Louisiana Lament

blue skirt—her unvarying choice for work. While the Baroness de Pontalba had almost as exotic a wardrobe as a drag queen, Talba Wallis the PI had once worked as an office temp; thus she had a closet full of white blouses and blue skirts. Why waste energy and money, she felt, on clothes she was never going to like anyway? The skirts and blouses were selected for blending in—always respectable, never noticeable. That was good for an office temp and even better for a PI. (She also had a good navy pantsuit for events like Babalu’s funeral.)
    She did some of her best thinking driving, and this morning (having already contemplated the deeper issues), she thought about Babalu’s name. No wonder she’d chosen it—this was a woman who’d been quite literally wounded.
    Clearly, Talba needed to find out where Donny Troxell was. The source of so much of her friend’s misery just had to be checked out. She thought about what it might be like to visit a machete-scalper; backup probably really was a great idea. Even if it was only Eddie.
    Eileen Fisher was at her receptionist’s post as usual, perusing the
Times-Picayune
for lack of anything better to do. “Morning, Talba.”
    “Hi, Eileen—Eddie in yet?”
    “Uh-uh. He’s in court this morning.” She went back to her paper.
    So much for backup. Oh, well, she probably wasn’t going to find Troxell anyway. At least not before lunch.
    Before she’d even put away her purse, she booted up her computer and performed the online version of calling information. There weren’t that many Troxells in Louisiana, and only two were Donalds. One of them lived in New Orleans. Just for fun, she did call information, and sure enough, Donald Troxell was listed. Good old Eddie—by using his antiquated methods, she could have had Donny in one minute instead of the ten it had taken.
    But goddammit! Why hadn’t she thought of this the night before? (Well, actually, there was a pretty good reason. She could give herself a break on that one.) Still, it was infuriating. Here it was, after nine o’clock—just about no chance of catching one Donald Troxell before he left for work. The frustration was well nigh unbearable.
    Maybe he doesn’t work,
she thought.
Maybe he’s a hopeless alcoholic, like Robert Robineau.
    He lived in the Bywater, which didn’t tell her much—he could be a young professional fixing up a great old shotgun or someone in need of a cheap rental. Best to drive there, she decided—it wasn’t that far from her own neighborhood. She was certainly going—and going right now, the hell with backup. He might be at work, but maybe he was married and had small children. If she was lucky, that would mean a wife with a big mouth at home.
    The gorgeous old neighborhood was far from becoming gentrified. It had turned into a favorite of young white artists and others in the tattoo-and-piercings club. Good place for a poet, Talba thought, but surely Troxell didn’t fall into that category.
    His dwelling was about what she’d guessed—half a rundown shotgun double. If he was the right Troxell, he probably wasn’t any poster boy for ex-cons-who-make-good. The place looked unoccupied, all closed up. But at least there were no newspapers piling up outside. Talba mounted the porch steps and rang the bell somewhat dispiritedly. To her surprise, she heard footsteps, even a dog barking.
    The woman who answered the door was so far from what Talba expected she figured Troxell had long since moved on. She wore jeans, sloppy T-shirt, and a bandana around her head. Her hands were dirty and her neck sweaty, but a tiny diamond pendant glistened in its folds, probably something she always wore. A gift from her husband, maybe. A raggedy old white Lab clung at her heels.
    Something about her reminded Talba of the ladies of the Baptist church in Clayton. She had that blond softness they had, that small-town neatness, even in her work clothes. But she wasn’t a country club type—more likely working class, Talba thought. She was about Deborah Patterson’s age.
    “Can I help you?” she asked.
    “Yes. I’m looking for Donald Troxell.”
    “Oh.” Distress crowded her face. “Are you a friend of his?”
    “No, ma’am, I’m not. I just need to talk to him about something.”
    The woman cocked her head. “About what?”
    “That’s confidential, I’m afraid. Are you a relative of his?”
    “Yes. I’m his mother. Come in, won’t you?”
    She ushered Talba into a house that