82 Desire

see him when you couldn’t get him? It must have been pretty important.”
    “It was about a client.”
    “What client?”
    Wallis put a hand over her mouth, not as if trying to keep something in, more as if she were thinking. She said, “Oh, God,” and held the position for a while. Finally, she said, “I had a bad feeling. I think I better talk about it.”
    “It’s probably best.”
    “I think I have to call a lawyer.”
    That was the last thing Skip wanted. “There’s no need if you haven’t done anything wrong.”
    Wallis stared at her a minute, possibly relieved, more likely calculating odds. Finally, she said, “Uh-uh. I’d like to help, but I just can’t right now. I’ve got to have legal advice.”
    Skip suddenly became Ms. Nicecop. “Well, look, do you have a good lawyer? Maybe I could—”
    “I’ll be in touch.” Wallis got up and turned to leave the room.
    “It was about Russell Fortier, wasn’t it?”
    Wallis whirled. “You found the files.”
    It was all Skip could do not to shout, “What files?” Instead she said, “Ms. Wallis, I need to read you your rights.”
    “You’re arresting me?”
    “I really can’t let you leave right now. Maybe you could have your lawyer meet us here.”
    “I don’t have a lawyer. I’ll have to get one.”
    Time was pouring away. Skip said, “Allred looked to me like a seedy private eye—seedy PIs do things to get information that aren’t completely legal. However, I’m not about to arrest you if you know something that’s going to help me solve a murder case—not unless the injured party presses charges. And being a tattletale is not my job. Do you follow?”
    Wallis looked interested. Skip poured it on a little more. “Russell Fortier may be in danger.”
    Wallis sat down again. “Look. Are you offering me immunity from prosecution? Something like that?”
    “Not exactly. I’m just saying if you didn’t kill Gene Allred and you do cooperate in the investigation, I’m not going to go after you for 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