Louisiana Hotshot

by Julie Smith

  Eddie reached for the telephone. “Well, hell, Ms. Wallis, it’s time to get the police in on this. They can just walk up to Tujague and ask him. If he don’t want to answer, they can sweat him.”

  “I thought of that.”

  “Ya thought of that? Well, did ya call ‘em? What’s the point of thinking about it if ya didn’t call ‘em?”

  “I called them several times.”

  He was getting pissed off— she thought of every damn thing. “And?”

  “And they didn’t call me back.”

  “Oh. Well. Ya have to call somebody ya know.”

  “I did. I called Skip Langdon. By the way, she says she knows you.”

  “Skip Langdon didn’t call ya back?” He had a hard time believing that one.

  “She did, but the Juvenile officer didn’t. The one on Cassandra’s case.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Her name’s Detective Corn.” She emphasized the “her” ever so slightly, and perhaps a bit triumphantly. Eddie recognized it as the sort of thing that usually irritated him, but he was getting used to Ms. Wallis. And he was pretty mellow from the scotch. And beyond either of those things, he wanted his assistant to have dinner with him. He wasn’t ready to go home yet, and he wanted to practice talking about his son, try out saying his name a few times, before he did.

  “Well, I’ll call her,” he said. He did, and he also called a buddy of his, exactly as Talba had, and left messages for both of them.

  He was about to ask her to come grab a bite when he noticed she was staring intently at him. “Eddie?” she said. “How bad did I screw up?”

  He thought about it. “I don’t know that you screwed up at all. Sounds like you might have done a pretty good job, all things considered.”

  He was deeply ashamed that it had fallen to her to work the case by herself. “Come on. Let me treat you to dinner. Ya like the Bon Ton?”

  “I just keep thinking about Cassandra. Eddie, tell me something. Did you ever lose a client?”

  Talba was way too tired and discouraged to eat, but if ever there was a business dinner, this was it. She couldn’t imagine what Eddie was going to tell her— everything he knew, she hoped (“Secrets of a Hard-Boiled Dick— Revealed At Last”)— but if he was going to impart knowledge, she was going to be there to receive it.

  Of course, maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe he was just trying to cheer her up for screwing up so badly.

  She’d never actually been to the Bon Ton, though the minute she saw it, she knew it was Eddie all over. These days downtown was full of fancy new places— the Metro Bistro would have been more Talba’s style— but the Bon Ton was the exception. It was all checked tablecloths and crawfish bisque— an old-line Creole joint famous for its bread pudding with bourbon sauce.

  It was a comfort food kind of place, a restaurant for rainy winter days, not a see-and-be-seen, crawfish-eggroll-with-caviar kind of place. She and Eddie both ordered the shrimp étouffée. “I think I’ve had enough scotch” he said, and ordered a bottle of wine to share, though Talba didn’t think she’d drink much, especially if there were things to be learned, wisdom bytes to be stored.

  It was a good bottle, too. Eddie tasted with relish. He might talk like something out of an old movie, but he’d been around, and not just on the mean streets. She said, “You know a lot about wine.”

  He gave her a raised eyebrow. “How do you know? I just ordered one bottle.”

  Her cheeks heated up in embarrassment. She raised her glass. “Well, so far, so good.”

  “Ya stereotyped me, didn’t ya? Ya think just because I’m a wop, I gotta be ignorant.”

  “I didn’t. I…”

  “Client cultivation, Ms. Wallis.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s why I learned about wine. Had this old guy, rich as Croesus, used to hire me every couple of months to follow his wife. She never was up to anything, but he was.” Holding a wineglass, he really looked quite sophisticated. “See, he used to come over from Houston to see this lady, but she worked as a secretary or something, so he had nothing to do in the daytime. He liked to go to this one place for lunch, so I’d go with him. Usually turned into an all-day thing, and over the course of it, my favorite waiter’d teach me a little and then a little more about what wines to order.”

  “An all-day thing sounds like Galatoire’s.”

