don’t want to think about sanitary conditions over there. Not to mention safety considerations. Whole neighborhood was up in arms about that poor little Dorand boy.”

  “I hear he lived around here,” Talba said. “You know his family?”

  “I do now.” He looked uncomfortable. “Simple folk. Salt of the earth—didn’t know what hit ’em. Ya never did say what I can do for ya.”

  “Still got a few loose ends on the case. Angie isn’t off the hook
quite yet. She said you almost got the same treatment.”

  “Hell, yeah, I did. Goddam those bastards—think they own the earth.”

  “What bastards? I mean—Buddy and who else?”

  “People in power that take advantage of the little folk. That’s all I meant. Why?”

  “I heard you saw who planted the drugs on you.”

  He shook his head. “Well, I did and I didn’t. Saw a couple guys get out of my car and run away. Only saw ’em from the back. But one of ’em was bald as an egg. Pretty sure it was Brad Leitner. I thought they were stealing something, but nothing was missing. Right away I knew what happened.”

  “How?” Talba asked.

  “Pretty obvious. There was a bag of pot on the front seat.” He picked up a cellophane pack of saltines and began to worry it open.

  “In plain sight,” Talba said.

  “Right. So anybody walking by could see it. See what I’m getting at? It wouldn’t take an illegal search to find it. So puttin’ two and two together, it had to be a plant. Because Buddy’d threatened me. Or rather, he’d gotten Brad Leitner to do it.” There was something odd about his face when he mentioned Leitner, as if a whiff of Buddy’s marina had wafted by.

  “What did Brad threaten you with?”

  “Just that I’d be sorry—that kind of crap.” Izaguirre was now pouring ketchup into one of the little sauce cups. “So I just took the package and threw it in the water. By the time I got back to the car, a couple guys were looking in the window—sheriff’s car was parked right down the street.”

  “That was pretty quick thinking.”

  Izaguirre looked up from his sauce-making. “Ya know something, Miss Wallis? I wasn’t thinking at all. I got the hell scared out of me, that was all. Besides, I know Leitner. My kid went to school with him—always was a sneaky little bastard.”

  Talba smiled. “What’d he do to your kid?”

  “Turned half the school against him—told lies about him.”

  Since he hadn’t mentioned what kind of lies, Talba didn’t feel comfortable asking. Instead, she waited while Izaguirre added horseradish and Tabasco to his concoction.

  Finally, he said, “They were both on the track team. Said Mikey tried to grab him in the shower.” He stirred the sauce with a cracker.

  Talba smiled. “Oh. What’d Mikey do to make him mad?”

  “Little pissant was jealous. Mikey was the captain of the team.” He stirred the sauce again.

  “Was Leitner ever in any kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know if he was ever arrested, but I can tell you this—he’s an ex-Orleans Parish sheriff’s deputy—with emphasis on the ‘ex.’ What’s that tell ya?”

  “You mean, with that sheriff’s car parked near yours? Tells me he knows where to find the dirty deputies.”

  Izaguirre nodded, sniffing at the cracker and making a face. He picked up the Tabasco and sprinkled it liberally before he spoke. “That’s what I think. The sheriff’s department runs the jails, and Buddy was a judge. You know what the paper said. He set high bonds for Nicasio’s clients. Lot of room there for cooperation with the deputies. And Leitner’s tight with the Champagnes, always has been.”

  “Wonder if he quit the sheriff’s department to run that marina?”

  “Now that I don’t know. All I know is, he turned up there a few months ago.”

  Talba had a thought. “Royce go to your kid’s school, too?”

  “Oh, yeah. De La Salle. Another little punk.” His nose wrinkled again. Another rank whiff. He chewed a sauce-sopped saltine. “Ya ever try this? Poor man’s ersters. Been doin’ it since I was a kid.”

  Talba couldn’t help but smile. “Sure.” Every kid in Louisiana did it, but very few grown-ups did.

  She wondered if Angie knew about Izaguirre’s long-running relationship with the Champagnes—if it could be called a relationship. Maybe there was something personal in his opposition to the marina. But she still couldn’t find a motive for murder in it.

  “But the drug thing,” she said. “Do you have any reason to think Leitner was involved with drugs?”

  “Hell, anybody can get drugs. Anyhow, there were always shady characters hanging around that marina. Tried like hell to find out if anything funny was going on over there. Never could, but there was enough wrong without that. How would you like that place in your neighborhood?”

  “I’d really hate that,” Talba said truthfully, which for some reason Izaguirre found hilarious.

  When he’d quit laughing and wiping his eyes, he said, “There ya are, then.”

  “Well, I thank you for your time. I’d like to go see the Dorands, but I’m not sure where they live. Can you help me out with that?”

  Izaguirre looked at his watch. “Sure. They live just up the road. You’ll probably find ’em home. Billy doesn’t work—he’s got some kind of disability or other—and Fay runs some kind of half-assed beauty shop out of the house. Say, ya want to take some shrimp home with ya?”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to be out for a while. Last thing I need’s my car smelling like your neighborhood.”

