82 Desire

by Smith, Julie

  “Are you still working for Allred? “

  Wallis looked confused, as if she weren’t sure what to say. Finally, she said, “From time to time.”

  “Uh-huh. When was the last time?”

  “Last month, I guess.”

  “You told me you were trying to call him yesterday—why was that?”

  “That’s private.”

  “Nothing’s private, Ms. Wallis. This is a murder investigation.”

  Fury contorted Wallis’s features. “You … white … bitch.” She bit off each word. “How dare you play games with me? Are you telling me Gene Allred’s dead?”

  If Skip had been hoping to provoke a reaction, it wasn’t this one. She’d never been spoken to quite so rudely by a witness, especially one who might be a suspect. Still, she supposed the woman had registered surprise.

  “I hate these damn power games. You treat me like a person or I’m out of here. All day long you’ve pushed me around. You treat me with a little respect.” Her hair extensions were shaking, she was so mad.

  “Ms. Wallis, you just insulted a police officer. You want me to make your life difficult, I’ve certainly got reason. Now, understand the seriousness of this situation. Your employer has been murdered. Calm down and answer my questions.”

  Skip could not allow herself to be insulted, but in the back of her mind, she thought Wallis had a point—she had probably pushed too far and ended up bullying.

  Wallis sulked. She wasn’t about to apologize and Skip wasn’t about to ask her to. Best to forget the whole thing.

  Skip said in a quieter voice: “Were you close to Mr. Allred?”

  “No, I wasn’t close to Mr. Allred. I worked for him.”

  Good. Wallis was backing off, too. “Well, then, why did you call him and then go see him when you couldn’t get him? It must have been pretty important.”

  “It was about a client.”

  “What client?”

  Wallis put a hand over her mouth, not as if trying to keep something in, more as if she were thinking. She said, “Oh, God,” and held the position for a while. Finally, she said, “I had a bad feeling. I think I better talk about it.”

  “It’s probably best.”

  “I think I have to call a lawyer.”

  That was the last thing Skip wanted. “There’s no need if you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Wallis stared at her a minute, possibly relieved, more likely calculating odds. Finally, she said, “Uh-uh. I’d like to help, but I just can’t right now. I’ve got to have legal advice.”

  Skip suddenly became Ms. Nicecop. “Well, look, do you have a good lawyer? Maybe I could—”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Wallis got up and turned to leave the room.

  “It was about Russell Fortier, wasn’t it?”

  Wallis whirled. “You found the files.”

  It was all Skip could do not to shout, “What files?” Instead she said, “Ms. Wallis, I need to read you your rights.”

  “You’re arresting me?”

  “I really can’t let you leave right now. Maybe you could have your lawyer meet us here.”

  “I don’t have a lawyer. I’ll have to get one.”

  Time was pouring away. Skip said, “Allred looked to me like a seedy private eye—seedy PIs do things to get information that aren’t completely legal. However, I’m not about to arrest you if you know something that’s going to help me solve a murder case—not unless the injured party presses charges. And being a tattletale is not my job. Do you follow?”

  Wallis looked interested. Skip poured it on a little more. “Russell Fortier may be in danger.”

  Wallis sat down again. “Look. Are you offering me immunity from prosecution? Something like that?”

  “Not exactly. I’m just saying if you didn’t kill Gene Allred and you do cooperate in the investigation, I’m not going to go after you for something petty.”

  “You really think Fortier could be in danger?”

  “I sure do.” In fact, he’s probably dead.

  “Okay. Okay, I’ll talk.”

  Skip Mirandized her just to get it on the record. And Wallis talked. “To begin with,” she said, “I am a poet. Don’t ask me why or how. I couldn’t tell you. It’s just something you do—one does, I mean. That one is born with. Oh, yes, yes, the world is full of MFAs, but did Chaucer have one? Did Shakespeare? Or even Wallace Stevens? Wallace Stevens would have been the world’s most prosaic man if he hadn’t been a poet.”

  Skip pointed to her tape recorder. “Ms. Wallis. The tape’s almost run out. Were you planning to get started soon?”

  “It’s all of a piece, Detective.”

  “I’m not an audience, okay? I’m a police officer investigating a murder case.”

  Wallis broke into a grin. “Hey, maybe you’d like to be an audience. Tomorrow at Reggie and Chaz.” She handed Skip a flyer. “I got this poem I just know you’d like.”

  “Ms. Wallis, I’m losing patience.”

  “I’m gettin’ there, okay? The point is, ‘poet’ isn’t a job description—my mama thinks it’s a hobby. So I’ve got to have a day job—you know, the famous ‘somethin’ to fall back on’? I’m damn good with computers, Detective. Graduated from Xavier, top of my class. But I took some time off to pursue my art. And in the course of it, I got mixed up with Mr. Allred.”

  ***

  Talba had mentioned the poetry mostly as a blind. True, it was the most important thing in her life—in a long-term sense—but it wasn’t the engine that drove her, at least right now. Talba hoped to solve her problem and leave it behind, but it had to be handled first. As a small child, she had vowed to do this thing, to find the Pill Man and lay the demons to rest, and now was the time to do it. When it was done, she could move on.

