Louisiana Lament

video camera, conventional camera, binoculars, and Tee-ball bat. The last was the closest thing to a weapon he ever carried. “It’s well-balanced, with a good grip, and heavy enough to do some damage.
And
it’s absolutely legal,” he told Talba when he presented her with hers.
    Groaning, she retrieved it now, along with her maps and the other five items. She put the entire PI kit in a Guatemalan bag she had in the trunk, thinking that where it really belonged was in a new car. But she sure couldn’t shop for one bent over like she was.
    So she called Babalu Maya for an appointment and got the tow truck to drop her at Whole Foods on its way to Camry heaven. Babalu, bodyworker extraordinaire (whose real name was probably Barbara), lived within spitting distance of the only store in New Orleans where you could buy a head of lettuce for the cost of a new Camry. Talba could walk the block and a half if she didn’t collapse first; she could hobble it, anyhow. Or so she thought. She found the effort made her nauseous.
    “Girl!” Babalu’s face said Talba’s pain was her pain. “I swear to God you’re pale.”
    Babalu was white; she said things like that. Talba was not merely African-American but black.
Good
and black, thank you very much. She knew she was nowhere near pale, but she couldn’t be looking her best.
    “Give me that bag and sit down. Just sit down, now.” Talba still had stairs to climb. Babalu exerted pressure on her shoulders; Talba yielded. And before she knew it Babalu had done something, she hadn’t a clue what, that made it possible to straighten up.
    “Can you make it upstairs?”
    Talba nodded gratefully and hobbled up ahead of Babalu, who evidently thought she might have to catch her if things didn’t go well. Talba knew the drill so well she didn’t even pause, just went into the first room off the hallway, removed her shoes and earrings, and slid gingerly onto the massage table.
    Babalu said, “Tell me about it.”
    “Well, I didn’t see the stop sign. This tank or something hit me on the shotgun side—caved in my whole front end.”
    “You are one lucky female.” Babalu’s pretty face screwed itself up. She had short blond hair that she wore in a careless, shaggy bob, clear, satiny skin, and some kind of chain tattoo crawling up her arm—Celtic knots, she said, but it gave Talba the creeps. Like some kind of metaphorical half-handcuffs. Babalu had smiled the time she mentioned it—and not a nice smile, either; as if the effect was deliberate.
    Talba said, “Lucky. How come I can’t quite see it that way? I’m pretty sure my car’s a total.”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry. Wish I had one to lend you.” That was the way she was, Talba thought. A nurturer; a healer. She knew Talba only as a client, and yet she behaved like a friend.
    Talba groaned again and changed the subject, hoping for distraction from the intermittent pain. “Okay, enough about me. What’s new with you?” She arched her back against Babalu’s fingers.
    “You haven’t been here in too long, or you’d know. Feel that? These muscles think they’re bone. A little stress, I’d say.”
    Talba ignored the last part. “Or I’d know what?”
    Babalu waved her left hand provocatively; its fourth finger glinted. “I’m getting married.”
    Talba tried to sit up, just to take in the news. Babalu leaned over her chest and pushed her down. Tough. But her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. Talba gave up. “Hey, that’s fantastic!”
    “Yeah. I’m pretty happy.” The blush deepened.
    “Well, tell me everything.” This was good. There was nothing so distracting as a little romance.
    “He’s… cute.”
    “Yes? And?”
    “Well, he’s from Mississippi, and his name is Jason. He’s about six feet tall with dark, gorgeous hair…”
    “Umm hmm. Blue eyes, I bet.”
    “Yeah. How’d you know?”
    “You like that. I remember.” A bodyworker, she reflected, was like a hairdresser or an exercise partner. There you were for an hour, just the two of you—of course you were going to talk about who you were dating. “He’s probably an actor.”
    Babalu nodded. “Pretty good, too.”
    “I knew it. You’re such a stage-door Jenny.”
    “I like people with talent—the way I grew up was just so… I don’t know…”
    “Stuffy?”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “You’ve got that deb look. Except for the tattoo, of course. And the zany hair.”
    Babalu laughed. “Carefully cultivated.