P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof Page 10

Desire, and Law—

  And that’s for real.

  Think to myself—

  Hope that never happens.

  Hope ol’ Bubba keep them two

  Separate for sure.

  Hope that nice young girlfriend

  Never make him mad

  At the wrong time.

  Hope nobody else in the house

  Come in his room one night

  Lookin’ for a tissue,

  End up

  Full of bullets.

  ’Cause all the nice young girls

  In all the world

  And all the Viagra

  In the whole parish of Orleans

  Ain’ gon’ cure what Bubba’s got.

  Or what we all got.

  It was a dark poem, and though the other didn’t have a happy ending, it did leave ’em laughing—at least in a rueful kind of way, which was the way she liked it. She signed off in her usual way, “The Baroness myself thanks you,” and stepped gracefully off the stage. The others in her party—Eddie and Angie—had sat in the back, and the three of them slipped into the bar.

  ***

  Eddie wasn’t much for poetry, but he loved the sound of Ms. Wallis’s smooth-as-butterscotch voice, which was probably the only thing that kept him from firing her sometimes. Like tonight—for wearing a dress that looked about right for Mardi Gras.

  The other thing, he had to admit she had a pretty good sense of humor. But he couldn’t for the life of him understand why an educated woman wrote in what he called Ebonics.

  “I don’t get it either,” she’d told him. “It’s just the way I hear the poems.” Like she was Joan of Arc.

  Angie said, “Nice dress, Your Grace.”

  “Mama said your daddy’d fire me for it.”

  “I might,” Eddie said. “I might. Weren’t you a little on the realistic side tonight?”

  Ms. Wallis shrugged. “I read Angie the poems in advance. She said full speed ahead.”

  Eddie cocked an eyebrow at Angie, then turned back to his young assistant. “That true about the gun?”

  “Uh-huh. And you can guess who Bubba is—but unfortunately, there’s nothing illegal about it. I found Oxycontin, though.”

  “Who cares? It’s a prescription drug.”

  “Yeah, but you could argue he was taking it when he made important decisions.”

  “That’s not gon’ get us anywhere,” Eddie grumbled. “Whatcha drinking?”

  “White wine,” Ms. Wallis said.

  “Bourbon for me,” said Angie, and Eddie said, “Make it two.”

  “You two are not going to believe what I’ve got.”

  “Am I off the hook?” Angie asked.

  “Well, that’s the bad news. I haven’t got that piece yet. But Buddy’s definitely dirty. He’s dirty and lazy and so incompetent we could get him thrown off the bench tomorrow.”

  “Lazy?” Eddie raised his voice. “Lazy? Since when’s it a crime to be lazy, specially in Louisiana.” As he saw his associate’s face relax into an I’m-going-to-enjoy-this expression, he realized the trap he’d fallen into. It was never a good idea to give Ms. Wallis an opening like that.

  “What if you’re a judge and you’re so lazy you phone in court?” she asked smugly.

  He tried to process what she was saying. “Go on,” he said.

  “He didn’t go to work yesterday. Just sat back in his office and called his clerk and said he was going to hold court from home that day. The lawyers made their arguments over the phone, and he ruled over the phone. And that’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “Wait a minute. Hold it. How could you hear all that?”

  “I was making up his bed. His office is just off the bedroom.”

  The back of his neck was pouring sweat. Ms. Wallis was honest to a fault—on most things. But he didn’t completely believe her when she said she never resorted to illegal listening devices. She knew way too much and she was way too sure about what she knew. But if she was lying, she wasn’t about to admit it if he asked her. “How’d you hear what was happening on the other end?”

  “He left the speaker phone on, can you believe it? Miz Clara was right when she told me nobody notices a maid. Anyhow, I was pretty quiet—I’m not even sure he knew I was in there.” She sipped her wine and gave him a don’t-mess-with-me look. “Easy enough to prove, anyhow. Plenty of witnesses—the clerk, the reporter, both lawyers…”

  “All right, all right.” He was thinking it over, wondering if it was possible. And in his heart, he knew it was—that he’d probably even witnessed something similar a few times. The truth was, there were plenty of stories about judges not showing up for court. He could think of one or two who were notorious for it; their clerks really ran their courts.

