by Julie Smith
“Ya mean ya don’t know?”
“I know it’s illegal; I also know there’s tricks of the trade.”
“Yeah, we got ’em, all right. But they might disappoint ya.”
“You bribe a cop, right? What’s the right amount to offer?”
Eddie was starting to have fun. “What century you guys livin’ in? Hey, Theresa, bring me a Heineken, will ya?”
Theresa said, “Sure thing, dawlin’.”
Taylor eyed him. “Figured you for a draft man.”
“I’m a consultant, right? So, whatcha waitin’ for? Bring on the good stuff.”
Montjoy clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re all right, Eight-Inch. Hey, Taylor, you takin’ notes? That’s a pretty good line.”
“Yessuh, Mr. Montjoy. Whatever you, need, suh.”
“So, Eddie. How much ya gotta pay for a rap sheet?”
“Nothin’.”
“Whaddaya mean, nothin’? Oh, I get it—you gotta save some cop’s ass somewhere along the line, and after that, he’s your faithful servant. Well, hell, even Taylor here coulda figured that out.”
“Actually,” Taylor said, “I think I did suggest it.”
This was so close to home Eddie was inwardly wincing. He said, “This is the twenty-first century, ya heard? Ninety percent of a PI’s bi’ness is done online these days.”
“Right. Hey, Taylor, let’s just have the guy go to rapsheets.com, okay? Everybody under twelve’ll probably buy it.”
Eddie shrugged. “You asked.”
“You trying to tell me that’s what you actually do? There really is a site like that?”
Eddie prayed Ms. Wallis hadn’t been putting him on. He gaped at Montjoy. “Why’d ya ax if ya already knew?”
“Knew what, Eight-Inch? What in God’s name are you talking about?”
Theresa brought the beer, and, to Eddie’s relief, Montjoy fished out some money for it. He took a long pull. “I’m talkin’ about rapsheets.com. If ya already knew about it, why’d ya buy me the beer? Thanks, by the way.”
Taylor started laughing, saying, “rapsheets.com” over and over again, unable to stop. Eddie realized he must be as drunk as Montjoy, who joined in after a while, and so did Eddie. Montjoy clapped him on the back again. “You’re all right, Eight-Inch. Hey, Taylor, why don’t we have a scene like this in the picture? I mean just like this—you know, with Zeta-Jones. She asks how to get a rap sheet and they go through this whole misunderstanding thing, with Ford doing this deadpan routine? Whaddaya say, huh?”
Eddie said, “I thought Zeta-Jones was dead.”
“Naah, you talked me out of that. Let’s keep her alive—we’re in this for the filthy lucre, right?”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Eddie said. “But a whole scene, ya know, I gotta charge ya a little more than a beer.”
“Right,” Taylor said disgustedly. “I knew there was going to be a price tag.”
“Now, hold on. Hold on a minute. I’m a PI, ya know? Information’s money to me. All I need’s a little four-one-one.” Here he dredged up a term he’d heard Eileen Fisher use when talking to her friends. He figured it might sound like PI talk to these bozos.
“Sure, Eight-Inch. Anything you need. If it’s about literature, ask me. Some kind of pop crap, Taylor’s your man.” He drank, spilling about a dollar’s worth of Jack Daniel’s, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m lookin’ for this kid, Rashad Daneene. Little bird told me he was a friend of y’all’s.”
“Little bird calls herself a Baroness,” Taylor said. “Pretty good poet, by the way. You could pick up some pointers, Montjoy.”
What was happening finally filtered through the poet’s alcoholic haze. “That black chick? She’s your assistant? Hey, Eight-Inch, I had you figured for a racist.”
“Back at ya, Hunt-man. But I got it on good authority ya pals with Daneene.”
“Yeah, Eight-Inch, Rashad and I used to be friends—till he murdered a couple of people.”
“Naah, he didn’t kill those women. Way I see it, Brower stabbed her daughter and then offed herself.”
“That the way the police see it?” Taylor asked.
Eddie shrugged. “I think they’re comin’ around to it. I’ll tell you frankly, I’m kind of worried maybe she whacked Rashad while she was at it.” He turned up his palms. “Kid’s disappeared into thin air.”
