Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  The two Simmonses shook their heads in unison. “No. We’re not,” the doctor said.

  “Well, I wonder if you’d mind telling me how to find her? She is my sister, after all.”

  “She wouldn’t want to see you,” Mozelle sniffed.

  But her husband said, “Now, Mozelle. You don’t know what she’d want.”

  “Well, I know that about her. I raised that child from a baby. That poor little motherless child.”

  Talba just stood there, hoping the woman would become undone by her own rudeness.

  She didn’t budge. But the husband said, “Mozelle. This lady means well.”

  His wife flashed Talba a furious look and turned and went into the house.

  Talba raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ll have to excuse her,” her husband said. “She’s touchy on some subjects.”

  Neither of them—none of the three of them—mentioned the horrors of the past, a past that had included Talba as well as her father. Mozelle was moved by it, that was plain, and Talba was sweating gallons. But none of them spoke of it.

  “I understand where she’s coming from,” Talba said. “All I can do is try to do what I can now. I can’t change anything that happened.”

  “Well, one thing. Least Janessa doesn’t know.”

  “She doesn’t?”

  He smiled. “Mozelle gave her some story or other. Some things there’s just no point in knowing.”

  “I thank you for that,” Talba said.

  “You seem like a nice lady. I’m gon’ tell you how to find Janessa. She needs a positive force in her life.”

  “I promise I won’t misuse it.”

  “I don’t b’lieve you will. She went to live with her best friend’s family. Coreen Brown’s the girl’s name.”

  Talba’s heart sank, thinking of the investigative enormity of trying to locate a Brown. But he kept talking. “The family lives near the fairgrounds. On Mystery Street. They ought to be in the phone book, under Napoleon. Napoleon Brown.” He glanced toward the door. “I’d look it up for you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea under the circumstances. You understand?”

  Talba understood all too well.

  She stopped at a gas station and looked up Napoleon Brown. He was there, on Mystery Street. She copied down both address and phone number, then drove there and parked in front. But she didn’t go to the door.

  The house was a 1940s raised bungalow, with a few steps leading to a small front porch. It was in decent repair, but the owners weren’t house-proud. It looked closed up; deserted. But that probably meant either the occupants were away for the weekend or they simply liked to live with the front of the house closed off. A lot of people were like that. Still, she used it as an excuse not to go in.

  Well, actually she didn’t. She told herself she couldn’t handle it today. She’d already had the guardian from hell, and tonight she was getting Raisa. She just couldn’t sandwich in her brand-new sister.

  She’d gotten only half a block when she started cursing herself for a coward. She started lecturing herself like she thought she was Miz Clara: Get a grip, girl. You think putting it off’s gonna make it any easier?

  She circled the block, and then did it again, first noticing how badly her palms were sweating, then counting down, breathing deep, anything to calm down. She parked, marched up to the door, and rang the bell. To her chagrin, she heard footsteps. Her palms started in again.

  A woman Miz Clara’s age answered the door, a slender, nice-looking woman with gorgeous silky dreads, wearing an Indonesian dress. She didn’t look healthy, exactly; in fact, she was a little gaunt. It was a particular kind of thinness, though—Talba would have bet a pile she was a vegetarian, the sort who went in for supplements. She probably drank barley green for breakfast. This Talba liked; people like that were often intellectuals.

  “Is this the Brown residence?” she asked.

  “Yes. Can I help you?” The woman looked puzzled.

  No help for it, Talba thought, and she blurted, “I’m looking for Janessa.”

  “Janessa?”

  “Yes. A friend of Coreen’s?”

  The woman gave her head a little absentminded shake. “Sorry. You surprised me—I just didn’t recognize you. Are you a friend of Janessa’s?”

  “I’m hoping to be. I got your address from her aunt.”

  “Oh.” Now the woman was really puzzled; Talba was impatient and nervous, a nasty combination.

  “I wonder if she’s home,” she said firmly, and apparently she’d finally spoken with enough authority to jar loose some information.

  “I’m afraid she’s at work.”

  “Can I call her there? Or go see her?”

  “Can I ask why you need her?”

