P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof Page 9
“Do your worst,” he said. “I got some bidness to take care of.”
She excused herself and went into the bathroom to call Eddie, to see if he could tail Buddy. But Eileen Fisher, the office manager, said he was out on a job. Well, no matter. If everyone stayed away, she had a lot of time to go through files.
She repaired to Buddy’s office to dig up dirt, first checking his medicine cabinet, where she found Oxycontin. The date on the vial was recent. Something might be made of that, but she was bound to find something better. After a cursory search, however, she hadn’t. There was a checkbook, though, and she photographed all the names of the payees, just in case some of them were cops, deputies, or possible drug planters. It would take a while, but she could background them all.
Lucy and Adele came home as she was finishing up. Quickly, she straightened the office and went out in the hall, where she loitered long enough to hear Lucy shouting, “I hate that! I’d never wear that in a million years.”
“Lucy, you know Mardi Gras’s your dad’s favorite time of year. The least you can do is show him the respect of wearing something to his party that covers your belly button.”
“You just don’t get it, Mommo!”
“And you may not ask Danielle.”
“Why? Because she’s black? I’m outta here.” And the girl burst out of her room at a run, sideswiping Talba with a fair-sized object she was carrying. “Omigod, I am so sorry.”
“I’m okay. What’s that you hit me with?”
The girl held up the object proudly. “Camcorder. I got it for my birthday.”
Actually, Talba already knew that—it was in the blog. She also knew it was Lucy’s most prized possession.
Lucy looked sheepish. “Listen, I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“What? I didn’t hear anything.” Talba winked and continued down the stairs.
“Turn around,” Lucy said, and when Talba did, she saw that she was being taped. “Say something brilliant.”
Here goes nothing, Talba thought, and declaimed, “‘Call the roller of big cigars, the muscular one, and bid him whip in kitchen cups concupiscent curds.’”
The budding filmmaker stared admiringly. “Awesome.”
“Translation: Want some ice cream?”
“That was Wallace Stevens.”
“Never heard of him,” Talba deadpanned.
“Give me a break. How do you know Wallace Stevens?”
“They let black girls go to school. Last I heard, anyhow.”
Lucy turned off the camera and followed her downstairs. “Nobody else in the asylum knows any poetry.”
Talba was drunk with power. Enough time invading people’s privacy, and you could conquer the world. “Asylum?” she asked.
“You mean you haven’t noticed? Even Daddy calls it that. You don’t think it’s weird that we all have to live together like this?”
“I thought maybe you liked it that way.”
“Mommo does, I think—so she can keep an eye on me. But Daddy says he’s looking after my interests. ’Cause I’m a minor.”
“Too deep for me, kid.”
“Well, my grandfather died when I was little, but he wanted Mama to inherit the house—see, it was always in his family, and he and Mommo didn’t really own it together. So his will said she could live in it till Mama got it—‘right of habitation,’ it’s called. But then Mama got killed.” Talba searched the girl’s face for sadness, and saw it settle there. “And her will left it to Daddy, and we moved in so he could ‘look after my interests.’ ’Cause Royce and I are supposed to get it eventually, and I’m a minor. I think there’s some kind of fight about it, though—or would be, except that everybody wants Mommo to take care of me. Except maybe me.”
“Lucy, you know your grandmother loves you.”
The girl sighed. “She’s old-fashioned, that’s all.”
Not liking the shadow of sadness that still sat on Lucy’s face, Talba said, “Come on—there really is ice cream.”
“Maybe a Coke float. With Diet Coke, of course.” The kid giggled.
Talba led her into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, but Lucy pushed her aside. “You don’t have to make it. My best friend’s African-American. I hate it when, uh…”
“Uh-huh, I get it. That would be Danielle, I presume?”
“Yeah, these assholes won’t even let her come to the Bacchus party.”
“Language, young lady.”
“You too, Brutus?” the girl said.
“Oh, boy, a closet intellectual. You hide it pretty well, baby.”