“Probably with one of his little girlfriends,” Montjoy offered.
Taylor nodded. “Kerry, maybe. There was this girl named Kerry….”
“Who the hell’s that?” Montjoy said, and shot Taylor a dangerous glance. “Taylor, what the fuck you talking about?”
Taylor looked his buddy in the eye. “Give the man a break, Hunt. He needs to find the kid. You know her last name.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”
Taylor shrugged and said to Eddie, “Well, I only knew her by Kerry. She’s a little girl Rashad hung out with.”
“Oh. Well, any other ideas?”
“Ya know what? I’m sick and damn tired of this crap,” Montjoy said. “We come in here to have a quiet drink, get a little work done, and next thing you know, some two-bit private dick horns in on our conversation. Man, this is like our second home. I’ve never seen you in here, Eight-Inch. Who the hell you think you are, comin’ here like this, with some clumsy ruse about helpin’ us with our picture? Taylor, I’ll tell you one goddamn thing—the PI in the picture’s gotta be a damn sight slicker’n this one. Better dressed, better lookin’, with a third-grade education, at least. This guy couldn’t detect his way out of a shot glass.” By now, his voice was so loud the whole bar could hear him.
Taylor looked at Montjoy’s empty glass. “Well, you probably could.”
Eddie set his bottle down. “Nice talkin’ to ya, gentlemen. The-ree-saah! Gimme a kiss, dawlin’.” He went over and kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll be gettin’ a package from me.”
She shook her head. “Forget about it, dawlin’. I feel real bad about this. You’re what this place is all about.” She flicked her chin at the screenwriters. “Those guys are just passin’ through.” She raised her voice. “Hey, Hollywood boys! Whatcha mean insultin’ my regulars? Ya eighty-sixed.”
Taylor said, “Huh?”
Montjoy turned red, as if he were either going to have a heart attack or hit somebody.
“I mean it. Get on outta here.”
The room erupted in applause. Someone yelled, “Hey, the Saints mightta lost, but we got our bar back!” People started cheering and clinking glasses.
A woman hollered, “Drinks for the house! On my old man,” and Eddie left before Taylor and Montjoy could get it together to follow.
What the hell, he figured. The night wasn’t a total loss. He’d made Theresa happier than chocolate or champagne ever could have. But he was going to send some anyhow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Usually, Talba was the one who found her way first thing in the morning into Eddie’s office, if only to check on the ever-changing color of his eye bags. But she’d barely gotten her computer booted Tuesday morning when he slouched into her office, coffee in hand, bags more or less green. “Well, if it isn’t Little Merry Sunshine,” she said.
Wearily, he sank into her extra chair. “Got a new respect for ya, Ms. Wallis. I thought maybe Hunt Montjoy was so surly with ya, because you’re, uh…”
“Black and female.”
“Uh-uh. Young and female. But I met him last night. I’m real proud o’ ya for not deckin’ him just for bein’ an asshole. And notice I’m not even excusin’ my French. Sometimes there’s only one good description.”
“Oh, boy. No wonder you look like you’ve been tied down and tortured.”
“Yeah, well, I managed to get him eighty-sixed from his favorite bar. Least I accomplished something.”
She was awestruck. “There is a God! Tell me everything.”
So he did, the whole story, whi
ch wasn’t like him at all. When he got to the part about rapsheets.com, he said, “Gotta thank ya for that one. Say, is that a real thing or not?”
“It’s a real thing. I’ve got it in my ‘favorites’ folder—want to see?”
“Ah, that’s your department.”
“Well, it’s only semi-useful. Just works for some states—Louisiana isn’t one of them. But, anyway, that’s so funny, the way you put those guys on.”
“What a coupla assholes.”
“I didn’t think Taylor was that bad. He’s a fan of mine.”
“Or he pretended to be. Wait, I take that back—he told Montjoy he could pick up some pointers from you. As a poet, I mean.”
She laughed. “He didn’t!”
