Louisiana Hotshot Page 3

  Or maybe I should say my sweet mama was just as

  innocent as

  her own sweet baby.

  My sweet mama was so proud.

  My sweet mama was so proud.

  Even though her own sweet baby was born at

  Charity Hospital—

  (Couldn’t have been worse— there ain’t really no St.

  James Infirmary)

  She was lyin’ there at Charity like Cleopatra in exile

  And she says to the Pill Man, the one who pulled her

  baby out of her womb and stopped that relentless screaming pain—

  She says to that nice young man, “What you think I ought to name my baby?”

  My mama so proud of her little piece of toffee,

  She wants to name her somethin’ fine. Somethin’ fancy.

  Somethin’ so special ain’ no other little girl got the same name.

  And the doctor say, “Name that girl Urethra.”

  And my mama, she just as pleased, and she so proud,

  And she say, “That’s a beautiful name.

  Ain’nobody in my neighborhood name Urethra.

  We got Sallies and we got Janes and we got Melissas and

  Saras—we got LaTonyas, just startin’ to have Keishas—but

  Ain’ nobody else name Urethra.

  I’m gon’ name my baby Urethra for sure.”

  And that’s my first name—the one they put on my birth certificate.

  I am named Urethra. Now ain’t that a beautiful name?

  But somebody knew. Somebody in our neighborhood.

  Somebody told my sweet mama she name her little candy girl

  after some ol’ tube you piss through.

  My name is Piss Tube.

  My name is Pee Place.

  My name is Exit for Excreta.

  And my sweet mama so proud.

  Now she call me Sandra. I never did find out why.

  Must be for the sand got in her eyes when she listen to that white man.

  Do I look like a Sandra to you?

  My name is Urethra.

  My name is Exit for Excreta.

  And I am a baroness.

  Because a cat has three names and I am like a cat.

  My sweet mama’s broken and weak now,

  After what that white man did to her—

  She never did trust no one again, black or white.

  And I can never say again, “My mama’s proud.”

  I didn’t want no African name,

  ‘Cause I am African-American, love it or hate it,

  And I didn’t want no LaTonya, I didn’t want no La Keisha,

  Latifah, Tanisha, Marquita, Shamika—

  White asshole steal somethin’ from me.

  I’m gon’ steal somethin’ right back.

  I AM THE BARONESS DE PONTALBA,

  AND YOU

  can kiss my aristocratic black ass.

  ***

  Shock value, he thought. She’s just going for shock value. Everybody’s heard that stuff about the interns at Charity Hospital, but nobody believes it. It’s just a story, for Christ’s sake. This is the kind of thing keeps the races apart. This girl isn’t doing anybody any good with this kind of crap.

  Still. The poem made him feel a little shaky. Awkward, kind of. He stole a glance at his wife and saw she was staring at Angie, who was in tears. Good. A way out. “Angie, ya so softhearted,” he said.

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with her,” Audrey said. “I thought it was supposed to be funny.”

  “Supposed to be. Sure— supposed to be,” he said. “Well, I thought it was supposed to be sad and funny at the same time, but I don’t think it was either one, ‘cause I don’t believe a word of it. I think the Baroness is a hype artist.”

  Angie gave him an, “oh, Daddy” look, and the poet started up again.

  “That’s from a series of poems I’ve written— still writing, matter of fact— about my favorite subject: The Baroness Myself. ‘Course, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m self-involved or anything, but after a hard day of makin’ up verses, I find I still don’t have enough to cover the rent and shrink bills both. So I just get up and dive a little deeper the next day and put off that shrink appointment until the Hollywood money starts to roll in, and whatever I write keeps me sane. So y’all are going to have to forgive me if these things sound a little crazy.” She paused a second, and Eddie nodded to himself, thinking she really was an excellent performer. “Got another one for you. It’s called ‘Queen of the May.’”

  Other girls’ daddies are po-licemen

  bankers, lawyers, tubewinders, tolltakers,

  worthless layabouts, drug dealers,

  And cable TV installers.

