Louisiana Lament

hurdle on Talba’s last visit. It seemed merely forlorn now. Talba realized there were details she still didn’t have. “Who found the body?” she asked.
    “I did. I usually came over after work. She didn’t answer when I called, but I didn’t think anything about it. The place was dark when I got here.”
    He flipped the switch as they reached the top of the stairs.
    “I did this, and there she was.” His eyes flicked to the narrow living room off to the right, to the sling chair right in their line of vision.
    “In that chair?”
    “She was half falling out of it, and she had foam on her mouth. I could see the hypodermic, still in her arm.”
    “What did you do?”
    He had stopped at the top of the stairs, apparently unable to go any further. His hand half-covered his face. “I went over and held her. I knew she was dead. Have you ever seen a corpse?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well. You know then. Her eyes were open, and when I touched her… Never mind. I can’t go there.. But I did hold her. I had to hold her.”
    “What about the syringe?”
    “The syringe?”
    “Didn’t that dislodge it?”
    “Maybe. I don’t even know. I just backed away and called nine-one-one and then everyone else I could think of. Mary Pat wasn’t home—she was the one I really wanted to talk to. You know who I finally ended up with? You’re going to laugh.”
    “Who?”
    “My mother. I called my mother. She kept me talking till the cops got there.”
    “I thought the nine-one-one operator was supposed to do that.”
    “Is she? I hung up on her. I was bouncing off the walls.” The apartment was very stark. Talba had noticed that on previous visits. The walls were white and the furniture tended to the crisp rather than the cozy. There were books, though, in two tall cases.
    “Mind if I walk through the place first, just to get the feel?”
    “Of course not. Do whatever you need to do.”
    She walked down the hall, peeking briefly into the familiar appointment room. It was also a stark room, rather Japanese in flavor.
    A small back bedroom was a little more cheerful. Painted yellow in contrast to the white of the rest of the place, it contained a bed with flowered duvet cover, Victorian dresser, and white rug.
    The apartment was out of keeping with the New Orleans philosophy and lifestyle, which was something along the lines of too-much-is-not-nearly-enough. But, then, Babalu was no good-time Charlene. She probably had some spiritual reason for wanting things simple.
    Still, Talba had always found the apartment, even in happier times, a bit on the depressing side. Even if Babalu were poor—and Talba imagined she made quite a decent living—there were small luxuries she might have permitted herself. Things like flowers, for instance. Inexpensive decorative items. Talba ought to know—she’d turned Miz Clara’s cottage into something out of the Arabian Nights.
    Should she go through the dresser? She didn’t have the stomach for it—at least not now. She retraced her steps, and when she got to the living room, with its small dining area, stepped into the adjoining kitchen, which was spacious and old-fashioned. There was a desk here, and a file cabinet. Clearly, Babalu hadn’t wanted the clutter in any of the other rooms.
    Wincing, Talba noticed her client report on the desk. She grabbed the Rolodex next to it. “Okay if I take this?” There was a datebook too—that was even better. “And this?”
    Jason was hovering awkwardly in the background, drinking a beer—probably one he’d bought and stored in the fridge himself. Talba didn’t see Babalu as a beer drinker.
    “Sure. I mean, I don’t think Mary Pat would mind. We’ve just spent two days calling every name in it—to let them know. I don’t guess anyone needs it right now.”
    “The family didn’t do the calling?”
    “They haven’t even been here yet—just had the body shipped back to Clayton.”
    “That seems cold.”
    She watched his Adam’s apple as he took a good long sip. He seemed to be self-medicating. “She didn’t get along with them worth a damn.”
    “Still, this seems extreme.”
    “Yeah.” He put down the can. “Yeah, it does.”
    “You don’t know what the problem was?”
    He shrugged. “Maybe the tattoos. Listen, I’m weird by my parents’ standards and I don’t have a crazy name like Babalu, a profession that sounds like woo-woo to the average American, and some kind of weird chain going up my arm. And my parents