  Talba made a quick decision. “I’m her sister,” she said. “We’ve never met and I don’t know if she even knows about me.”

  “Oh. Oh my God.”

  “Can you tell me where she works?”

  “Uh… sure. Eve’s Weaves. It has some other name, but I don’t know what it is. Everybody calls it by its nickname.”

  “Beauty salon?”

  “Yes. Janessa does the manicures.”

  “Do you know where it is?” This was like pulling teeth, but it was working; the woman was too surprised not to answer.

  “I’ve been there, but I couldn’t tell you exactly. It’s in the phone book though.”

  “But not under Eve’s Weaves?”

  “It’s Eve’s something."

  Talba figured that was good enough. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  And she left before the woman could ask her name.

  Her heart was hammering and her hands wet, but she’d done it. After that, Raisa ought to be a piece of cake.

  Raisa had to be one of the most beautiful children on the face of the earth. Her outstanding feature was crinkly, fine golden hair, not really blond, just gold. Talba had never seen anything like it on any child, black or white.

  She was a child anyone would love if only she’d let them. Instead, she was single-mindedly dedicated to the proposition that whatever Raisa wanted, Raisa got. Spoiled, some might say, but Talba didn’t think so. More the opposite. Deprived; though of what, Talba couldn’t have said. Some material things, possibly. Her mother had very little money and Darryl couldn’t contribute a lot. But Raisa had plenty of food and clothing, just maybe not all the television-hyped gizmos a child craved these days.

  Bigger things were missing. First, there was her dad. Darryl and Kim had never married, indeed had barely dated when Kim became pregnant—and didn’t really like each other. So Raisa was raised—for all intents and purposes—without a dad.

  There was something else, though. Some withholding, some failure of love, perhaps merely a sense of promises broken that had shaped this child. When Kim had a boyfriend, she frequently dumped the kid on Darryl; when she didn’t, she clung to her possessively. She had recently married, and Talba wondered where that would lead. So far, things had gotten worse.

  The plan was for Talba to get to know her gradually. Tonight they were going to dinner and a movie—or rather, McDonald’s and a movie; it was the kid’s choice. Then Talba was going to drive chastely home.

  Raisa met her at the door and burst into tears almost the moment she flung it open. “Daddy, it’s that girl I hate! What’s she doing here?”

  Talba pushed past her. “Hello, darlin’. You’ll get to like me. I promise.” She pulled out a candy bar. “I have good things for little girls.”

  Raisa reached out and snatched it, and at that moment, Darryl walked into the room. “Raisa! Is that any way to behave?”

  “She gave it to me.”

  “She did not.”

  Talba, trying to make peace, said, “Well, I was going to.”

  Darryl decided not to push it. He said, “Raisa, say thank you.”

  “No!” The kid stamped her foot and ran into her bedroom, a small chamber Darryl had furnished with bunks. />
  That was the way the evening began, and from there it progressed to Raisa’s spilling a chocolate milkshake onto Talba’s lap, apparently on purpose. Darryl, appalled, decided on depriving her of the movie as punishment, which produced a tantrum of approximately the size and duration of Hurricane Bob. By the time they left McDonald’s, Talba’s ears hurt so badly all she wanted to do was get away, but Darryl said no, that was what Raisa wanted—to drive her away. They could all three play Monopoly or something.

  However, the tantrum showed no signs of abating when they got home, and when Raisa actually started throwing things, and Darryl went for her with a glint Talba’d never seen in his eye, Talba thought she was about to witness child abuse firsthand. Instead, he picked her up, put her in the shower fully clothed, and turned the cold water on. Talba wasn’t sure it wasn’t cruel, but anyway it worked. The kid came out docile as a bunny rabbit, got into warm jammies, and settled down to watch 101 Dalmatians for the nineteenth time—thus getting a movie after all—while the adults tried to calm their nerves with a glass of wine.

  Talba said, “I don’t mean to be critical, but—”

  “I know, she’s getting worse.”

  “She is, Darryl. She needs to go see somebody.”