  Mmm-mmm.

  Not my daddy.

  My daddy ain’ nothin’ like nobody else’s daddy.

  My daddy say, you ain’t no Baroness,

  You Queen of the May

  And I…

  Am your faithful servant, at your service today.

  Your Majesty, honey,

  Come fly a kite with me.

  And he take me out to the park to fly a kite,

  And I cry ‘cause only the kite can fly and not me.

  And he say, lucky for you we in the Enchanted Park.

  Enchanted Park? I say.

  He got my attention now.

  “Only park in the history of the world

  Got flyin’ horses.

  You ever fly on a horse?”

  And I say, “Daddy I never even rode on a horse.”

  And we fly on the flyin’ horses

  And I cry ‘cause they ain’t even real,

  And already

  I seen too many things match that description.

  But he say, you want a horse?

  I’ll get you a horse.

  Great big chestnut horse

  With a long silky mane and A hand-tooled leather saddle,

  And he be real big and warm

  And make you feel safe like nothin’ ever did in this world

  Mmmm hmmmm. Other girls’ daddies be plumbers,

  accountants, shoe salesmen,

  bus drivers, bail bondsmen,

  Preachers, and the random city councilman.

  Not my daddy.

  My daddy my faithful servant,

  Do anything I want

  Anytime I want

  Because I…

  Am Queen of the May.

  So he get me that great big chestnut horse

  And he put me up on top,

  And I never in my life felt anything so big and warm and safe

  Except my own sweet daddy’s lap when I climb up

  and give him a hug.

  Every mornin’ now my mama come in,

  Come floppin’ in in her funny ol’ fuzzy slippers

  And she say, Girl, why you sleep so late?

  Who you think you is?

  You think you Queen of the May?

  And I say, five minutes, Mama, jus ‘five minutes more.

  And I close my eyes

  And I saddle up my horse

  And we go flyin’ off again.

  And I never in my life felt anything so big and warm and safe.

  ***

  It’s her voice, Eddie thought. It’s her goddam voice. That and the scotch. He felt like crying, and he had to blame it on something. Audrey was cocking an eyebrow at him. He wasn’t actually tearing up, but he turned away just in case.

  He hated this woman. Actually hated her. He could probably hire her for pennies, but he was willing to pay a living wage just to get her out of his life. Tomorrow he’d bite the bullet and run a real ad and get some young male hotshot. Angie had made her point.

  The poet read some other stuff and it was quite a bit lighter, kind of funny, some of it. He even halfway enjoyed it, now that his decision was made.

  And then it was over, and everyone was standing and chattering, and she was coming. She was headed right for him, cobalt folds f
lying about her, holding out her hand as graciously as a queen. The woman was scary.

  “Why, Eddie Valentino, I never figured you for a poetry lover.”

  “My wife made me come.”

  He could hear Audrey gasp at his side, but the Baroness was utterly unfazed. “Audrey? Delighted to meet you. And you must be Angie. It’s so lovely of you to come. Will you come meet my mama?”

  Then, somehow, they got sucked up into the maelstrom of people around her and Audrey was falling in love with the woman the Baroness said was her mama: “She calls herself Miz Clara, but you can probably call her ‘Miz’ for short.”

  Angie was trading wisecracks with some black guy— good-looking dude, way too handsome for Eddie’s taste— who was probably the poet’s boyfriend or husband or something, and he was forced to talk to the damn woman herself.

  “Tell me something, Miss, um… Miss…” He’d forgotten her name.

  “Why don’t you call me ‘Your Grace’?”

  “Uh, tell me something. Where’d you go to school?”

  “Harvard. I told you that.” She was laughing at him.

  “Oh, yeah, Xavier. Ya graduate?”

  She nodded. “With honors.”

  “Well, you talk like an educated lady. Why ya write ya poetry in ebonics— idn’t that what they call it?” He was proud of himself for remembering.

  “You really want to know?”