“Those two are like a couple of twelve-year-old brothers—fightin’ all the time, needlin’ each other—I got no time for it. Listen, I probably didn’t get anything out of the interview at all, if ya want to call it that, but Taylor did mention a girl named Kerry, used to hang with Rashad. Ring a bell with you?”
She nodded. “He mentioned her to me, too—one of Montjoy’s castoffs. And so did Charmaine French, this poet I met who’s—”
“Wait a minute—she’s a castoff of Montjoy’s?”
“Yeah. Rashad’s M.O.’s healing broken hearts. Hunt crack ’em, Rashad cures ’em. They’re a tag team.”
“Montjoy said he didn’t know her.”
“One of them’s lying, then.”
“Find her, Ms. Wallis. Somethin’s funny here.”
“Even the Baroness can’t find a person with no last name.”
He stood up. “Ya asked Austin about her? He was pals with Rashad.”
She shook her head. “It didn’t come up while he and your lovely daughter were courting.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I’ll go see him.” She had a couple of other things to ask him, anyhow.
“You do that. After ya tend to that stack on ya desk.” He indicated her usual quota of background checks. “Me, I’m gonna work on the Jackson insurance thing.”
So she waited till a decent hour—which coincided with having finished twelve employment checks for one of their biggest clients—before calling to see if Austin was home.
“Baroness! Just the woman I want to talk to. I’ve been dealing with Arnelle—I need to see someone I can stand.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Get over here, will you? I’m putting coffee on.” After a beat, he said, “Forget that, it’ll be eleven-thirty by the time you get here. How about an early lunch? I’ll make you an omelet or something.”
“Tell you what. I’ll pick up sandwiches on the way. What’s your pleasure?”
She could have sworn he said, “Make mine Angela.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Egg salad, if you can find it.”
The guy was an egg freak. And unusually friendly under the circumstances—but she figured that had something to do with his lawyer.
By the time she got there, he’d laid the table on the patio and made a pitcher of iced tea. “Couldn’t get egg salad,” she said. “Tuna fish okay?”
“Perfect. Hey, I’ve got chips.” He transferred the sandwiches to a pair of Italian ceramic plates, and added a mound of greasy discs to each one. “Zapp’s,” he said, munching one and letting his eyes roll back in ecstasy. “One of the great things in life.”
Keeping up a running yammer, he carried the plates to the patio. “Hey, Baroness, I’ve gotta ask you something. I’ve really been wondering, who’s your favorite poet? I mean, do you read only, like Langston Hughes, or do you go in for any of the dead white guys? Sit down, why don’t you?”
She followed instructions. “I’ve been known to check out some white guys—that’s who mostly wrote in English. Oh, yeah, and women. They’ve composed a poem or two.”
“Yeah, man.” He took a healthy bite of his sandwich. “You absolutely can’t beat Sylvia Plath. Anne Sexton’s good, too. Oh, and Emily Dickinson—can’t forget the oldies but goodies. You want to know the truth, though—I’m a Wallace Stevens guy.”
Talba more or less worshipped Wallace Stevens, but she wasn’t up for bonding with Austin over “The Idea of Order at Key West.” She said, “You know what? You could be the weirdest biker I ever met.”
“Yeah, but how many bikers have you met?”
“Touché, Mr. Edwards. Let’s just say you don’t fit the stereotype.”
“I’m not kidding. I read the guy when I’m out on my boat.”
Talba saw an opening. “Have you read Rashad?”
“Sure. He’s my buddy. Some of his stuff’s pretty good.”
“And the rest?”
Austin winced. “Reads like something a school kid scribbled.”
“That’s what I think, too. Well, who knows? Maybe it is.”
“His book’s damned uneven. I think he probably got a lot better after he met Wayne Taylor—and my buddy Hunt, of course.”
Talba almost choked on her sandwich. “You’re friends with Hunt Montjoy?”
Austin put his hands in his lap and gave her his full attention. The truth was, he was an extremely attractive man. She could see what Angie liked about him. “Sure, why not?” he asked, giving her a kind of tough-guy half smile.
“Jesus! Where to start?”