  “Ahhh. That was the punch line. I was savin’ it. This guy— the client— called it Galatorey’s; always, no matter how many times he heard it right.”

  “You kidding? Galatorey’s?”

  “Swear to God.”

  And all of a sudden, they were laughing, the two of them; belly laughing, carrying on far out of proportion to a simple mispronunciation. It was a great tension release.

  Something was wrong with the story, though. “I don’t get it,” Talba said. “The guy was from Houston? You had to go there to spy on his wife?”

  “Noooo. No way. She lived Uptown. They’d been separated for years.”

  “Worse and worse. Let me try again— they were separated, but he came here to see his mistress and while he was here, he used the time productively to get the goods on his wife.”

  Eddie shrugged. “Guess he was tired of supporting her. She later turned up dead— accidental overdose.”

  “Woo. You believe that?”

  “Could have been. She liked her booze and pills.”

  “But did you do anything about it?”

  “Sure. Told the cops. What else could I do— solve the case myself? Ya think I’m Sherlock Holmes or somethin’?”

  She had to smile. “More like Mike Hammer.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s not real, either.”

  Their étouffeé came, and Eddie tore into his with a gusto she was glad to see. Though he didn’t show the least sign of being drunk— except, perhaps, for an unaccustomed affability— she definitely didn’t want to end up driving him home.

  And yet, when she really thought about it, it wasn’t that. She just didn’t want to see him drunk.

  “Lady, ya want to know who I am? Want to know who I really am?”

  “I’m not sure. I mean… I looked you up on the Internet. I know enough.”

  “No, ya don’t. Ya really don’t.”

  “Okay, who are you then?” Actually, she was curious.

  “I’m a guy who always wanted to be a cop.”

  “Well? That makes sense. You were one.”

  “I never was. I was a deputy sheriff.”

  “I didn’t know there was that big a difference.”

  “To me there was— real cops wear blue. And I was too short to be one. You got any idea how that affected my work? You’re an amateur psychologist, aren’t ya? Everybody is these days.”

  “You don’t have to be too much of one to figure that one out. Especially since I’ve read a bunch of news stories on you. You overcompensated, I gather?”

  He laughed again, though this laughter lacked the purity, the unadorned enjoyment of their mutual belly laugh. It was a bittersweet laugh, a laugh contaminated by regret. “You bet I did, Ms. Wallis. I’m ‘on tell ya. I was the best damn Deputy Dog this state ever had.”

  “So I gathered from the clips.”

  “Give me a case, and I’d work it till it was raw. Somebody ended up behind bars or dead, always. Every damn time.”

  Talba hated this kind of talk. It was the kind of macho posturing that gave rednecks a bad name.

  “Quit wincin’, Ms. Wallis. Only one of ‘em ended up dead. Thirteen years on the job, and I only drew my gun once.”

  “What happened?”

  He held up his glass as if about to give a toast. “Ah, that’s for another day. Tell me about, you, Ms. Wallis. Tell me about you.”

  “Me?” She could hardly have been more taken aback. “Well, I haven’t lived very long, so there’s not a whole lot to talk about.”

  “In that case, where you get off wri
tin’ poetry?”

  “Well, I… I don’t know. I think about things a lot.” She was deeply embarrassed, hadn’t dreamed he’d get personal with her.

  “Tell me about ya dad.”

  “My dad?” This was going from awkward to nightmarish.

  “Yeah, ya dad, remember? The one that took ya to the park and let ya ride the flyin’ horses. You know, the guy whose lap felt safer than a real horse— is that part real, by the way— about the horse? Come on, where would ya keep a horse in New Orleans?”

  It was a lifeline; something to grab on to. She conjured up a smile. “Poetic license. They fine you three thousand dollars without one.”

  “So ya didn’t have a horse?”

  “Pony ride at a fair once. Does that count?”

  “Well, ya dad musta been a pretty nice guy— sounds like ya loved him a lot. How’d you lose touch with him?”

  Talba was feeling a little sick.

  “I mean, ya said ya weren’t sure ya even have a dad. I’m a detective, ya know. In case ya’d like me to find him.”