  And thus began yet another discussion that left them both in despair. Technically, Darryl really had no rights to Raisa; Kimmie only let him spend time with her because she needed money from him; any time he had a bright idea about child-rearing she got furious and threatened to cut him off completely. Which upset him, because he really thought Kimmie was crazy—felt he was the only link to stability Raisa had.

  While Talba had to respect that, it was a big fat thorn in their relationship.

  Kimmie had called him one day when Raisa was two years old and told him he was a father. He’d accepted the news happily and without question and had come to love his daughter—however difficult. (“But you don’t understand,” he’d say to Talba, “she was the sweetest little baby.”)

  He could try to get official custody—or partial custody—but he hadn’t, and Talba understood that he was afraid—afraid that DNA testing would show she wasn’t really his and afraid he’d lose. However much he did or didn’t love the child, Talba was sure of one thing—he’d never abandon her. He’d just rather not face the thorny questions a court case would produce. At least not yet.

  Talba had two glasses of wine and left feeling worse instead of better.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eddie’s Saturday night was shaping up no better. He was truly pissed off about what had happened to Ms. Wallis in Clayton and had brooded about it till he hatched a plan. He figured his cover wasn’t completely blown yet and he’d better take advantage of it while he could.

  Angie came over that afternoon to get some of Audrey’s red gravy. His wife made it by the gumbo pot and froze most of it in quart-size freezer bags, so she could take one out and thaw it every time she wanted to make pasta—which was about three times a week. Angie always got a couple of the bags, though judging from her skinny little body, she never ate any—at least not with spaghetti.

  She was in an upbeat mood—for her. “Hey, Dad, how’s Talba?”

  “Mean as ever.”

  “That’s Miz Clara you’re talking about, isn’t it? Talba’s the nice one.”

  “Clara Wallis is the closest thing to a saint I’ve ever met in my life—and that’s not just ’cause she has to put up with that hellion of a daughter. The woman fries chicken like a member of the highest order of angels.”

  Audrey sniffed, a little annoyed, because she was waging a one-woman fight to save Eddie from death-by-cholesterol.

  “Hmph. Seraphim. I could make ya happy too if I wanted to kill ya.”

  “No, Mom, I think it’s Cherubim.”

  “I know it’s Seraphim.”

  Eddie sighed and left them to their argument. Angie trailed him into his den. “So how’s the case comin’? I hear you had to get some old college buddy up in the middle of the night. I was kind of wondering about that—last I heard you didn’t go to college.”

  “Well, yeah, I got a little tricky on that one. See, the deputy told me the kid was called Junior, and that told me his daddy’s name, you understand? So I just said I knew him at LSU. Pretty safe bet he went there ’cause nearly everybody in the state did.”

  “Dad! What if he hadn’t?”

  “Well, the damn deputy wasn’t gonna know—he didn’t look like he could tell left from right. And Brashear senior wasn’t gon’ admit he didn’t know me if I said he did. Not in the middle of the night when I was tryin’ to help his son out. ’Course, I didn’t mention where he didn’t know me from."

  She laughed. “Daddy, you got more nerve than me.”

  “Hell, dawlin’, I wouldn’t say that. ’Scuse my French. Nobody’s got more nerve than you. But I got better social skills, I’ll grant you that.”

  “I’d have gotten his precious son’s fat ass fired.”

  “Angie, ya know how I hate it when ya talk like that.”

  “That asshole deserved it. I swear to God, I’d have—”

  “Angie, ya don’t know everything!” He spoke with a good deal more heat than he meant to. “Honey catches more flies than vinegar—or would you even know the meanin’ of the term?”

  Fury suffused her face. “You know why we don’t get along? That’s why, right there. Right there.”

  She whirled and left the house. Audrey came into the room.

  “Why ya treat her like that, Eddie? No wonder she feels alienated.”

  He had no idea what either of them was talking about—but one thing, the whole exchange made a little drive to Clayton all the more attractive. He figured to just hang out in bars, and maybe he’d meet somebody who knew somebody.

  The person he wanted to talk to was the kid, and that didn’t mean a girl named Hunter. A boy named Trey was somebody he might have something to say to. Chances of getting him by himself on a Saturday night weren’t too good, but, hell, it beat staying home and brooding about his daughter.