“You mean that redneck routine of his? Yeah, it’s a little wearing, but I’m a biker, remember? And a fisherman and a laborer. He goes in for that kind of thing. He doesn’t know I run a company—that would probably destroy me in his estimation.” He did the smile thing again. “But, you want to know the truth, we’re really only acquaintances. He was Mother’s friend, actually—he was just around, so I talked to him.”
Talba took a breath. “Was your mother involved with him?”
“Are you kidding? My mother and Hunt Montjoy? She probably wished. But not a chance. No way. I’d have known.”
“Some people think she was. Or had been.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Deliberately, he took a sip of tea, thinking it over. Finally, he said. “Had been. Now, you might have something there. She very well might have been. In Tallahassee, when I was a little kid, I saw something one night. I never was sure, but I thought I saw them kissing. They moved apart real quick when they realized I was there.”
“Uh-huh. I was afraid of that. What about Cassie?”
“What do you mean, what about Cassie?”
She didn’t answer, figuring he’d get it soon enough.
He drank more tea, and his demeanor, she noticed, was decidedly heavier; almost somber. “You mean, was she involved with Hunt?” His fists clenched. “I swear to God…”
Talba shrugged quickly, realizing she’d gone too far. “It’s a rumor, that’s all. I can’t believe it either. I just thought I’d ask.”
He didn’t answer, but he attacked his sandwich as if it were Montjoy himself, tearing off bites with a predator’s teeth and masticating fiercely, a warrior stoking up on fuel for the battle. Talba devoutly wished she could stop what she’d inadvertently started. “Hey, listen, pay no attention to me. It’s my job to ask dumb questions. Let’s talk about something pleasant, why don’t we?”
“Like what?” His voice was a rumble. His eyes had taken on a feral look, and she was aware of the power of his body. This was a man who could probably pull in a few hundred pounds of fish without breaking a sweat. Dartmouth or not, Wallace Stevens notwithstanding, a man who did the work Austin did, who got tattooed, rode a Harley, and ran a bait company, was probably perfectly at home in a world where violence was a Saturday night sport. He was no Hunt Montjoy—he was the kind of man Montjoy wanted to be.
She said, “You’re not thinking of confronting Montjoy, are you? Listen, I’m sure I’m wrong. No way I could be right about something like that. Besides, think of your lawyer. She’d kill you if you messed yourself up with the cops.”
“Angie?” At the sound of her name, the sun came out on
his face. “She would, wouldn’t she?” He munched a chip, this time a lot more delicately. It was like a violent squall had passed over the landscape, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. “Hey, what’s the deal with Angie, anyhow? She married?”
“You mean you didn’t ask her when you had the Bloody Marys?”
“Are you kidding? She’s my lawyer. We just talked about Mother. And Arnelle. Like what my rights are—you know, whether I can stay here. Stuff like that.”
Talba smiled. This was kind of fun to watch. “No, Angie’s not married.”
“Involved with anybody?”
“Now that I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her yourself? She looked like she’d be open to it.”
“Open to what?” That cute half smile played around his lips.
Talba smiled back at him, aware that they were flirting. “To a question like that.”
“I don’t know. She seemed kind of all business to me.”
“She likes you.”
“She said something?”
“I could just tell.”
“You could? I couldn’t.”
“Good God, were you asleep or what? I thought Eddie was going to skin you alive. All I could do to get him out of here without throwing a punch.”
“Think I could take Eddie?”
“Not a chance. You’d have to take me, too.”
“Oh, God! Not that.”
“He’s an irascible old coot, but he’s my old coot.”
“You really like him, huh? Good boss?”
“Now and then. Main thing, Eddie’s an honorable man. How many of those do you see these days?”
“Funny. He seems like the kind of guy who’d be a racist. Best case, a sexist.”
“Oh, he is. But he fights it, and that’s something. Well, anyhow, Angie and Audrey fight it for him. They made him hire me. And it turned out all right.”
“I got a feeling you’re the one turned out all right.”
“Well, so did Eddie.” She was feeling a lot more relaxed, now that her host had mellowed out. “But I’m a pretty good detective when it comes down to it. Which reminds me, I came over here to ask you a question.”
“Seems to me you already have.”