Louisiana Lament

But on Eddie’s face, they looked like something from the lost luggage department. She sure didn’t want to see them get any worse.
    He slipped silently into the car. “Why didn’t ya call ya boyfriend to join ya? Be half as cheap for the client.”
    It wouldn’t though. She wasn’t going to charge Babalu for her half of the double hours. “Two black people in Old Metairie? Only thing worse than one.”
    “Naah. You could always start making out if anyone came by—nobody’d bother ya.”
    “I’ll remember that for next time.” It was a typical Eddie remark—maybe serious, maybe a joke, but at any rate not her idea of a fun date.
    “You take the first shift. I’m rackin’ out.” He leaned back and started snoring almost immediately. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and regretted getting him out of his nice cozy house on a Friday night—but she knew he’d do it to her.
    She let him sleep. As long as no one came along, she didn’t need him.
    It was after one when Sweet Thing’s door opened. Out came Jason and, sure enough, the lady was right behind him, in a Japanese kimono. He turned to kiss her good-bye, but she stopped him, pointing with her chin toward the rented car, which, if it hadn’t been white, would have blended a lot better. Jason wrenched his body around, and Talba scrunched down. “Eddie. Wake up,” she hissed.
    “Wha…?” He woke as suddenly and thoroughly as if a shot had been fired and assessed the situation. Talba sneaked a glance. “Omigod. He’s coming over here.”
    The two of them must have had quite a bit to drink. Jason was swaggering toward them, puffed up like John Wayne. Eddie said, “Put your head in my lap.”
    “Do what?”
    “Just
do
it!” He pulled her down, and as she floundered, struggling for breath, she raised an outraged face in his direction. He had his head back against the seat, mouth open, eyes closed, and he was breathing heavily. Getting the hang of things, she started to move her head in a rocking rhythm.
    “Excuse me!” Jason said loudly, almost shouting, whereupon Eddie raised his head, faked a beautiful deer-in-the-headlights, and then there was silence, as Jason realized what he’d interrupted—or thought he had. Talba heard nothing for a moment, and then laughing, as Jason apparently told Sweet Thing the coast was clear—there were neither casing burglars nor spying PIs out there, just a couple of crazies getting off.
    “Can I come up?”
    “Miz Wallis, I wish you would. This is playin’ hell with my dignity.”
    She sat up, pouting. “It didn’t do much for mine, either.”
    “It was a beautiful thing, though. Faked him right out. And look over there now.” The other happy couple, secure in the knowledge that no one was watching, were openly necking.

Chapter Three
    Monday morning bright and early Talba matched the Metairie address to a Dr. and Mrs. Peter St. Clair, wealthy patrons of the arts who frequently gave bundles to various small theater groups. Apparently, Dr. Pete traveled and Mrs. Pete (whose name was Valerie) did what she pleased.
    It wasn’t any fun writing the client report. But on the other hand, Babalu certainly knew what to expect; maybe she wouldn’t be too upset.
    “Trust me,” Eddie said. “She will.”
    Talba didn’t ask her to come to the office—just couldn’t put her friend through it. If Babalu was going to cry, she could do it in the peace of her own home.
    Babalu’s face was drawn, her cheeks too bright. Talba said, “Are you okay?”
    “I just…” Babalu seemed to be moving in little jerks. “I’m fine, really.”
    She seemed so birdlike, so unable to keep still, Talba wondered briefly if she could be on speed. But she quickly dismissed it—there was hardly a less likely candidate in the state of Louisiana.
    She declined her hostess’s offer of tea in favor of just getting it over with. “Babalu, I’m sorry. You were right about him.”
    Babalu’s head went slack against the back of the sofa, revealing a tiny scar at her scalp. “You deserve much better,” Talba continued. “This guy is…” She finally settled on a word that might make her client laugh. “…a slut.”
    It didn’t work. “We’re talking Jerk City here. Mondo dickhead.”
    Babalu wasn’t into female bonding. She seemed to want to be alone with her pain. But just to be sure, Talba kept still, waiting for a sign.
    Finally Babalu said, “Do you know who the woman is?”
    “Someone named Valerie