  She nodded, not meeting his eyes, unable to speak.

  Evidently, he caught on that this wasn’t her favorite subject. “Sorry to intrude, Ms. Wallis. I’m ‘on tell ya somethin’— can I tell ya somethin’?”

  Talba was trying hard to swallow. She’d taken a bite to distract herself and now discovered that her throat was closed.

  She nodded and pointed at her cheek, as if she had way too much in her mouth, and had to chew for a while.

  “I been thinkin’ about Anthony ever since I heard ya poem.”

  He must have seen her jump.

  He patted the air. “No, now. I have. I gotta say I’m sorry for getting so mad at ya. I talked to my son today for the first time in ten years, it’s like a milestone or somethin’. But all I did was, I just called up and said was he all right and I was doin’ good and Angie graduated law school and his mama’s fine, ya know? And then I didn’t know what else to say so I got off the phone. I been drinkin’ ever since— that and trying to figure things out.”

  What things, Talba wanted to ask, but she had enough sense to respect his privacy.

  “So I was wonderin’— what do you know about him?”

  “Me? What do I know about him?”

  “Well, I mean— you found him. How’d ya do that?”

  “Oh, I see. I did what I always do.” She spread her palms in the what-else gesture. “Went online. He’s got a website. He’s a musician, you know— or didn’t you?”

  Something happened on Eddie’s face, something complex and regretful. It took a long time; he didn’t bother hiding his emotions while he thought it through, but it wasn’t something you could follow like a play. All Talba could really tell was that this had resonance for Eddie. When he finally let something win on his features, it was a pleased smile, but he could have been acting. “Is he now?” he said.

  “He plays harmonica, and seems to do quite well for himself. Oh, and he’s known professionally as Tony Tino.”

  “Catchy.” Eddie put his wineglass down and poured himself some more. He’d quit drinking all through the étouffée, but as soon as the talk turned to his son, he started in again.

  She kept talking— it seemed to be what he wanted. “He lives in Austin— did you know that?”

  “Austin.” He looked genuinely surprised. “That’s close.”

  “Good place for blues— that’s what he plays. The website doesn’t say if he’s married or has kids.”

  Eddie looked away from her. “He’s too young for that.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Let me think about it. He must be…I guess he’s twenty-six or seven.”

  “Well, it’s not impossible.”

  But the next thing that happened was, Eddie’s eyes misted over, a sight she’d never in a million years expected to see.

  It was so pronounced he actually dabbed at them. “‘Scuse me, Ms. Wallis— it’s the wop in me.”

  “What is?”

  “I was imagining what it might be like to have a grandbaby.”

  Grandbaby. That was the way her mama and her Aunt Carrie talked. Old people talked that way. Black people. Talba found something infinitely touching in the way it came out of Eddie’s mouth.

  He was recovered now, though having himself another little sip. “Does he— you know— tour? Is that what they call it?”

  “It is, and he does. I know the jargon ‘cause my boyfriend’s a musician.”

  All of a sudden, he busted out in smiles. Old, sad, pathetic Eddie, who even seemed miserable about talking with his son, beamed out big-time. “Ya got a boyfriend, Ms. Wallis? Good for you.”

  She wished she hadn’t turned the spotlight back on herself. She said, “Your son had a lot of really great reviews.”

  “Tell me somethin’, Ms. Wallis— did he ever play New Orleans?”

  She had known he would ask that question. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I kind of don’t think so.”

  But he would go to the website himself, and know that she lied. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. “You’re really going to be proud of him, I think. Oh, by the way, did I mention he’s a hunk?”

  “Oh, yeah? Ya mean his picture’s on there? I can’t get used to this stuff.”

  “He looks a lot like Angie.”

  “Yeah. He always did.” He stared off into space for a while, as if there were a very interesting fly on the wall of the restaurant, and once again, something sad came over him. Something about Angie. Talba wished she had the nerve to ask what it was. “Bread pudding and coffee?” he asked.