  He knew perfectly well you couldn’t really hold court on the phone. Yet here was what he’d seen: lawyers waiting to argue, witnesses waiting to testify—Eddie among them—and then the clerk would come out and say the judge was on the phone, and the two lawyers would disappear into chambers. Presumably they’d argue their motions or have their status conferences with a judge sitting by his pool—maybe even on the beach in Florida—while they sweated in the courthouse. It had always pissed Eddie off. Personally, he loved the idea of someone getting caught at it—but it didn’t solve the problem at hand.

  “So you can make Jane Storey’s day,” he said. “It ain’t right, but it doesn’t make him dirty.”

  “What about if I told you Harry Nicasio sent over two hams for his Mardi Gras party, and some guys to help him set up?”

  “Harry the bail bondsman?”

  “That Harry.”

  Eddie pondered. “Guess I’d say it doesn’t look too good. But I got a problem with it—who’d sell himself for a coupla hams?”

  “What do you bet it’s the tip of the iceberg?”

  “And how do we get to the base of said ‘berg’?”

  “Well, I was thinking of handing that part over to Jane Storey. He’s got to be doing favors for Nicasio—she can probably run it down pretty easily. Oh, and I overheard another conversation—with Evan Farley, about the story Farley couldn’t write about Angie. No specifics, but something smells there. Did you get anything, Eddie?”

  Eddie shifted. “Yeah, I got something. Custody case. Farley’s trying to get his kid back from his ex-wife. And guess who the judge is?”

  “Come on,” Angie said. “That’s a really blatant conflict of interest.”

  “Uh-huh. Oughta be enough to get Farley off the story, anyhow. But we need proof Buddy set you up if we’re gon’ get the charges dropped.” He turned to Ms. Wallis. “Which is the object of this little exercise.”

  She got her canary-feathers look again. He hated that look. “Well, I’ve got a lot of names from his checkbook. We can check them out, see if any are involved with Angie’s case—like maybe we’ll find Buddy made payments to the cops who busted her. Want me to do it, or do you want to?”

  It was the last thing Eddie wanted to do, but he took pity on her. In their few phone conversations that week, she’d sounded so tired he didn’t see how he could pile any more work on her. And anyhow, this was Angie—if anyone was going to screw up, it ought to be Eddie. “Hand it over,” he said. “I’ll get Eileen to help me with the damn machine.” His kindest name for the computer.

  But it wouldn’t take a lot—he could just phone the police personnel department and determine whether any of the names belonged to cops.

  Ms. Wallis pulled a list out of her bag. “Thanks.” She smiled, but he saw that she looked exhausted.

  “You got eye bags as big as mine. They been workin’ ya hard?”

  She shrugged. “Miz Clara does it every day and she’s more than twice my age. I’m just not used to it.”

  “Ya think we got enough or ya want to keep goin’?”

  She looked horrified. “Are you kidding? All we’ve really got’s possibilities—I mean, so far as Angie’s concerned. Sure,
we’ve got enough to keep Jane eating out of our hands for the next decade, but I can’t stop now, Eddie. Uh-uh. Negative.”

  “Talba,” Angie said softly, “you really don’t have to…”

  “Shut up,” Eddie said. “Yes, she does.”

  Chapter 8

  For the third time since she’d known Darryl Boucree, Talba didn’t feel like driving across the bridge to spend the night with him. She was so tired she was afraid of falling asleep at the wheel, but she hadn’t seen him in a week, and he’d been wonderfully generous about agreeing to help out at the Bacchus party. Not that he didn’t want to—it was his kind of thing: an adventure in unknown territory. And he really did think Raisa would enjoy the parade. So, even though Raisa was there, she made the trip.

  Raisa was a love child who lived with her mother, and Kimmie was what Darryl called “difficult” when he was in a good mood. He said “crazy” a lot, too, and he wasn’t speaking lightly. He really thought she was. He hardly knew Kimmie, except as his child’s mother. They’d barely dated at all before Kim became pregnant, a sobering development that made them realize they didn’t even like each other. So they’d gone their separate ways—his family had sent him to Yale, mostly, he claimed, because they were so freaked—and she’d married someone else. But she’d gotten divorced, and reappeared one day with the kid, needing money. For a long time, Darryl had worked three jobs to help support Raisa—as teacher, musician, and bartender. But when Kim finished beauty school and got back on her feet, he’d been able to quit bartending. By then, though, he was hooked on Raisa, and the feeling was mutual. Kimmie, on the other hand, no longer had any use for him, so he more or less kowtowed to her, to keep the kid in his life.

