something petty.”
“You really think Fortier could be in danger?”
“I sure do.” In fact, he’s probably dead.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll talk.”
Skip Mirandized her just to get it on the record. And Wallis talked. “To begin with,” she said, “I am a poet. Don’t ask me why or how. I couldn’t tell you. It’s just something you do—one does, I mean. That one is born with. Oh, yes, yes, the world is full of MFAs, but did Chaucer have one? Did Shakespeare? Or even Wallace Stevens? Wallace Stevens would have been the world’s most prosaic man if he hadn’t been a poet.”
Skip pointed to her tape recorder. “Ms. Wallis. The tape’s almost run out. Were you planning to get started soon?”
“It’s all of a piece, Detective.”
“I’m not an audience, okay? I’m a police officer investigating a murder case.”
Wallis broke into a grin. “Hey, maybe you’d like to be an audience. Tomorrow at Reggie and Chaz.” She handed Skip a flyer. “I got this poem I just know you’d like.”
“Ms. Wallis, I’m losing patience.”
“I’m gettin’ there, okay? The point is, ‘poet’ isn’t a job description—my mama thinks it’s a hobby. So I’ve got to have a day job—you know, the famous ‘somethin’ to fall back on’? I’m damn good with computers, Detective. Graduated from Xavier, top of my class. But I took some time off to pursue my art. And in the course of it, I got mixed up with Mr. Allred.”
***
Talba had mentioned the poetry mostly as a blind. True, it was the most important thing in her life—in a long-term sense—but it wasn’t the engine that drove her, at least right now. Talba hoped to solve her problem and leave it behind, but it had to be handled first. As a small child, she had vowed to do this thing, to find the Pill Man and lay the demons to rest, and now was the time to do it. When it was done, she could move on.
But it had to be done.
She had found Allred’s ad in the Yellow Pages. (“Nothing like having a name that starts with A,” he told her once. “Bet I get half my clients that way.”)
She liked his office. It looked seedy enough to make her think she could afford him. And Allred himself, despite his polyester suit and face abloom with gin blossoms, had nice eyes. Eyes like those she’d seen on many an older black man—eyes that said he’d seen suffering and comprehended it. She’d never known her father, and as a consequence was drawn to these suffering men. They looked as if they’d be kind.
She had enough sense to know that Allred, in his job, was no saint, but her intuition told her he wasn’t all bad either—that he’d probably treat her honestly—and that was all she needed.
She started at the beginning. “Mr. Allred, you a racist?”
“A racist? You sound like you’re one. You want a black PI, I’ll give you some names.”
“Hold your horses now; just hold on. This is relevant. I need you to find somebody for me—and he’s a racist, whether he knows it or not. If you’re a racist, you’re just not gonna relate.”
Allred rested his chin on one fist and tapped the table with the other. “I’m no racist, Ms. Wallis.”
She told him her problem.
When she had finished he said, “Sure, I’ve heard that story. I’ve heard about the names. Everybody in New Orleans has.”
“Every white person in New Orleans.”
“What are you gonna do if you find the guy?”
“Does that matter?”
“I’m curious. That’s all.”
“I’m gonna make him pay. Some way. Every way I possibly can. I’m gonna hold him up to public ridicule. An eye for an eye, Mr. Allred.”
“And just how do you plan to do that?”
“Through my writing.”
“Tell more.”
“I’m a poet.”
“Well, then.” He leaned over, his face so close she could see the twin webs of wrinkles around his eyes. “How do you plan to pay me?”
“I’m also a computer nerd. A really good one.”
“And who do you work for?”
“Right now, I’m kind of
“You really think Fortier could be in danger?”
“I sure do.” In fact, he’s probably dead.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll talk.”
Skip Mirandized her just to get it on the record. And Wallis talked. “To begin with,” she said, “I am a poet. Don’t ask me why or how. I couldn’t tell you. It’s just something you do—one does, I mean. That one is born with. Oh, yes, yes, the world is full of MFAs, but did Chaucer have one? Did Shakespeare? Or even Wallace Stevens? Wallace Stevens would have been the world’s most prosaic man if he hadn’t been a poet.”
Skip pointed to her tape recorder. “Ms. Wallis. The tape’s almost run out. Were you planning to get started soon?”
“It’s all of a piece, Detective.”
“I’m not an audience, okay? I’m a police officer investigating a murder case.”
Wallis broke into a grin. “Hey, maybe you’d like to be an audience. Tomorrow at Reggie and Chaz.” She handed Skip a flyer. “I got this poem I just know you’d like.”
“Ms. Wallis, I’m losing patience.”
“I’m gettin’ there, okay? The point is, ‘poet’ isn’t a job description—my mama thinks it’s a hobby. So I’ve got to have a day job—you know, the famous ‘somethin’ to fall back on’? I’m damn good with computers, Detective. Graduated from Xavier, top of my class. But I took some time off to pursue my art. And in the course of it, I got mixed up with Mr. Allred.”
***
Talba had mentioned the poetry mostly as a blind. True, it was the most important thing in her life—in a long-term sense—but it wasn’t the engine that drove her, at least right now. Talba hoped to solve her problem and leave it behind, but it had to be handled first. As a small child, she had vowed to do this thing, to find the Pill Man and lay the demons to rest, and now was the time to do it. When it was done, she could move on.
But it had to be done.
She had found Allred’s ad in the Yellow Pages. (“Nothing like having a name that starts with A,” he told her once. “Bet I get half my clients that way.”)
She liked his office. It looked seedy enough to make her think she could afford him. And Allred himself, despite his polyester suit and face abloom with gin blossoms, had nice eyes. Eyes like those she’d seen on many an older black man—eyes that said he’d seen suffering and comprehended it. She’d never known her father, and as a consequence was drawn to these suffering men. They looked as if they’d be kind.
She had enough sense to know that Allred, in his job, was no saint, but her intuition told her he wasn’t all bad either—that he’d probably treat her honestly—and that was all she needed.
She started at the beginning. “Mr. Allred, you a racist?”
“A racist? You sound like you’re one. You want a black PI, I’ll give you some names.”
“Hold your horses now; just hold on. This is relevant. I need you to find somebody for me—and he’s a racist, whether he knows it or not. If you’re a racist, you’re just not gonna relate.”
Allred rested his chin on one fist and tapped the table with the other. “I’m no racist, Ms. Wallis.”
She told him her problem.
When she had finished he said, “Sure, I’ve heard that story. I’ve heard about the names. Everybody in New Orleans has.”
“Every white person in New Orleans.”
“What are you gonna do if you find the guy?”
“Does that matter?”
“I’m curious. That’s all.”
“I’m gonna make him pay. Some way. Every way I possibly can. I’m gonna hold him up to public ridicule. An eye for an eye, Mr. Allred.”
“And just how do you plan to do that?”
“Through my writing.”
“Tell more.”
“I’m a poet.”
“Well, then.” He leaned over, his face so close she could see the twin webs of wrinkles around his eyes. “How do you plan to pay me?”
“I’m also a computer nerd. A really good one.”
“And who do you work for?”
“Right now, I’m kind of
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