Lousiana Hotshot

or other, she and Eileen Fisher had to keep the agency going. Also, she had a bit of unfinished business. She had to figure out how her father happened to get a fatal gunshot wound.
    Eddie had broken his nose, left scapula, two ribs, and his right tibia. Once he came out of the coma, his most serious injury was the leg break. That took a while to heal, and it made him cross.
    But he was coming in to the office after about a month, tearing apart everything Talba and Eileen had put together. They’d gladly have sent him back, but Angie and Audrey were being very Catholic about the thing. Or maybe just Italian. Talba wasn’t sure where it came from, but it went like this: they felt guilty about Eddie’s injuries, largely because, as Talba understood it, he’d missed his own sixty-fifth birthday party, which it was their duty to throw for him. Thus, the only way to expunge their guilt was to throw it anyway. Only the hotel ballroom they’d booked for the occasion was now booked until July with conventions, graduations, and weddings.
    So the second week of JazzFest, they took advantage of the gorgeous weather to throw a crawfish party at their own gorgeous house out by the lake. Eddie agreed to it for one reason and one reason only— it was also a party to announce the engagement of his son Tony Tino, the well-known blues musician, and Tony’s very pregnant bride-to-be. This scandalized Audrey— which was probably what Eddie liked about it— and amused Angie to no end.
    Eddie was feeling so expansive, he said to her, “Ya got a boyfriend? Always room for one more.”
    To which Angie replied, “I thought you thought I was a dyke.”
    Damned if Eddie didn’t blush. “Goddammit. Bring yours then, Ms. Wallis.”
    “Audrey already asked him. Along with his daughter, my mother, Cassandra, her father and
his
girlfriend, Shaneel, and her mama. Is that too many black folks for you?”
    He looked at her seriously. “No. No, Ms. Wallis. That’s about the right amount— just so long as Miz Clara doesn’t bring a boyfriend.”
    Miz Clara had brought him greens and chicken twice a week during his recovery, and he claimed to have fallen in love with her.
    Talba, meanwhile, had met Darryl’s daughter, Raisa, twice, and found her as difficult as advertised. Yet it was Darryl’s weekend to have her, and it wasn’t a good time to mess with her schedule. So Raisa was coming.
    The air was thick with citronella when Talba got there. Tables were all over the backyard, covered with newspaper, and two great cauldrons of crawfish, potatoes, and corn bubbled away. There were also tubs packed with beer and soft drinks for the children, of whom, Talba was relieved to see, there were quite a few.
What did I expect!
she thought.
These people are Italian.
    To her immense relief, Shaneel and Cassandra took a shine to Raisa, who, even Talba agreed, was an exquisite child.
    Though her mother was black, some ancestor hadn’t been. The girl had taupe-colored skin and shiny hair that billowed behind her in a golden cloud. Talba had never seen anything like it on any child, black or white, and it was probably going to turn dark in a year or two; but right now, it was ethereal.
    Because she looked so much like an angel, you could almost forget that at any given moment she might throw a tantrum.
    With luck, she’d grow out of it. And with more luck, she’d remain angelic at least another few minutes.
    Talba had a poem to perform— the one she’d promised Eileen Fisher so long before. Between the consumption of crustaceans and the playing of blues, she took the floor.
    “For all y’all who don’t know me, I am the Baroness de Pontalba, also known as Eddie Valentino’s humble assistant. While I do write and perform poetry on a regular basis, I’ve never exactly written a poem in this form before. But because of the kind of person we all know Eddie is, I put in a lot of special effort to come up with something ethnically appropriate. Ya’ll ready?”
    Tony, who’d been carefully coached, led the cheering.
    “It’s kind of a new thing for me, now. Okay, here goes.”
    Tony, who’d borrowed a drum to accompany her, tapped out a rap.
    Mistah Eddie Valentino he a one of a kind
    He a crime-fightin’private eye that ev’rybody know
    He talk like a thug, but he ain’t your average Joe
    He look like a thug, but he really know his wine
—
    He’d
act
like a thug if his family weren’t so fine.
    Got some moves when he clash with