“It’s a lonely job,” Lucy said, taking a bite of vanilla ice cream.
Talba finished the sentence. “Yeah, yeah. But somebody’s gotta do it.” An ancient line to her, but Lucy seemed to want to hear it, and Talba figured it wouldn’t hurt her to oblige. She was right—evidently the kid hadn’t yet heard it enough to make her wince. Instead she smiled, clearly delighted to find an adult who’d kid around with her. But then her eyes filled up and she turned back to her food preparation.
“What?” Talba asked. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wish…”
“What?”
“I wish they’d let me have a pet or something.”
“Hmmm.” Talba’s mind raced to figure out what she was getting at, and failed. “I give up. Can you spell ‘non sequitur’?”
“Awesome,” the kid said again. “You are way smart.”
“Not smart enough to get that pet thing.”
“Oh.” Lucy looked forlorn. “I thought of it because I said lonely, I guess. I don’t have a boyfriend—I mean, look at me—I’m not the boyfriend type. And my best friend’s black and half the time that gets weird. And, like, I live in an asylum. I need, like…”
“Something to love?”
Lucy looked embarrassed.
“Well, why can’t you have a pet?”
“Suzanne’s allergic. Or says she is. She’s a bitch.” She put a hand to her forehead. “Ooh. I ate that too fast.”
“I heard that, young lady,” Adele said, stepping into the room.
“What? That I ate my ice cream too fast?”
“What you called your sister-in-law. Go to your room.”
“Whatever.” Lucy sauntered out, not the least nonplussed.
“What am I going to do with that child?” Adele said to Talba. “She’s such a brat Buddy’s at his wit’s end. I try, but with this party and all, things are just getting away from me. The damn caterer misunderstood the order and now she’s got to double it and doesn’t have time.”
“Guess she better make time,” Talba said.
“That’s what I told her. And she’s only sending me one server. She’s piss-poor. Are you good at serving?”
Talba shrugged. “I can get by.”
Adele exhaled. “Well. Are you free Sunday night, by any chance? I hate to ask you, but I’m really—”
Talba interrupted, to save her the trouble. “Sure, I could do it. I’d love to. I could really use the extra cash.”
The older woman closed her eyes in relief. “I’ll dance at your wedding. Wear a white shirt and black skirt.”
“Blue skirt okay?” Talba had a dozen of them. White shirts and blue skirts were her invariable work attire—practical, always suitable, nearly invisible.
“Blue’s fine.”
Talba had a great idea. “You sure you’re going to have enough help? I know a real good waiter—probably I could talk him into coming.” Darryl was no waiter, but he’d just love this—and a high school English teacher ought to be smart enough to figure out how to pass hors d’oeuvres.
“You’ve got to be kidding. You could really get me somebody?”
“I can try.”
“I swear I don’t know what we ever did without you. I’ve got to go see about the flowers. See you tomorrow then? About two o’clock to set up.”
“Yes’m, I’ll be here.”
Talba went home
, lined up Darryl to serve, and wrote two poems. She had a reading tomorrow, after her setup date, and she needed something new. Whatever else happened, she was still the Baroness de Pontalba. The day’s tapes could wait. She couldn’t drink while working, and she could while listening.
When she was finally able to get into bed with a glass of wine and her tape player, she got so excited she nearly phoned Eddie and Jane Storey. But she had a meeting with Eddie and Angie the next night, after her reading. The content of the tape would keep till then, and it was so good it deserved personal delivery.
Chapter 7
She slept till nearly noon and woke up feeling as if she’d been issued a fresh skeletal system. It was a gorgeous February day—more spring than winter—so she wore a tank top under her chambray work shirt, thinking to strip down if necessary.
At two sharp, she arrived at the Champagne house—to a scene of chaos. Furniture was in disarray, tempers were frayed, and no men were in sight.
