82 Desire

just wasn’t going to get to do that. Her damn phone was screaming at her.
    “Hello,” she said, in the tone of someone expecting a bill collector.
    “This is the man who’s going to give you seven hundred and fifty dollars. Can’t you be a little nicer?”
    Hmmph. Hell you are. She almost said that—but this was a kid-gloves situation.
    “I hit another snag. Maybe another couple of snags.”
    “What the hell do you mean you’ve hit a snag?”
    She had to hold the phone away from her ear. “You’re yelling.”
    “Goddammit, what’s the problem? I paid you good money to do what a child should be able to do. I thought you were a professional.”
    “Hey, I’m doing what I can.”
    “Well, it’s not good enough, Talba. You must be the most overpaid little computer nerd in Louisiana, and day after day you keep coming up with nothing.”
    “Wait a minute…”
    “No, you wait a minute. Tell me one goddamn thing you’ve done to earn your damn money.”
    “That’s it. I quit. Find yourself another nerd, Mr. Asshole.” She broke the connection.
    The asshole called right back, of course. She picked up and said, “Not interested.”
    “What about my seven-fifty?” He sounded slightly chastened, which gave Talba an idea.
    “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. I took a peek at that file when I got it for Allred …”
    “You did? Well, what the hell was in it?”
    “A bunch of names and numbers that didn’t mean a damn thing to me. So naturally I forgot ’em. But yesterday, I remembered a name.”
    The client didn’t speak for a moment. She heard him draw in his breath. He said, “You remembered a name,” all quiet and reasonable, as if the fact alone might be important.
    She went for it. “Here’s my proposition. I give you the name, I get to keep the seven-fifty, we call off the rest of the deal, and we’re square.”
    He didn’t speak for a while, just breathed heavily into the phone.
    * * *
    One name? Was it worth seven-fifty?
    It could be. It might be all he needed. On the other hand, it might be worthless.
    Ray closed his eyes. “All right.”
    “What? Why are you whispering?”
    “Give it to me.”
    “Okay, you got a pencil? It’s Marion Newman. That’s… M-a-r…”
    “I know, I know.”
    “Are we done now? I’m okay, you’re okay?”
    “I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
    Marion Newman. He might have just hit the jackpot. “Cille! Cille, I’ve got a name.”
    Cille came flying in, grabbed him around the neck, pressing his head into her abdomen. “Wheeeeeeee!” It felt good there.
    “We’re going to get the rest of those bastards.”
    “Yes, Lord!” She threw up her hands and wiggled them.
    “Thank you, Jesus!” He did the same. It was a ritual they had, more profane than sacred, as neither of them was particularly religious.
    Usually they both did it, didn’t even notice it, but everything seemed so fragile these days, Ray had begun seeing the details of his life in high relief. Where had that thing come from? he wondered. A movie? Something they’d actually seen? He literally couldn’t remember the first time they’d done it. It was one of the tiny tiles that fit together in their marriage mosaic, that made it a rare and satisfying artwork; the most precious thing in his life. It made them laugh.
    “Git ’em,” she said. “Git ’em. Go git ’em, big boy.” That was another of their private… well, not jokes, more like little habits that made them feel part of each other. He felt like they shared a skin sometimes.
    He pulled up his Rolodex on the computer and dialed Marion Newman. The number had been disconnected.
    That could be a good sign , he thought. I don’t have my old number, either.
    Let’s see now. He had a son. Bad actor, though. Always in trouble. Ah, yes. Son-in-law in the air-conditioning business. But what was his name?
    A little conference with the Yellow Pages, and he had it: “Neville. Like the brothers.” He could hear the guy saying it now. It was too late for business hours, but there was an emergency number. Ray dialed it and waited for a callback, which came within the half hour—maybe the longest half hour of his life. Larry Neville himself called, and seemed all too happy to put his father-in-law on the line. (“Are you kidding? No trouble at all. It’s got the hell beat out of going out to fix an air conditioner.”)
    Ray could hear Marion Newman in the background. “Who? Do I know a Ray Boudreaux? Who the hell’s