  In Talba’s humble opinion, Raisa was every bit as difficult as her mother, just in a different kind of way. She was prone to tantrums, for one thing, single-mindedly dedicated to getting whatever she wanted. Some might have said she was spoiled, but Talba thought the opposite. Whatever it was she needed, she wasn’t getting—enough of her father, for one thing. But Kim was a rigid, withholding, judgmental woman, and selfish. She alternately clung possessively to her daughter and dumped her on Darryl when it was convenient. Talba suspected a lot of promises were broken in that household, which now included a stepfather to whom Raisa apparently hadn’t taken any better than she’d taken to Talba.

  She didn’t take at all well to sharing her daddy.

  Thankfully, the kid was in bed by the time Talba arrived. Darryl kissed her and offered wine, which she gratefully accepted. “Hate to say it, handsome,” she said, “but I’m going to be a pretty dull date tonight. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I’ve got a new respect for what my mama does.”

  “Maybe a foot massage.”

  “Umm. Maybe.” And so she sat on one of his rust-colored sofas and let him rub away the tension and weariness of the last few days while she filled him in. Technically, every case was confidential, but where Darryl was concerned, Talba took the notion of secrecy as more of a guideline than a rule. What was the point of having a job if you couldn’t share it with your boyfriend? But not even Darryl knew about her penchant for illegal listening devices (the prohibition against which she also viewed as a mere suggestion).

  “Sounds,” he said, “as if you’ve got enough to keep Jane Storey busy for a month.”

  “Oh, man, is she going to owe me. That’s got to be a good thing.”

  “Bringing down a crooked judge could be even better.”

  “I just have to get Angie off, that’s all. And then I can go back to my cushy job as a computer wiz and brilliant poet.”

  “How’d the reading go, by the way?”

  “I killed. I am a baroness.”

  “Uh-huh.” He’d only heard the line about a thousand times.

  “A nearly dead baroness.”

  “Would Your Grace agree to be tucked in?”

  “My Grace would more or less demand it.”

  They were awakened at 8 a.m. by an easily identified flying object—a hungry ten-year-old landing between them. “You keep sleeping,” Darryl said. “I’ll feed her.”

  But Raisa’s oatmeal was too lumpy, and when Darryl made her some eggs instead, they were too runny, as she so elegantly put it. It was going to be one of those days.

  Talba heard it all from the bedroom. Unable to sleep through the ruckus, she dragged her bones out of bed. She was sure Raisa heard her feet hit the floor, because the next thing out of the kid’s mouth was this: “Daddy, why does that lady always have to be here?”

  Talba stumbled sleepily into the kitchen. “I don’t have to be here, sweetheart. I’m here because I love you.” She had her fingers crossed. The kid wasn’t all that lovable.

  “Well, I don’t love you,” Raisa volunteered.

  “You will, though. Everyone does. I am a baroness.”

  “You are a baboon.”

  So Talba had little choice but to do an ape impersonation, which would have made her niece Sophia Pontalba fall down laughing, but Raisa, as always, was unmoved.

  “Oh, hell, I need coffee,” Talba said. Darryl handed her a cup.

  “I’m gonna tell my mama you used a bad word,” Raisa said. Darryl glowered at her. The last thing they needed to do was give Kimmie ammunition—lately, she’d been telling Raisa she didn’t approve of Darryl, and because of their situation, he didn’t have formal custody rights. Exactly what she found of which to disapprove, Talba couldn’t imagine. Darryl was an English teacher at a public school, which made him practically a saint in Talba’s opinion, and he was a well-known musician as well, which made him a catch. But then, Kimmie was a whack job.

  “Guess what we’re going to do today?” Darryl said. “We’re going to a party.”

  “Don’t want to go to no party.”

  “Any party,” Talba said automatically, and Darryl said, “You’re turning into your mama.”

