Lousiana Hotshot

Chapter 1
    Nerd wanted. Nerdette wouldn’t be
too
bad. Young hotshot, under thirty, 5 yrs. computer, 10 yrs. investigative exp. Harvard ed., no visible piercings. Must play the computer like Horowitz played piano. Slave wages.
    “Huh. This one see you comin’— he as picky as you.”
    “Let me see that.” Unbelieving, Talba Wallis grabbed for the classifieds. She was having breakfast with her mother at the old black-painted table, trying to ignore Miz Clara’s morning meddling.
    Talba had nothing against getting a job, indeed fully intended to. She merely preferred to peruse the
Times-Picayune
ads at her own pace, if at all. The best jobs in her field would be on the Internet, so why bother?
    However, she had to admit her mother had happened on a rare gem— an honest ad. The kind you usually saw only in the personals:
“Fat toad, sixty-five, stinks, seeks hard-bodied blue-eyed blonde for hideous perversions. Must be 18 and star of own TV series.”
    “Must be some kind of joke,” Miz Clara said. “Nobody under thirty with all that experience.”
    Hardly hearing, Talba took the paper and wandered toward her room. Who the hell would place an ad like that? It was easy enough to find out, and she couldn’t resist— it was a slow Sunday morning. Darryl had his kid for the weekend.
    Actually, she met quite a few of the criteria. She was under thirty, had no visible piercings, did have investigative experience, and was, in fact, the Horowitz of the computer. She’d probably be employed if she weren’t so damn good. In fact, she
certainly
would be— she’d just quit a cushy gig at United Oil out of pure boredom. Elsewhere, there were plenty of jobs for an African-American nerd of her distinction, but Talba was a New Orleanian through and through. Her mama was here, and her boyfriend was here but that was only part of it.
    Her heart was here.
    The last line of the ad said “Fax resumé,” and gave a number. That was all she needed. A few strokes of the keyboard and she had a name: Edward Valentino.
    A few more and she had another: E. V. Anthony Investigations. A detective agency on Carondelet. No website.
    “Well, well, well, well, well. What can we deduce from this?” she mumbled to herself, thoroughly delighted. Her mentor, Gene Allred, had told her he got a good percentage of his work from being first in the phonebook— therefore, given the “E. V.,” there probably was no Anthony. Carondelet Street was in the CBD, or Central Business District— therefore maybe Valentino was a pretty respectable guy (which was more than she could say for Allred.)
    She grabbed for the Yellow Pages. Aha, an ad. Twenty-five years’ experience. Specializing in criminal defense, undercover, divorce, child custody, missing persons, insurance, prenuptial. In other words, not specializing.
    Interesting, though— the ad didn’t mention too much about background checks. Corporate and prenuptial might cover that, but something told Talba Mr. Valentino didn’t care much for doing heavy computer searches.
    Well, hell. That was a nerd’s job. She got back on the net and sometime after lunch had a stack of papers half an inch thick. An excellent day’s work. She decided to give her mother a treat.
    “Come on, Mama. Let’s take a ride.” Miz Clara was dozing in front of the television set.
    “Where ya want to go?”
    “Let’s go see Aunt Carrie. I’ve got this nice car— we might as well use it.” She had bought a five-year-old Camry out of her United Oil earnings.
    Miz Clara said, “Hmmph. Not nice
enough.”
    “Oh, yeah, I think so. In this neighborhood, I think it’s quite nice enough.” Her mama lived in a run-down cottage in the Bywater, on a block poetically situated between Desire and Piety.
    Miz Clara went off to trade her floppy old blue slippers for a pair of Nikes, and find herself a wig to wear. When she came back, she said, “What you been doin’ in there by ya self?”
    “Writing poetry,” said Talba, and Miz Clara shut up.
    ***
    It was eight-forty-five the next morning when Talba tried the door marked E. V. Anthony. It was locked. Good. That probably meant they came in at nine. She found a ladies’ room in which to replenish her lipstick, and returned to stand guard. At approximately nine-oh-five, a young white woman unlocked the door. “Are you waiting for someone?”
    “Edward Valentino.”
    “Come on in. Do you have an appointment?”
    “No. Just taking a chance.”
    “Can I help you