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Authors: Julie Smith
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She needed to register a URL. EddieValentino.com had a ring to it.
No, wait a minute. The name of the agency was Anthony Valentino. Anthony! He’d named the agency after his son.
She forgot about the website and started fooling around with “Anthony Valentino.” She could always do a people search, starting in Louisiana, then more or less guessing, but that was way too boring. Newspaper articles were a lot more fun. She hit a few more keys.
And there they were— news stories. About a dozen of them, modest-sized articles in modest-sized papers all over the country. Interviews. There were schedules too, and reviews. Anthony Valentino no longer went by that name (though he mentioned it in every single interview).
Anthony Valentino, formerly of New Orleans, had metamorphosed into bluesman Tony Tino. Now he probably did have a website.
Yes, indeed. There it was. Even a picture of him, looking more like Angie than either of his parents. He had on a narrow-brimmed hat like an old black man might wear, someone playing in a joint like Ernie K-Doe’s Mother-In-Law Club. You couldn’t see his hair, but she was betting on thick and curly. The face looked
fine.
It was an Italian face, big-nosed and bold, with a hint of the balefulness so striking in his father. In a young man, lugubriousness contrived to be sexy, and no one knew it better than Talba. It was hard to say from a head shot, but Talba’s impression was of leanness, a build more like his mother’s than his father’s. His expression was cocky, in the manner of musicians posing for photographs, but the tiny bit of sadness and something else, something about the set of the features, suggested a vulnerability, a sensitivity, the kind of thing women went mad for.
Oh, hell, including me,
she thought.
Eddie’s kid’s a hunk. Wonder what he plays?
Whoa. Harmonica. A blues harmonica player. He even had a CD out. Pretty accomplished guy.
She rifled through the interviews, which he had attached to his home page— not only that, he sounded literate and charming. Actually, not charming. Anyone could be charming. The man sounded nice.
He was… look at that… living in Austin. Practically a stone’s throw. There was no mention of a wife or kids, which she supposed befitted a blues musician. A bachelor would have more time to brood.
Now why in hell didn’t Eddie know where he lived? Wait a minute here— she consulted the schedules and interviews. Tony Tino had played New Orleans, but hadn’t been interviewed there. Oh, well, never a prophet, she thought— or perhaps it was Tony’s choice. Maybe he didn’t want to fling his long-lost self in his parents’ face.
Parents.
Maybe it wasn’t both of them. Maybe it was Eddie only.
Still, why didn’t Eddie know where his only son lived? He might hate the Internet, but he was on it every day of his life. Why the hell wouldn’t he type in his son’s name and see what came up?
Maybe he had. Maybe he’d lied about not knowing.
Her doorknob rattled. “Ms. Wallis, what’s this closed door stunt? What ya doin’ in here?” She barely had time to get out of Tony’s website before the elder Valentino came crashing into her office.
“Thought you were going to call me Talba,” she said, and then was sorry she hadn’t been more respectful. Eddie looked like hell, his face pinched with pain. “Eddie, what’s the matter?”
“Ah, it’s nothin’, I just got one of my headaches.”
“Headaches,” she said. “Have you had that checked out?”
He swatted the air in front of his face, indicating his disdain for the question. “The driver was a black male.”
“Damn! Do you think we should tell Aziza?”
“Oh, yeah. Hell, yeah, I think we should tell Aziza. But she left this morning on a business trip, and her office won’t say where she went.”
“What about Cassandra?”
“She didn’t go to school today, and nobody’s answering the phone at home. For all I know she was in the car with the hit-and-run
No, wait a minute. The name of the agency was Anthony Valentino. Anthony! He’d named the agency after his son.
She forgot about the website and started fooling around with “Anthony Valentino.” She could always do a people search, starting in Louisiana, then more or less guessing, but that was way too boring. Newspaper articles were a lot more fun. She hit a few more keys.
And there they were— news stories. About a dozen of them, modest-sized articles in modest-sized papers all over the country. Interviews. There were schedules too, and reviews. Anthony Valentino no longer went by that name (though he mentioned it in every single interview).
Anthony Valentino, formerly of New Orleans, had metamorphosed into bluesman Tony Tino. Now he probably did have a website.
Yes, indeed. There it was. Even a picture of him, looking more like Angie than either of his parents. He had on a narrow-brimmed hat like an old black man might wear, someone playing in a joint like Ernie K-Doe’s Mother-In-Law Club. You couldn’t see his hair, but she was betting on thick and curly. The face looked
fine.
It was an Italian face, big-nosed and bold, with a hint of the balefulness so striking in his father. In a young man, lugubriousness contrived to be sexy, and no one knew it better than Talba. It was hard to say from a head shot, but Talba’s impression was of leanness, a build more like his mother’s than his father’s. His expression was cocky, in the manner of musicians posing for photographs, but the tiny bit of sadness and something else, something about the set of the features, suggested a vulnerability, a sensitivity, the kind of thing women went mad for.
Oh, hell, including me,
she thought.
Eddie’s kid’s a hunk. Wonder what he plays?
Whoa. Harmonica. A blues harmonica player. He even had a CD out. Pretty accomplished guy.
She rifled through the interviews, which he had attached to his home page— not only that, he sounded literate and charming. Actually, not charming. Anyone could be charming. The man sounded nice.
He was… look at that… living in Austin. Practically a stone’s throw. There was no mention of a wife or kids, which she supposed befitted a blues musician. A bachelor would have more time to brood.
Now why in hell didn’t Eddie know where he lived? Wait a minute here— she consulted the schedules and interviews. Tony Tino had played New Orleans, but hadn’t been interviewed there. Oh, well, never a prophet, she thought— or perhaps it was Tony’s choice. Maybe he didn’t want to fling his long-lost self in his parents’ face.
Parents.
Maybe it wasn’t both of them. Maybe it was Eddie only.
Still, why didn’t Eddie know where his only son lived? He might hate the Internet, but he was on it every day of his life. Why the hell wouldn’t he type in his son’s name and see what came up?
Maybe he had. Maybe he’d lied about not knowing.
Her doorknob rattled. “Ms. Wallis, what’s this closed door stunt? What ya doin’ in here?” She barely had time to get out of Tony’s website before the elder Valentino came crashing into her office.
“Thought you were going to call me Talba,” she said, and then was sorry she hadn’t been more respectful. Eddie looked like hell, his face pinched with pain. “Eddie, what’s the matter?”
“Ah, it’s nothin’, I just got one of my headaches.”
“Headaches,” she said. “Have you had that checked out?”
He swatted the air in front of his face, indicating his disdain for the question. “The driver was a black male.”
“Damn! Do you think we should tell Aziza?”
“Oh, yeah. Hell, yeah, I think we should tell Aziza. But she left this morning on a business trip, and her office won’t say where she went.”
“What about Cassandra?”
“She didn’t go to school today, and nobody’s answering the phone at home. For all I know she was in the car with the hit-and-run
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