  Not really, he thought, but he had to talk about something. “It just seems like kind of a waste of education.”

  “I do it because that’s how I hear it.”

  He thought she’d say more, but she didn’t. Superior bitch. He truly hated her.

  Chapter 3

  Before it was over, Talba had managed to get him together with Miz Clara. The Baroness might be too much for him— she was pretty sure she was— but no one, at least no one like Eddie, could resist Miz Clara when she was in church-lady mode. She came to Talba’s readings dressed to uphold the family honor in the face of her daughter’s outlandish persona, and that meant pantyhose, heels, tight little dress with peplum, and Sunday-best, not-a-hair-out-of-place-wig-hat-on-her-head. She worked as a housecleaner, which she would probably work into the conversation, just because she liked to get it out there in case it was an issue, and Talba figured that could work to her advantage. It would show that she came from modest beginnings and therefore couldn’t be too threatening.

  Talba had kept an ear cocked while she talked to Eddie’s very hip daughter— whom she liked a lot— and heard Miz Clara going on about how honored she was that Eddie had come to hear her humble daughter and even brought his exalted family. She might not actually have used those precise adjectives, but Talba thought there was something downright Japanese about the way she carried on about the honor he and his were heaping on her and hers by their luminescent presence. Her mother must really want her to get a job.

  Her brother Corey already held one of the three positions Miz Clara deemed acceptable for her offspring, the other two being president and Speaker of the House. Corey was a doctor. Miz Clara hadn’t signed up for a poet.

  Worse, she hated most of Talba’s poetry, because it revealed too much about the family. What she did like was the adulation it got her daughter, which Miz Clara felt reflected so well on her it actually was hers. And so, gradually, ever so gradually, she’d become willing for Talba not to go off to Palo Alto and become an Internet millionaire, so long as she did some kind of honest work. Evidently, she’d liked Audrey enough to make Eddie okay with her. And okay in Miz Clara’s book meant she was going to stay on Talba’s back— and maybe Eddie’s— till Eddie hired her.

  That morning she had knocked on Talba’s door, and shouted, “Girl, who you think you are? Queen of the May?”

  Talba smiled. “Come on in, Mama. I’m sorry you hate that poem so much.”

  “Hmmmf. Describe you, all right. Got coffee made.”

  Talba had stayed out late with Darryl after the reading— she found it took her hours to wind down from these things— and had slept much longer than usual, too long to join her mother for coffee, as usual.

  When Miz Clara had left, and she had drunk her coffee and worked up her nerve, she took a breath and called Eddie. “Mr. Valentino? I just wanted to thank you again for coming to my reading. I was really very touched and just wanted to say…”

  But he interrupted her. “Ya busy this morning? Why don’t ya come on in?”

  For what? she thought. Am I hired? But she didn’t ask. What the hell, she wasn’t busy. She put on her one good suit.

  Eileen Fisher looked up only briefly. “He said to send you right in.”

  Talba thought he looked a little better this morning— maybe a little less tired. Probably a load off his shoulders, knowing he was about to get such a competent assistant.

  “Ms. Wallis, ya got an investigator’s license?”

  “License? Well, no, I thought if I worked for you… why? Do I need one?”

  “To be an investigator ya do.”

  Fool. She hadn’t checked that out.“What do I have to do to get one?”

  “Ya gotta go to Delgado or UNO and take a course. Take ya coupla weekends. But you gotta wait till they give the class.”

  “Oh.” She sat still for a moment, taking it in. Finally, she said, “Well. I’m in your office. There must be some reason for it.”

  “I’m willing to take you on as an apprentice while ya get ya license.”

  “I see.”

  “And I was wonderin’. You’re so good with the computer— ya got a program for keeping books?”

  “You want me to keep the books as well?”

  He shrugged. “Not that much to do. It’s just a pain in the ass if ya don’t have the software.”

  “You want me to do two jobs? Is that it?”

