82 Desire

could move back in with her. Miz Clara had said yes, and Talba felt betrayed every time she started the I-didn’t-send-you-to-college routine.
    So Talba hadn’t told her about this great new way she had of earning money. It was honorable—or almost honorable. And it was certainly fun. Besides, she was learning lots of skills that were going to stand her in good stead. She was going to find the bastard she was looking for and make him pay. Then her mama’d be proud of her.
    But she had a bad feeling about this Russell Fortier thing. Maybe old Gene Allred had taken advantage of her—gotten her involved in something that was going to come back to haunt her.
    Whatever else Talba Wallis was, she was one smart cookie. She knew enough to cover her bootie and she’d better go do that right now; she couldn’t call Gene from here, with her mother listening and prying and judging every word.
    She went and put on a white blouse and a little navy miniskirt, just like a Catholic schoolgirl. She had seven white blouses and four navy skirts. They looked businesslike, they looked humble, they hardly cost anything, and they were almost invisible. They nicely offset the long, gorgeous hair extensions she’d become addicted to—made her just another young black clerical worker who loved to go to the beauty parlor.
    By day she was neat Talba Wallis (Sandra to her mother), a young computer whiz or clerical worker—whatever was called for—by night a creature of beauty and glamour and, in a small way, fame, which was soon to spread.
    And those were only two of her personalities. She was also a woman with a mission.
    The mission was already changing her life. She’d originally gone to Gene Allred about her problem and that had led to a whole new world of adventure and bucks—and sometime criminal activity, which, if truth be told, she quite enjoyed.
    I hope that’s all it’s led to, she thought as she drove to Allred’s crummy office out near Elysian Fields and Gentilly. The building it was in looked like a trailer it was so small and low. Today, his door was slightly ajar.
    “Gene?” she called. He had no secretary.
    For some reason, she had a sudden outbreak of goose bumps.
    She stepped in, and there, in the doorway between the minuscule waiting room and the office proper, stood a man in a ski mask.
    She gasped so loud the noise surprised her. She looked wildly around, as if for an exit, and noticed the office was wrecked.
    The man came toward her. She backed up; all she had to do was step out on the sidewalk. Someone would see her, or at least hear her if she screamed.
    But she opened her mouth too late. A broad ham of a hand smacked against it; the hand was gloved. The man caught her by the elbow and forced her back into the office. He shoved her against an old green sofa that Allred had probably gotten from Goodwill.
    “Scream and I’ll kill you,” he said.
    Rage enveloped her like a blanket. She had been the despair of her mother all through Catholic school, always getting in fights and kicking the boys in the shins.
    “Fuck you,” she shouted, and hurled her body at him headfirst, butting him in the stomach. She heard something crack, probably his head hitting the wall. He started to fall and she righted herself, turned, and split, at more or less warp speed. Sure enough, there was someone there to save her—an elderly white woman was walking toward her.
    “Help!” she shouted, and the woman screamed herself, obviously terrified at the sight of a wild-haired black hellion hurtling toward her—probably afraid she was about to be caught in the middle of a shoot-out. Talba couldn’t have guaranteed that she wasn’t.
    The woman froze. “Dial 911,” Talba hollered, and kept running. Her car was two blocks away.
    She stole a glance behind her and saw that there was indeed a man behind her, though not running. She hadn’t noticed anything about the man in the office except his ski mask—though she thought he’d been wearing jeans. This one was also wearing jeans, and he was white. She hadn’t a clue if he was the intruder.
    About a block further on, when she was nearly to her car, she saw that the man was still walking toward her, and fast, she thought. She still couldn’t see his face. She kept running.
    She fumbled for her key, glancing around now and then to see if he was close. He was getting into a tan van.
    I’ve got to get calm , she thought. There were lots of cars, plenty of businesses, dozens