Louisiana Lament

around it. “Well? Did ya hurt yaself?”
    She looked uncomfortable. “I, uh… I think I’ll be okay.” She was holding something back.
    He had a pair of reading glasses he liked to wear at times like this. He perched them on his nose and looked over them at her. “Spit it out, Ms. Wallis.”
    “Actually, my back was killing me, but I went to a body-worker to get the kinks out and now she’s our client. That’s who I—”
    “The babe with the tattoo?” He was annoyed. How had she turned an idiotic mistake into an opportunity for bragging? He changed the subject quickly. “Just how did ya happen to run a stop sign? Ya got carried away, didn’t ya?”
    Her hand closed into a fist. “I had him, Eddie. With a redhead about half his age.”
    He shook his head again. “Ya wasted three days’ surveillance running a stop sign? Ya know what I oughta do? Swear to God I oughta—”
    “Look, I can get him next week. He picked her up at her gym. She’s got yoga on Tuesdays—the client says that’s his golf day. What do you bet they have a standing date? All I have to do is show up at the gym right after her class and do an instant replay.”
    “Without the demolition derby, ya mean.”
    “I won’t even charge you for it—I mean, it was my fault I didn’t get it.”
    He considered. “Ya almost got yaself a deal, Ms. Wallis. I like the part about not chargin’ me. The only thing is, how’m I gonna explain to the client we need another week?”
    He thought he sounded pretty tough, but she had the brass to look him right in the eye: “Lie, Eddie. How else?”
    He’d taught her that. That and everything in the world she knew about lying. It was her worst subject, too. She was great on the computer, a lot better on electronic devices than a law-abiding citizen ought to be, perfectly good at interviewing, and a pretty fair little rainmaker. But she was a truly lousy liar. At least she had been when she first started working for him, and this was the most important element (even more important than the secret of the Tee-ball bat) in a PI’s bag of tricks. She was just starting to get the hang of it.
    And now she was flinging it back in his face. Damn Talba Wallis. She reminded him way too much of his daughter Angela—always getting the best of him.
    “You handle it, Ms. Wallis. It’s your mess, not mine.”
    “But, Eddie, how can I claim I’m in the hospital if I’m the one calling the client?”
    “You’re in the hospital?”
    “An Explorer hit me; I’m at death’s door.”
    “Oh, I wish. I just wish, Ms. Wallis.” He clenched his teeth. “All right, I’ll call Susie Q and tell her.” He looked at his watch. “But this time next week, I want the redhead wrapped up, and I want a full client report on this desk right here. Ya hear me?” He tapped his in box for emphasis. “Three p.m. Wednesday.”
    “Yessir.” She was looking smug. Damn. He should have done something tougher, but what? Fired her? No way in hell was he going back to computer-jockeying. The fact was, he needed Ms. Wallis. She was female, she was young, she was black—all of which he more or less disapproved of—and she was a pain in the butt. But for right now he needed her, dammit.
    He made his voice as gruff as he could. “Okay, what about Tattoo Tammy?”
    “Cheating boyfriend.”
    “Boyfriend! Why doesn’t she just break up with him?” Something funny happened to Ms. Wallis’s face, something he’d never seen when she talked about a client, and they’d had plenty who had all her sympathy. She looked all fuzzy and mixed up, like a child whose mama’s in the hospital.
    “I don’t know. She’s clinging to him like a lifeline. I get the feeling she’s kind of stuck together with Band-Aids.”
    “And you don’t mind being the bearer of bad news?”
    All that sweet fuzzy-muzzy left her, all of a sudden she was the woman in the iron mask. “I just want to help her get the sumbitch out of her life.”
    “Ms. Wallis, Ms. Wallis.” He was shaking his head again. He hated it when she swore. Just hated it. “Ya mind keepin’ a civil tongue in ya head?”
    “She’s going away for the weekend—suggests we do the surveillance while she’s gone.”
    “Well, if the paramour’s married, that ain’t gonna work.”
    “Yeah, I know. I’ll start it tonight.”
    “Where’s the guy live?”
    “Lower Garden District.”
    “You’re not doing that alone. No way.”
    She gave him a cockeyed smile. “I’m a