  But it had to be done.

  She had found Allred’s ad in the Yellow Pages. (“Nothing like having a name that starts with A,” he told her once. “Bet I get half my clients that way.”)

  She liked his office. It looked seedy enough to make her think she could afford him. And Allred himself, despite his polyester suit and face abloom with gin blossoms, had nice eyes. Eyes like those she’d seen on many an older black man—eyes that said he’d seen suffering and comprehended it. She’d never known her father, and as a consequence was drawn to these suffering men. They looked as if they’d be kind.

  She had enough sense to know that Allred, in his job, was no saint, but her intuition told her he wasn’t all bad either—that he’d probably treat her honestly—and that was all she needed.

  She started at the beginning. “Mr. Allred, you a racist?”

  “A racist? You sound like you’re one. You want a black PI, I’ll give you some names.”

  “Hold your horses now; just hold on. This is relevant. I need you to find somebody for me—and he’s a racist, whether he knows it or not. If you’re a racist, you’re just not gonna relate.”

  Allred rested his chin on one fist and tapped the table with the other. “I’m no racist, Ms. Wallis.”

  She told him her problem.

  When she had finished he said, “Sure, I’ve heard that story. I’ve heard about the names. Everybody in New Orleans has.”

  “Every white person in New Orleans.”

  “What are you gonna do if you find the guy?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “I’m curious. That’s all.”

  “I’m gonna make him pay. Some way. Every way I possibly can. I’m gonna hold him up to public ridicule. An eye for an eye, Mr. Allred.”

  “And just how do you plan to do that?”

  “Through my writing.”

  “Tell more.”

  “I’m a poet.”

  “Well, then.” He leaned over, his face so close she could see the twin webs of wrinkles around his eyes. “How do you plan to pay me?”

  “I’m also a computer nerd. A really good one.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “Right now,
I’m kind of freelance.”

  “Oh, really? Well, how would you like to work for me?”

  “You got to be kidding.”

  “Can you search a computer—I mean, just kind of go through its files to find what you want?”

  “Sure. Anybody could do that.”

  “Well, first they’d have to get access to the right computer. And therein lies the rub. See, I could probably find this Pill Man for you—at least I might be able to, but it would take me longer than it would take you, because you’ve got the right demographics.”

  “You kidding me? I don’t have the right demographics for shit. Young, black, and female. Wait a minute; young, black, female, and fat—maybe I should run for president.”

  “Who do you think your typical office worker is in this town?”

  Talba got it. She cocked her head and grinned. “A brilliant poet in disguise?”

  “Disguise. Now that’s the key word, darlin’. That’s the key word. Here’s my proposition—you work for me on a case I got, and I’ll turn you into a private investigator.”

  “Oh, great.” Talba swept open an arm, indicating her humble surroundings. “Then I can be rich like you.”

  “Then you can find the Pill Man yourself.”

  She came alert, sitting up straight, as the implications of it hit her. She realized how much she’d love it--tracking down the slimy bastard all by herself. Oh, yes! She’d adore it.

  She said, “Who do I have to kill? And more to the point, how much do I get paid?”

  “You’re not an assassin, you’re a spy. And you don’t get paid anything—by me.”

  “Oh, great, this is like one of those internships where you’re supposed to be grateful for the privilege of working for free.”

  “It’s not a bit like those. You got a chip on your shoulder—anybody ever tell you that? Is it because you’re black or because you’re female?”

  She ignored him—she’d often been told she had a chip on her shoulder. “How’s this different?”

  “Because you do get paid—while undergoin’ a veritable graduate seminar in investigative techniques. It’s more like those scholarships where they pay you for goin’ to school. You know—the ones black people get.”

  “Thought you weren’t a racist, Mr. Allred.”

  “Just seein’ if you’re awake.”

  It occurred to her that he had the rudiments of a sense of humor, however crude.

  “See, what happens,” he continued, “is you get a job over at United Oil and they pay you. You think anybody’d believe me as an office worker? No way. But you’ve not only got the right demographics, you’re real bright and real attractive. No way you’re not gonna get the job.”

  “What job?”

  “Well, any job they’ve got, to tell you the truth. All you have to do is get in the building, figure out how to get to a particular person’s computer, and rifle it.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “How’s that going to help me find the Pill Man?”

  “While you’re doing that, I’m going to make a few preliminary inquiries—but I think it’s going to come down to the same thing. Getting the right job and getting into a computer.”

  Talba slapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. Sure, I could do that. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.” The scenario was suddenly crystal-clear to her—exactly the way to get the information she wanted. She could bypass Allred altogether.

  On the other hand, his proposition appealed to her. And there was certainly the possibility of her plan backfiring. She could use his job as a dry run and figure out what obstacles she might run into. She said, “When do I start?”

  “Why not now? United uses an agency called Comp-Temps.”

  “They might as well call it Nerds R’ Us.”

  “You got it. Go over to CompTemps and get yourself hired. Just do what they tell you, keep your eyes open, and come by after work.”