  “You ain’t got no mama,” Raisa said, to which Darryl retorted, “You don’t have any mama.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Well, she has. You even met her once, at a crawfish boil at Mr. Valentino’s house.”

  “Don’t know no Mr. Valentino.”

  “Well, you met Miz Clara at his house, and she’s one of the great cooks of the parish. Some day, maybe, if you’re good, we’ll take you to see her and you can try her fried chicken.”

  “Hate fried chicken.”

  “You like mansions?” her father said. “You want to see a mansion?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A really, really big house. And beautiful. This one’s beautiful, right, Talba?”

  “It ought to be. I just spent a week shining it up.”

  “Is it your house?” Raisa asked, interested for the first time.

  “No, I just work there. And tonight your daddy and I are going to help some folks give a party. And you know what we’re going to do?”

  The girl was silent.

  “We’re gonna have fun!”

  Raisa made her patented you’re-an-idiot face and left the room.

  “That’s it,” Talba said as they pulled up to the Champagne house.

  “Now that,” Darryl said, “truly qualifies as a mansion. What do you think, kiddo?”

  “That’s a house?”

  “A big one.”

  Raisa, for once, was speechless.

  “You cleaned that?” Darryl asked.

  “Tell my mama, will you? Listen, Raisa, your daddy’s got something to tell you.”

  This was the tricky part. “Raisa,” Darryl began, “can you keep a secret?”

  “How much ya gon’ pay me?”

  Darryl was ready for that. “Well, I am going to pay you.”

  “You are?”

  Raisa had expected him to say, “I’ll tan your little bottom if you don’t,” the way he usually did, to which she invariably replied, “Oh, Daddy.”

  “We’re detectives tonight, you understand? We’re undercover. W
e’re getting paid, so you’re going to get paid, too. One dollar if you do things right.”

  “What I gotta do?” She was understandably suspicious; Darryl didn’t believe in bribes.

  “All you have to do is call Talba ‘Sandra.’ That’s her secret name. Can you do that?”

  “Think I’m a baby? Sandra. S-a-n-d-r-a.”

  Darryl nodded. “Very good, double-o-seven. And one other thing. You can’t tell anyone we’re detectives. They think we’re here to help out with dinner.”

  “Two dollars.”

  “Three.”

  “Oh, Daddy.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “For real?”

  “Shake on it?” He held out his hand. Raisa didn’t move.

  “Three dollars. Going once, going twice…” Raisa shook. But Talba wouldn’t rest easy till they’d left the house. The kid was so perverse she might go out of her way to blow their cover.

  “Ready? Let’s go.”

  No one was downstairs except Adele, who seemed impressed by Darryl’s good looks and better grammar, and who positively raved over Raisa. “Why, you look just like a little angel! You want to meet my granddaughter?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Talba was amazed by the “ma’am” part, pretty used to the other. “Well, it’s nothing personal,” she said. “Raisa’s having a ‘no’ kind of day.”

  Adele laughed. “So’s Lucy. They’re made for each other.” She turned her head toward the stairs and hollered, “Lucy! Luuuucyyy! Come on down, the little girl’s here.”

  Lucy, dressed in a short skirt and a pink T-shirt that looked awful on her, walked slowly and grandly down the staircase, if a disgruntled fourteen-year-old could be said to be grand. Raisa stared up at her, hatred in her eyes.

  One look at Darryl, though, and Lucy perked up; he had that effect on females. Shaking hands with him, she blushed. And when she finally condescended to look at Raisa, it was with a look of such haughty disdain she nearly gave off sparks. But then she really looked at her, and did a double-take, moving back a step to get a better view.

  “Omigod! You are adorable.”

  Talba tended to forget it, given the kid’s disposition, but Raisa was one of the prettiest children on the planet. She had smooth, light-mocha skin and crinkly, fine, golden hair—not really blonde, just gold—that (now that she was older) curled in shiny ringlets unless she brushed it, and if she did (which was seldom), turned into a golden cloud. Talba had thought it would turn dark as she got older, but it hadn’t, just developed those curls. Neither Talba nor Darryl had been able to get her to brush it tonight. But the curls were something out of a storybook.