All the women except Lucy were, though. “Thank God you’re here,” Suzanne said instead of hello. “Daddy Buddy and Royce went off to an Iris Party with Brad and left us to do everything—although Daddy Buddy said something about some guys coming to help. Naturally, they aren’t here. Don’t you think the food table ought to be in the dining room, and the bar out in the hall?” She was wearing denim capris and a tank top that showed a sun tattoo on her upper back.
Kristin, in jeans that looked ironed, joined them. “Buddy wants the bar in the dining room.”
“Then everything will just get jammed up. Come on, Sandra, what do you think?”
“If I start thinkin’, I might have to charge overtime.”
Kristin laughed, Suzanne didn’t. “Come on, Suze, you know how Buddy is about this party….”
She was about to say more, but Suzanne cut her off. “How many times have I asked you not to call me ‘Suze’?”
Kristin glared at her. “Suzanne, what do you really care? This party’s Buddy’s pride and joy. You know Mardi Gras’s more important to him than Christmas and Thanksgiving put together. Why are you being such a crybaby?”
“Crybaby! How dare you? Since when are you an expert on traffic flow? What do you think feng shui’s all about, anyway? You’ve got me—why not take advantage of me?” She was shrieking.
Adele entered the dining room and put a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “Suzanne. We’ll do it Buddy’s way.”
“Fine! Just fine. Do it Daddy Buddy’s goddam way. Whatever Buddy wants, Buddy gets.” She glanced sideways at Talba, suddenly remembering the new maid had witnessed the disturbing scene at lunch. “He wishes!” she finished.
“Well, he’s getting his bar where he wants it,” Adele said crisply. “Get that, will you, Sandra?”
Someone was at the door—two burly brothers, dressed in baggy jeans and T-shirts. “Can I help you?” Talba asked.
“We’re here to do the heavy lifting,” one of them said, a youngish guy with a shaved head like her brother Corey. He was cute and he knew it.
Talba played dumb. “I didn’t know we were expecting…uh…”
“This the Champagne residence, right? Mr. Nicasio sent us.”
“Oh, of course. The guys to do the heavy lifting.”
“Now ya catchin’ on.”
She was catching on, all right, and beginning to worry about her offer to help serve. “Mr. Nicasio coming to the party?” she asked casually as she let them in. That was all she needed; she wondered about Jimmy Houlihan, too.
The two men exchanged a look. “Don’t think he invited,” the cute one said. “But he like to help out whenever he can.”
In a way it was too bad. Sure, he might have recognized her, but she’d have loved the chance to photograph a bail bondsman at a judge’s party.
“Miss Adele! The guys are here to help.”
Adele bustled into the hall. “Oh, good. Can you two go in there and work with Kristin? She’s the blonde one.” To Talba she said, “How’d you do with my extra server?”
“I don’t know if it’s going to work out. He’d love the job, but this is the weekend he has his daughter.”
“How old is she?”
“About ten.”
“Perfect. She like parades?”
“What kid doesn’t?”
“Good, get him to bring her—Lucy can babysit. She won’t like it, but she can do it. How are you at arranging flowers?”
“I could give it a shot. But wouldn’t that be more Suzanne’s thing? Seems like she’s the aesthetic type.”
Adele looked bemused. “‘Aesthetic.’ Well, aren’t you a case. Never use a ten-cent word if you got a three-dollar one. Good idea, though—might make her feel important. Suzanne! Hey, girl, I need you.” She winked at Talba.
Talba spent the rest of the day ironing tablecloths, which Adele had just discovered she’d forgotten to send to the cleaners, and came out of the laundry room to find Suzanne in tears, crying out her woes to Royce, who had by now gotten home from a day of drinking beer and catching throws. Kristin seemed to have left, and Adele was nowhere to be seen.
“Kristin thinks she owns the goddam house, and Mama Dell takes her side. Can’t you do something?”
“Well, Suzanne, for God’s sake, what do you care? This party’s all about Daddy, not you. Can’t you just do your meditation and your feng shui and call it a day?”