  “Hold it. Hold it, Mr. Allred. I’m missing something here. United Oil can’t be their only client. Granted, it’s a big company and there might be quite a few openings there—but what if they send me out on some other job? I mean, when you consider the likelihood—”

  He patted empty space. “Ms. Wallis. Calm down now. When you’re an old beat-up PI with the wrong demographics, you gotta figure out some way to stay in business. I got a mutually beneficial arrangement with a gentleman at CompTemps named L. J. Currie.”

  He sat back smugly, letting her take it in. When she thought she thoroughly had the hang of it, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be involved with such a scheme. Or more accurately, she was quite sure she did—she simply understood that she wasn’t supposed to want to. She summoned as acid a tone as she could. “How nice for Mr. Currie. Industrial espionage must pay handsomely.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but it keeps him out of jail. See, I know a thing or two about Mr. Currie.”

  “And the minute he helped you the first time, you knew something else about him.”

  “There’s more to the information highway than the Internet.”

  Talba went over to Gravier Street, where CompTemps had its offices, resisting the urge to brush off the sleaze like so much lint.

  Within the hour, she was walking into the air-conditioned chambers of United Oil Company, where she was sent to the seventeenth floor to do a job so easy she could perform it in her sleep—setting up new workstations. They had staff people installing the network cabling and routers and printers—pretty much a grunt-work job, but one that had to be supervised by someone who knew the whole system. Cheapo temps like herself could install the software.

  At the end of the day, she went back to Allred’s office, where she found him having a drink and reading the paper, his feet up on his desk.

  “You look like something out of an old movie. Real old.”

  He gave her a half grin. “I try. Drink, Ms. Wallis?”

  “No thanks.”

  Allred took his feet off the desk and sat up in his chair, acting more businesslike. “What department they put you in?”

  “Acquisitions and Property.”

  “Ho!” It was an exclamation almost of disbelief. He struck the table as he said it. “Currie’s gone and outdone himself. Who you workin’ for?”

  “With, Mr. Allred, with. I’m working with a brother and a white man who are in exceptionally crabby moods because they’re software designers who got pulled off their current fascinating assignments to do stupid tech work.”

  “A brother. Well, well, well. Better and better. Were you nice to Mr. Brother?”

  “Aka Mr. Robert Tyson, no relation to Mike.” Talba crossed her fingers. “We’re like that.” In fact, it had occurred to her that, once she found the Pill Man, she might want a cushy job designing software at United Oil, and Mr. Robert Tyson might be just the person to help her. She’d spent a good part of the day buddying up to him. He was nice, he was smart, he was pissed off because he couldn’t get no respect, and she was all sympathy. Allred said, “The guy we’re interested in is Russell Fortier. I think he might be in your department.”

  “I’m not sure, but I might have heard the name. He’s a muck-a-muck, isn’t he?”

  “I believe his title is manager of property. Think you can locate his office?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take a look at this.” He held up a tiny object. “Hold out your hand.”

  He dropped the object into her palm.

  “Know what it is?”

  It didn’t look like anything much, but she had a hunch. “It must be a bug.”

  “Excellent, Ms. Wallis. Go to the head of the class. It’s a little receiver. You need to get that in his office somewhere.”

  “His office? I can get in his computer a lot easier than I can get in his office. How am I going to do that?”

  “Well, now. Here’s where you learn
to be a detective. That’s gon’ have to be your problem—you’re the operative on the scene.”

  There was nothing to do but bull ahead. “Okay, I’ll figure it out.”

  “Good. Do it tomorrow and report in. How long’s the job supposed to last—the installation thing?”

  “Till the end of the week.”

  “Okay. Work out the week. If they extend the job, I want you to keep working.”

  “Is that all? Just install the bug? I thought I had to get into a computer.”

  “Be patient, Ms. Wallis. One thing at a time.”

  She searched out Fortier first thing the next day, finding, in fact, that his office was three or four doors from where she was working. Peeking in, she couldn’t see much, but the morning wasn’t half over before he was standing in front of her desk. “Hey there.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Russell Fortier.”

  “Talba Wallis.”

  He had a firm grip, as well he should. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short brown hair like half the white men who worked in the building. His hair had golden glints in it, though, as if he spent time in the sun, and his skin was slightly weathered, in a pleasant sort of way. He wore a striped shirt, which was too stuffy for her taste, but otherwise she liked him. He didn’t seem the sort to take life too seriously.

  He said, “Is Robert Tyson around here? I’ve got to ask him something.”

  She was impressed that he had come for Tyson himself instead of sending his secretary.

  When he had gone, she asked Tyson, “What’s the story on him? He seemed kind of—I don’t know—human.”

  “Fortier?” he said. “Real good guy. One of the best.”

  She felt a qualm or two about bugging his office, but what the hell, a job was a job. She could do it after work if no one was around.

  When the time came, she left her sweater at her desk, took the elevator to another floor, went to the ladies’ room just to pass the time, went back, sneaked into Fortier’s office, and planted the bug, all in about ten minutes.

  She reported in that night from home.

  “Well, congratulations, Ms. Dick,” said Allred. “Good job.”

  “What now?”