Louisiana Lament

detective. She began the tedious procedure of invading every single corner of Babalu’s and Jason’s privacy.
    The first part was just like girlfriend talk. “How did you two meet?”
    “At a poetry reading.”
    They laughed. Babalu and Talba had met the same way. Both were poets, as a matter of fact, in their nonworking lives.
    “Is he a poet?”
    “Well, he thought he was. Before people started throwing things at him.”
    “Oh. How’d he take it?”
    “He kind of laughed. He was just trying it on for size. As I said, his art really is acting. But he loves it that I’m a poet.”
    Babalu’s poems were full of metaphors about the body—about muscles and bones and joints. They were quite beautiful, Talba thought. Her own were much earthier, more inclined to narrative.
    “Have you met his family?”
    “Oh, yes. They’re from Canton, just outside of Jackson. His daddy’s a high-powered lawyer or something.” She giggled. “I had to wear long sleeves so they wouldn’t see the tattoo.”
    Talba raised an eyebrow. “Your idea or his?”
    “Oh, mine. He seems to be the black sheep. I mean, they kept asking him questions about when he was going to get a job.”
    As well they might, Talba thought. “What did he say to that?”
    “He said he had a job—investing.”
    “I thought you said he traded.”
    She flushed in embarrassment. “I guess he didn’t want to admit that.”
    Talba felt frustrated. “What’s he investing? He’s a young guy, no job…”
    “Well, that came out at the time. His mom said he was ‘gonna run through all granddaddy’s money’ before his first child was even born.” She shrugged. “I guess he has some kind of inheritance.”
    “How’d that make you feel? Talking like that in front of you?”
    “Actually, they were pretty nice. I think they liked me.” Again, Talba raised an eyebrow; this time she left it raised and gave Babalu a stare like a snake about to strike.
    Babalu gave her back a smug-cat look. “I practically wore a circle pin. I was raised in a small town too, you know.”
    “Girlfriend, you got more problems than the tattoo and the hair. What on earth did they make of that name of yours?”
    “You mean Bobbie Lou? We didn’t even have to lie—they just heard it that way.” Talba and Babalu got to share a laugh, a good thing, considering the grimness of the circumstances.
    And then it was on to the boring stuff, followed by the nasty stuff.
    Where did Jason live? What vehicles did he have? Ever married before? Any children? Who were his friends? What was his schedule? How about his physical description, phone numbers, hobbies, interests, habits? Did he smoke, drink or do drugs?
    Well, what
did
he like? Was he left-handed or right-handed?
    Had he ever been violent? Was he a fast driver? (This was to plan the surveillance.)
    Then, there was Babalu. Who were
her
friends and relatives and what did they look like? (There had been cases of husbands buying lingerie with gorgeous blondes who turned out to be the wife’s best friend helping him shop for her birthday.)
    Talba personally knew of one—Eddie had carefully videotaped the whole thing and ruined the surprise party.
    What was their sex life like? This was Talba’s least favorite question, but she had to admit, it was usually productive. Babalu pulled at a chipped bit of black nail polish. “Well, that’s one of the things that’s got me worried. He’s kind of… lost interest.”
    Now, that was unusual. Usually, if there was a paramour, frequency increased; sometimes the misbehaver even got more inventive.
    But this was an engagement, not a marriage. Talba could think of cases in her own life in which the relationship simply cooled on one or both parts. She figured that was probably what was happening here. It was all she could do not to reiterate that Babalu absolutely must not, should not, could not marry this man—he was wrong, wrong, and wrong. But what the hell—pretty soon she was going to have pictures.
    “Is that why you think he’s cheating on you?”
    Babalu grabbed hunks of her dirty hair and pulled on it. “He just doesn’t seem interested anymore. I think he’s trying to break up with me.”
    “Why not just ask him?”
    She was quiet, thinking a long time before she spoke. “I don’t know if I could handle the answer.”
    “What makes you think—”
    Babalu held up a hand. “Stop. I know what you’re thinking. I need to do it this way. I want to know everything.