Louisiana Lament

shabby for this neighborhood.
    She found that when she parked on a side street, she could just see the front of the Patterson house. The problem was, this street was as white and quiet as the other. She got out a book—never traveled without one, never knew when she might get bored—moved over to the passenger side, and held it up ostentatiously.
    A few people came and went, some women with strollers, some men getting off work, some kids out looking for trouble. If anyone gave her so much as a second glance, she made a point of frowning and looking at her watch, as if getting really sick of waiting. It seemed to be working just fine, but after half an hour or so, she thought she was pressing her luck, and moved to the opposite side street. She’d been there about fifteen minutes when a man approached her.
    “Excuse me, are you waiting for somebody?”
    Talba nodded pleasantly. She had a nice little speech all rehearsed. “Umm-hmm. My boss. I’m with the Edible Complex catering service.” She checked her watch again. “She’s taking forever.” Talba looked at the man and smiled her sweetest smile. “Giving an estimate.”
    “Where?” the man asked, “Which house?”
    Talba shrugged. It was starting to get ugly, but it was too soon to panic. “To tell you the truth, I got so interested in my book, I didn’t notice.” She gestured at the book. “Have you read Susan Dodd’s new book yet?” She figured he hadn’t read much of anything, ever.
    He was getting red in the face. “Let me tell you something, lady. You better figure the hell out where she is, and you better both be clean out of the town of Clayton within five minutes.”
    What to say to that one?
I have as much right as you to be here
? She thought not.
    Instead, she looked at her watch again. “We really have been here quite awhile.” She smiled at him again. “Sure, I can leave if I’m making you nervous. I’ll call her on the cell phone and tell her to let me know when she wants to be picked up.” All perfectly reasonable. But maybe just a tad too explanatory?
    “You do that.” The man crossed his arms and stood there till she had closed her book, slid back over to the driver’s seat, and left.
    So much for that idea, she thought, and headed crossly out of town, figuring to go straight for the judge next time she came to Clayton.
    She was nearly back to the Wendy’s where she’d eaten lunch when she saw the flashing light behind her—a sheriff’s car, signaling her to pull over.
    The man who got out was young and white, sunburned, with sun-bleached hair in a buzz cut, wearing a brown uniform.
    “Can I see some I.D., please?”
    God, how she hated to be asked for I.D.—she was going to have to get her name legally changed.
    “N’Awlins’,” he said, running the syllables all together. “Whatchew doin’ in Clayton?”
    “I have business here.”
    “What kinda business is that?”
    She had no idea whether this was coincidence or the result of a phone call from the red-faced man. But something told her not to lie. She gave him the same smile she’d given the last one, all sweetness and innocence. “I’m a PI.” She gestured at her purse, beside her on the seat, the same purse out of which she’d just dug her driver’s license. “Would you like to see my license?”
    Suddenly the young man looked terrified. “You keep your hands right where they are.”
    Talba complied.
    “Now put them outside the car.” Once again she obeyed.
    The man opened the door himself.
    “Get out the car.”
    As soon as she was out, he spun her around and cuffed her. “Am I under arrest?”
    He didn’t answer, a favorite trick of cops, she’d noticed.
    But she figured she must be, because he put her in the back of his car and took her back to his office, where he threw her in a cell.
    No one asked her a single question; no one booked her or read her her rights or told her to have a nice day—just took her possessions and locked her up.
I could be here forever,
she thought.
No one even knows where I am.
    Sure, they had to give her a phone call, but the way they did things here in Clayton, she figured that could be next week or next month. She sat down and took stock.
    As jails went, she figured it probably wasn’t too bad, but it sure wasn’t the Royal Orleans. The best part was, she was the only one in her cell, which was furnished with one bunk, one tired and stained mattress, one rough blanket, one steel washbasin, and one