Louisiana Bigshot

We were trailer-trash, actually.”
    “Back to the guy. Does he have a day gig?”
    “He’s… ummm… a stock trader.”
    “A
trader
? With the market in the toilet?”
    Babalu shrugged. “He seems to do okay at it.”
    “That’s a fair-sized rock he gave you, anyhow.” She realized Babalu hadn’t said one really personal thing about the man. “What about him really, though? What’s your favorite thing about him?”
    “My favorite thing?” The question seemed to catch her offguard, but she recovered quickly. “You think I’m going to talk about
that?”
    “Don’t. Ow. It hurts to laugh. Also, you’re mashing a tender spot.”
    Instantly, Babalu’s fingers lightened up. Talba sought once more to distract herself. “Okay, what do you like least about him?”
    “Least?”
    “Yeah, least. I know you’re crazy in love and all that but search your conscience—there’s got to be something.”
    Talba could have sworn Babalu’s hands tightened on her back—even pinched a bit. She heard a sound like a sniff. Damn! She sure didn’t want to get a cold.
    But it wasn’t that. The sniff was followed by a sound like
snurf,
a smothered sound, but there was no mistaking it; Babalu was crying.
    “What is it?” Once again, she tried to rise, thinking to hug the healer, but Babalu held her down.
    “No. Let’s finish the session.”
    Talba didn’t move, but she wasn’t about to keep quiet. “Girlfriend, what is it?”
    “I think he’s cheating on me.”
    Oh, boy.
Talba had heard plenty of this kind of thing lately. Louisiana might have no-fault divorce, but there was still the issue of spousal support, which was why she was surveilling a low-down scumbag cheater when the Explorer slammed her. Proof of catting around could pay off handsomely, but that was irrelevant in Babalu’s case. What was relevant was, the marriage was off to a rocky start and it hadn’t even happened yet.
    “You can’t marry an asshole who’s cheating on you. Babalu, hear me—you do not deserve this. Give the man his ring back.”
    “You’re scrunching up again.”
    “You’re getting me upset.”
    “Well, I just said he may be. He’s probably not. Maybe he’s… I don’t know—maybe it’s something else.”
    “Talk to me. Tell me about it.”
    “I can’t. You’re scrunching up. You want to walk out of here or not?”
    Talba tried to relax.
    “You know what I need? I need a detective.”
    “No, you don’t. You need out.”
    “Could you relax, please? Look, can I come to your office tomorrow? Talk to you about it?”
    She sounded so pitiful Talba said okay, maybe they could trade services. But she never thought Babalu’d show up.

Chapter Two
    Babalu was there at nine a.m. sharp, which was more than Talba could say for herself. Because of her mishap of the day before, she’d had to take the 82 Desire, and you never knew with buses. She didn’t get there till 9:20 and she knew from experience that Babalu’s first appointment was at ten. “You’re serious about this.”
    “How’s your back?”
    “Much better. How’re you?” Talba asked the question gingerly, not wanting it to sound like an accusation.
    Babalu’s honey-blond hair needed washing; it more or less stuck up in spikes. The circles under her eyes were so pronounced it occurred to Talba she was doing drugs. But Babalu was the cleanest liver she knew—drank green tea instead of coffee, and
nobody
in New Orleans did that. “He stood me up again. I’ve got to know, Talba. I can’t sleep or anything.”
    “I can believe that. Sorry we don’t have any green tea.”
    “Coffee’s okay today.”
    “You’re going to need it. By the way, do you have a ten o’clock?”
    Babalu nodded.
    “We won’t be out of here by then. We have this instrument of torture Eddie invented to scare away customers, called the intake interview. If you can survive it, you might as well marry the guy, because that proves you can handle anything.”
    It was supposed to elicit a smile, but Babalu wasn’t in the mood. She whipped out her cell phone, canceled the appointment, took off the vintage jacket so nicely complementing her jeans, and sat down. Talba got the feeling she wasn’t in the best of tempers.
    “Sure you want to go through with this? It gets pretty ugly.”
    “I’ve got to do it, Talba.”
    Talba felt for her, though if the man in question were her own sweetie, Darryl Boucree, she thought perhaps a hit man might be more to the point than a