“This is my feng shui. This is what feng shui’s all about. If they do it her way, it’s going to screw up the traffic flow. Everybody’ll congregate in the front of the house.”
“So? Once the parade starts, they’ll be that much nearer. Give it a rest, will you?”
“Kristin thinks she owns the goddam place.”
“Are you jealous of her or something? Who cares? Daddy has a different girlfriend every six months.”
“You know what, Royce Champagne? You are a wimp! An unmitigated coward and a craven little kid.”
“Suzanne, I am so sick of your whining I could scream.”
Me too, Talba thought. I’m out of here and you can all rot in hell.
She took her weary bones home and transformed herself. Half the fun of being a baroness was dressing the part, and she had a new outfit from the Ashro catalogue, “the animal magnetism duster set.” The dress was layered, the outside layer being a jungle print with leopards and zebras frolicking in a turquoise jungle and the bottom layer a chiffon leopard print, which brushed and swirled around her ankles a good foot below the jungle layer, which matched the duster. Both pieces were banded in gold and trimmed with bronze beads. Not everyone could get away with it, but a baroness could, with about five pounds of turquoise jewelry.
Miz Clara, as always on reading nights, deputized herself into the fashion police: “Wait’ll Eddie see that. He gon’ fire ya fine behind.”
Talba was used to this—once, her mother had pronounced her “a rummage sale on the hoof.” The threat of firing was mild.
Talba was more or less the house band at a restaurant called Reggie and Chaz, famous for its poetry readings and its cheap and cheerful decor, which was notable mainly for the dozens of Guatemalan belts that hung from the ceiling like so many multicolored streamers. It was one of the few literary hot spots that drew a salt-and-pepper crowd of poets. At most other venues, just about anyone might show up in the audience, but the poets themselves tended to be all one color or the other.
Talba liked the multicultural aspect and indeed admired a number of white poets, though she couldn’t understand why they tended to read in a monotone instead of memorizing their poems and performing them. She blamed T. S. Eliot, who, in her opinion, had a lot to answer for. If people could be bothered coming out at night to hear poetry, the least she could do was give them a show.
She never got to read first at Reggie and Chaz. So many people came just to see her that they liked to save her for last, but tonight she had begged to go third and had finally negotiated fifth.
The poet immediately befor
e her was white and political, her favorite kind of act to follow, since her own material was so different. She read a poem inspired by recent experience, called “The Intersection.”
The Intersection
Mr. William Butler Yeats wrote that
“Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement”
Tha’s whatya call a poem within a poem
And I always loved that line.
But I’m gon’ go ol’ Bill one better.
’Cause somethin’ I seen
Was even more obscene
Than nature.
I was over at my buddy Bubba White’s
And Bubba gets a nosebleed.
So I go lookin’ for a tissue,
Happen to open the wrong drawer
And this is what I see:
I find his favorite trove of sex toys.
Now I’m real happy for ol’ Bubba,
Who’s kinda gettin’ on these days,
Got a nice young girlfriend
I was kinda wonderin’ how he was gon’ keep.
And in that drawer I see a cache of
Them Viagra pills
And I feel even happier
For him, ’cause I hear the young
Kids, not more than twenty-one—
Talk about how it keep ’em goin`
Maybe thirty-six hours straight,
And I think even thirty-six minutes
Probably make ol’ Bubba
Want to jump the moon.
And then I see a great big box
Of condoms, and I know ol’ Bubba
Even in his joy,
Be playin’ it safe.
Now ain’t that nice, I think.
And then I see the gun.
Just nestled in there snug and cozy.
And I ponder what ol’ Bubba
Might be afraid of,
’Cause all the condoms
In the entire state
Ain’ gon’ protect us
From that kinda mess.
I’m pretty sure that
Firearm be loaded
And ready to go, too,
Just like Bubba on a good night
In the event he know what that is.
Put me in mind of two streets
Intersect here in our city—