  She looked at her watch. “No, I really should be—”

  “Come on. Help an old man sober up.”

  In fact, she’d already thought of that. He needed a break from the alcohol before he got in his car. “Okay. Let’s split the bread pudding, though.”

  He put in the order, and when he turned back to her, he had a new alertness about him. “Let’s talk about the case a little more. You satisfied you’ve identified Toes?”

  “No. I’m really not. But I don’t think Cassandra’s going to confirm any I.D., and everyone else who could I.D. him is clammed up. I do think the kid needs protecting. Probably Shaneel too.”

  “Maybe that’s who we need to lean on. She a nice kid?”

  “A lot nicer than Cassandra.”

  “Mmm. Mmmm. Child with problems. I’m gon’ try Shaneel myself. Who are her parents?”

  “I, uh, haven’t gotten that far— her last name’s Johnson. But the church could probably help.”

  He leaned back and nodded. “Guess that’s the way to go.” Talba could hardly believe this was Eddie Valentino. She didn’t know what to make of this new, mellow version.

  Booze, she thought. He’ll be the usual old crank in the morning.

  She said, “What about Cassandra?”

  “She’ll be all right in school. Needs watchin’, though. This thing’s out of hand.”

  “I mentioned that to Aziza, and she accused me of trying to sell her bodyguard services.”

  “I better have a little talk with Ms. Scott. Meanwhile, you ever heard of a little thing called client reports?”

  Well, hell, she thought. How dare he pull that on her after what she’d been through? “Eddie, that’s not fair. I haven’t had a second, and you know it.”

  “Relax, Ms. Wallis, relax. Don’t go touchy on me just when we’re gettin’ along so well. I’ll do the damn report. Just need your notes, that’s all.”

  “Okay. I’ll give them to you first thing in the morning.”

  “Mmm. I don’t think so. I want ya to stay home tomorrow morning. Did ya taste this bread pudding? Nectar of the gods.”

  She felt as if he’d hit her. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a late night, and you’ve had a hell of a day. Besides, you’re kind of green around the gills— have been ever since I mentioned your father.”

  “Oh, come on, Eddie,
I’m just tired.”

  “My point, Ms. Wallis, my point. Take the morning off and organize your notes. You can email ‘em and come in after lunch.”

  That was better. At least she wasn’t fired. And a morning off would suit her fine. She might still be able to see Darryl tonight— in which case she’d be up late. “Okay, Eddie, sure. But, as you would say, can I ask you somethin’?”

  “Ask me anything. I might not answer, is all.”

  “Are you ever going to call me Talba, or not?”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Well, Ms. Wallis, I expect I will every now and then. If I’m real mad at you.”

  “That certainly bodes well.”

  “I’m ‘on tell ya somethin’— I’m probably gon’ say ya name pretty often.”

  Chapter 15

  His wife, having heard the car, was standing in the door when he came in, wearing a robe that zipped up the front, not meant to be sexy at all. But it couldn’t hide who she was. She was skinny, always had been, but she had a good chest on her, and that beautiful heart-shaped face. She’d been a platinum blonde the whole time he’d known her, though they had two dark-haired children. She had hair that pouffed and bounced, hair that got a lot of attention. Even now, it looked as if she’d spent a while puffing it up nice.

  “He called here, Eddie. I know what ya did.”

  “Anthony? Anthony called here?”

  “I know what ya did, Eddie.” She was like a sentry waiting for the countersign.

  He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t think there was anything in the world he could say to entitle himself to admittance. “I was a fool, Audrey. I could kill myself.”

  “Ya shouldn’t have put us through it, Eddie.” She moved aside and he entered, but her voice was like a metal blade left out in the cold.

  “Audrey, I been drinkin’…”

  “Yeah. You been drinkin’. Ya couldn’t face it. Ya couldn’t face it now and ya couldn’t face it then and ya body nearly couldn’t take it, all that stress ya put on yaself. I was wrong about those headaches, wasn’t I? It wasn’t the reason I thought— it wasn’t because ya missed Anthony. It was because ya told all those lies.”