  That got another belly laugh, the term being particularly applicable in Izaguirre’s case.

  “By the way, it’s not shrimp season, is it? But I can see they’ve been working that place. Was Buddy buying from poachers?”

  “Damn right he was.” He shrugged. “Whatcha gonna do?”

  When she had the address, Talba left, hoping Fay wouldn’t be washing someone’s hair when she got to the Dorands. The cat, still napping, stirred when she got in the car—in fact, had a near freak-out and ended up hiding under the seat. Good place for it, Talba decided.

  The house was on the little two-lane highway, Old Spanish Trail, that led to the Rigolets Bridge. It looked like a converted fishing shack, rising on short stilts, about two and a half feet high, and the house proper was dwarfed by an old-fashioned screened-in porch—or would have been, if not for the vast satellite dish perched somewhere at the back of the little building. The house had white siding and a great deal of peeling green woodwork, but no amount of dressing up could erase the gloomy effect of all that dark screen. Timidly, she tried the screen door, unsure whether it constituted the beginning of the residents’ private space, and it opened on a man, evidently Billy, sitting in an old wooden porch chair, staring into space and looking sad. Every inch the broken man. What had happened to him—the death of a child—was the worst thing that could happen to anybody, people said. She didn’t doubt it.

  “Mr. Dorand? Sorry, I didn’t know if I should knock or not.”

  “We leave it open. Wife operates a bi’ness outta here. Whatcha need?”

  “I’m a friend of Ben Izaguirre’s. Wonder if you could talk to me a few minutes.”

  He grunted. “Whatcha need?” he repeated. He didn’t sound like he cared much.

  “I’m doing some work for Angela Valentino. Looking into what happened to your boy.”

  His eyes reddened and watered. His expression didn’t change.

  “Is Mrs. Dorand home?”

  He grunted again, and heaved himself up, no easy feat. He was a large man—a lot bigger than Izaguirre—diabetic, perhaps. Pale, too. Maybe heart trouble.

  “It’s all right, I’ll knock.”

  “I’ll get her.” He evidently didn’t want her going into their house. A racist, maybe. In fact, she’d bet on it.

  Fay Dorand was a shortish, plumpish woman with an air of vitality about her. She had short, thick, auburn hair, more crinkly than curly, that sat on her head like a small bush. If she was a hairdresser, she should probably stick to other people’s heads. But she wore a pink smock, indicating that Izaguirre had been right.

  “It’s all right,” she said to her husband, as she slipped out onto the porch. “I just put her under the dryer.” She spoke to Talba. “Billy told me you want to talk about Jimmy.”

  Talba pulled out her license and a badge that could be had for eighty dollars if you were a
P.I.—Eddie scorned the whole idea, but Talba found hers useful in cases like this. “I’m a private investigator, and a friend of Angela Valentino. Just talked to Ben Izaguirre—he said you might be able to clear up a few things for me.”

  The Dorands didn’t ask her to sit down, though Billy lowered himself again into a chair. “I know this is difficult,” Talba said. “I was wondering if you can give me some information about the accident.”

  Billy’s red-rimmed eyes bored into her so savagely she nearly had to look away.

  “They electrocuted him,” Billy said. “Just like a criminal.”

  There was so much anger in the man she wanted to take a step back. Willing herself to stand her ground, she spoke carefully. “Mmm. Mmm. Sounds like you’re saying you don’t think it was an accident.”

  Billy grunted again. “Bastards don’t care about nothin’ but money. Idiots wired the place wrong. Somethin’ wasn’t grounded, and Jimmy stepped in water while he was runnin’ the conveyor belt.” He sniffed. “Wasn’t but seventeen.”

  “I hear you filed suit against the marina.”

  “Our luck,” Fay said, “it woulda been heard in Buddy’s court.”

  Did she really think that could happen? Talba wondered, and thought it possible. These weren’t the kind of people who understood the finer points of law. “You think?” she said.

  “Hell, Buddy got what he deserved. I’m just sorry he won’t be around to pay us what he owes us.”

  “How about the electrician? Did you sue him, too?”

  “Hell,” Billy said. “There wasn’t no electrician. That homo Brad Leitner did all the wirin’ over there. Buddy was too goddam cheap to even hire a professional. And him with that mansion Uptown.” The word “mansion” came out as a sneer. “Ya ever seen that place? Makes Anne Rice’s house look like a cabin in the woods.”

  So Brad himself was responsible for the boy’s death. That, Talba thought, was what he was hiding. But maybe it wasn’t the whole story. Eddie had coached her carefully in lying and playing dumb and she was getting a lot better at both, but this time she wouldn’t even have to fake dumb. She had no idea if that homo remark was a routine insult or actually meant something. “Leitner’s gay?” she ventured. “I didn’t know that.”