  “Well, ya won’t be doing that much investigating— mostly just tagging around with me and learning. With your skills, the bookkeeping won’t take ya more than a few hours a month. I’d say it’s about three-quarters of a job, really.”

  “Wait a minute. None of that’s my real job— what you really want’s a computer jockey, right?”

  He leaned forward, getting aggressive on her. “That’s nothin’. That’s like a hobby for ya.”

  She was considering flouncing out of the office when suddenly she noticed something she’d never seen in this man before. Somewhere between the lizardly hoods of his eyes and the purple luggage below was a glint of amusement. He was playing with her.

  She reached for the file she’d withheld from him the day before, the one that held his financial report, setting it provocatively on his desk. “You’re right. Piece of cake for a hotshot like me. But you don’t know me— how come you’d trust me with the books?”

  “I wouldn’t. I’m gonna micromanage ya until I’m sure ya’ve got the hang of it.”

  “I mean, how do you know I’m honest?”

  “Are you serious, young lady? You should never have introduced me to ya mama— you don’t do right, Miz Clara’ll be the first to know.”

  If he was the laughing type, he’d be roaring at this point.

  She concealed her irritation. “What kind of salary did you have in mind?”

  “Tell me what ya lookin’ for.” He looked like a buzzard circling prey so helpless it already stank.

  She said, “Oh, about eighty grand.”

  He did a histrionic double take. “Grand is right, Your Majesty. We’re talkin’ grandiose.”

  “Your Grace will do.” She gave him a full-wattage smile.

  “I was thinking more like twenty-five.”

  Good, she thought. Excellent. He was probably really thinking about seventeen.

  She opened the folder. “Well, now, I’ve already given a little attention to your books.”

  He snatched the folder out of her hands. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Same place that high-priced service of yours gets it. You’ve got one, don’t you? You probably
pay them twenty-five a year. I can save you that much just by doing your financial checks for you. So look— take that twenty-five and the twenty-five you just offered— I’ll do it for fifty.”

  The amusement was gone now. He was starting to look dangerous. “You got some nerve, ya know that?”

  Talba was wondering if she’d gone too far when a timid voice spoke behind her. “Mr. Valentino?”

  “What is it, Eileen?” His voice was furious. Talba could see the woman wince, bracing for a temper that he probably didn’t bother controlling if he didn’t feel like it.

  “I’ve got a call for Ms. Wallis.”

  “Ms.… Ms.…” He seemed to be struggling to remember who the hell Ms. Wallis might be.

  “May I take it here?” Talba asked coolly, and picked up the phone.

  “Did I get you at a bad time?” It was Darryl.

  “Couldn’t be worse. How’d you find me?”

  “Took a chance. Listen, there’s no time to talk. I’m sending you a client. You got the job, I presume.”

  For the benefit of Valentino, who was hanging on her every word, Talba said, “I see. You’re sending us a client.”

  “Look, it’s a lady whose kid goes to another school. She just made a scene in the counselor’s office, and I thought of a brilliant way to get her out of here.”

  “Uh-huh. What was that?”

  “Suggested a hotshot P.I. Oh, shit, she’s yelling again. Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  Talba set the receiver down, wondering what this was going to do to her negotiation. She decided not to go the apologetic route. Instead, she smiled and held out her hands. “Well. Looks like I’m a rainmaker.”

  “You’re mighty damn big for ya britches, you know that?”

  “Actually, I’m a little embarrassed about that— I didn’t solicit it; it just happened.”

  “And how exactly would you define ‘it’?” he asked.

  “A friend said he had a client for us. No details; no nothing.”

  Valentino shook his head. “Well, I can’t pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

  He damn sure could, she thought. She knew exactly what he was taking in. But she said, “Okay. Forty-five.”

  Eileen Fisher appeared again. “Another call for Ms. Wallis.”

  Again, Talba picked up. “This is Aziza Scott. Darryl Boucree called about me.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Scott. He called, but he didn’t tell me what it was about.”

  “I’m calling from the car. See you in ten.”