Big Easy Bonanza

we’ll see about the transfer.”

The next novel in the Talba Wallis series is LOUISIANA LAMENT.
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    “Julie Smith writes like jazz should sound—cool, complex, and penetrating right to the heart.”
    —Val McDermid, best-selling author
of the Tony Hill series

 
    PRIVATE CHICK
    A Short Story
    JULIE SMITH

 
    booksBnimble Publishing
New Orleans, La.
    Private Chick
A Short Story
    Copyright 2011 by Julie Smith
    All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
    Cover by Nevada Barr
    www.booksnimble.com
    First booksBnimble Publishing electronic publication: March 2012
    eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

PRIVATE CHICK
    Don’s the name, Diva’s the game. That’s right, my baby. Born Don Devereaux in Terrebonne Parish, and magically morphed into the
fabulous
Diva Delish, New Orleans’ most famous mixologist, sometime drag performer,
and
Mistress of Detection and Disguise. In my business—my second business, that is—you see everything. But what you
don’t
usually see? A gutterpunk with money to spend. The minute she walked in my bar, I recognized her.
    Oh, yeah, I knew her—Miss Thing from down the block. One day her hair’s purple, the next day it’s green, but tell me somethin’—who else goes
out of their way
to be the worst-dressed chick in the Faubourg Marigny? You know how much competition there is? On this particular night she had cotton candy where her hair should have been and she was wearing this severely clashing yellow polka dot halter thing that showed off a couple collarbones you could shave your legs with, and the skinniest arms this side of a telephone wire, with brand-new tattoos wrapped around ‘em.
    The Palace was hoppin’. You couldn’t hear yourself above the babble of the crowd and the ravishing caterwauling of the blenders making Miss Diva’s ambrosial margaritas. I don’t exactly own the Marigny Palace, but I do own the ambience, if you get my drift. And that night I was wearing my Bar Diva hat.
    “Hello, Your Pinkness,” I said. “Nice slave bracelets. What can I get you? Vodka and cranberry to match that hair?”
    But she wasn’t in a drinking mood. In fact she seemed a bit puzzled. She consulted a crumpled piece of cardboard. “Somebody gave me this business card but…I think I might be in the wrong place.”
    I knew all about that card. “Oh, not so much,” I said. “Let me guess whose card. Does it direct you, by any chance, to the world famous Marigny Palace, home of Double D Investigations, Devereaux and Delish Proprietors, by any chance?” (My second office is just down a little hall at the back side of the bar.)
    All she said was, “
This
is the Marigny Palace?”
    Well! I thought
everyone
knew the Palace. They should. The Palace is the quintessence of Neighborhood Bar. It’s the size of a couple of double parlors, and it has ten tables, max. Who needs tables? Palace people—and believe me, they are
all
kinds of people—belly up. The whole idea is, it’s a lot less barroom than
bar
—a huge, warm, wooden, U-shaped bar you could wrap around two houses. When you’re in the middle of that U, which is where I was, you command the universe.
    I said, “You’re there, my baby. So. You need Diva?”
    “Who’s Diva?”
    Oh, really! Who doesn’t know Diva? But I am the soul of patience with my clients. Half a dick’s job is being a mom. If you can figure that one out. “Me, my darlin’,” I said, the soul of reassurance. “Diva Delish, P.I., at your service. Devereaux’s the muscle, Delish is the brains. You’re Wendy, right?”
    “Hey, Delish!” hollered one of my regulars. “Who do I have to kill to get a cocktail around here?”
    I passed the buck. “Carlo, Take care of him, ok, baby? Pink drink, extra ice. Wendy here’s got a problem. How about a little drink for her too?”
    At the sound of her name, Miss Thing looked a little shaken. “Some guy gave me the card. How the hell do
you
know my name?”
    All righty, then. Nothing to do but tell her the truth. “Cause I’m gooood,” I admitted. “You’re the gutterpunk kid