  First, he went to the kid’s house to see what the scene was. Nice house. Big. Money in it. It was still light so no lights were on. There was a white Lexus in the driveway. He waited awhile, slightly worried about Junior Brashear’s men, but only slightly—he wasn’t nearly so conspicuous in Clayton as Talba would have been.

  After awhile, a silver BMW drove up. A man got out and rushed up the steps. Damn! That would be Trey Patterson coming home from a quick one at some neighborhood bar. Classic suburban Saturday pattern—Eddie probably should have cruised the bars first. But then, he didn’t know what the kid looked like at the time. Next Trey would get dressed and go somewhere with the wife. Eddie’d bet fifty on it.

  Sure enough, an hour later out came the handsome couple, or semi-handsome, anyway. The wife looked okay. Trey looked like he’d looked down the neck of a few too many empty beer bottles. She wore some kind of slinky pants outfit—black, like Angie liked—and he wore a sports coat. Probably a party, Eddie thought. With luck, it would be big enough to sneak into.

  He eased out of his space and followed them across town to another house, a house he believed he’d heard about, one Ms. Wallis had described to him. He had a list of pertinent addresses with him, which he now consulted. Uh-huh. Trey’s parents’ home. They were probably going there for dinner.

  It was dark now, and Eddie felt even more comfortable about doing his surveillance in peace, but remembering the Wallis escapade, he scrunched down as far as he could.

  The next sound he heard was a car engine. Realizing he’d fallen asleep—something he almost never did—he consulted his watch. Nine-ten. The kid had been in there just enough time to get about half-bombed—certainly not long enough to have dinner—and yet, it was his BMW whose lights had just come on. What the hell was going on?

  There was only one person in the car, and from the shape of the head, it was the kid. Maybe there was some kind of emergency.
r />   This time he let him get a good head start before trying to follow. The neighborhood was so quiet picking him up would be easy. In fact, there were so few cars out he’d be downright conspicuous.

  In the end, he decided not to follow right away. If there was an emergency—like not enough ice cream for dessert—Trey would be back soon enough. But in twenty minutes he still wasn’t back—and in thirty a cab arrived for the missus.

  So much for emergencies. Eddie’s guess was a fight, in which case the kid wouldn’t be going home right away. He’d go to a bar. Just to be sure, Eddie cruised his house once, and exactly as he suspected, saw no BMW.

  It was a small town. If the kid hung out any place at all besides the country club Eddie was going to find him.

  First, he cruised the main drag; the bar wouldn’t be here, he knew. It would probably be in a mall, maybe a motel, something like that—a Mexican restaurant, maybe. Yuppies loved Mexican restaurants. But first, he had to find a bar where they could tell him where to go, and there was such a bar here.

  He figured he could have bought a drink and slithered up to the subject, but it was getting late and he had a long way to go. So instead, he bellied up to the bar, looked around ostentatiously, slapped down a ten, and said to the bartender, “I’ve got a feeling I’m in the wrong place. This doesn’t seem like a meet-and-greet kind of joint.”

  The bartender laughed. “You new in town?”

  “I’m here for a week—got business in Baton Rouge. You telling me this is the liveliest place in town?”

  “Buddy, we haven’t got any lively places unless you count O’Leary’s Irish pub. On Saturdays they sometimes have an Irish band, make you cry if ya drunk enough.”

  “That’s it?

  “Just about.”

  “No Mexican restaurant with a great big noisy bar and everybody in Hawaiian shirts?”

  “Well, there’s Earl’s. Great big country dance hall kind of thing—doesn’t seem like your scene, though.”

  “Now that’s more like it. I want me some redneck women in jeans and tank tops.”

  The bartender shrugged. He was fast losing interest.

  Eddie said, “I thank ya kindly, sir. Can I get directions?” On the way out he went to the phone and surreptitiously looked up the address of O’Leary’s as well. Outside in the car, he flipped a coin—it came up for O’Leary’s, but he went to Earl’s anyway. His instinct told him Trey would want to talk to women—not necessarily pick them up, just talk to them. Also that the banker’s son was less likely to be recognized at Earl’s.