Lousiana Hotshot

his soul along with it, letting it grind up what was left of his life, and when she appeared in the door of his office, dressed for Mardi Gras or something, he had to restrain himself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her till her teeth rattled.
    Cassandra.
    Cassandra was the fucking client, that’s who Cassandra was. What was
wrong
with this girl?
    “How the hell should I know how Cassandra is? What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?” He didn’t even bother to excuse his French.
    To his utter frustration, she said, “What have I done?”
    He truly couldn’t believe it. “Idiot! Goddamn little idiot!”
    “Did they fine you the three thousand dollars?” She was almost whispering, she was so scared.
    “The what?” he said, and suddenly got it. She was a retard. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Fuck the fuckin’ three thousand dollars. Where in hell do you get off talking to my kid?”
    But there was no contrition on her face, only bewilderment. “Angie? I haven’t talked to Angie today.”
    “Anthony!” he bellowed.
    “Anthony? Oh, Tony. I didn’t talk to him, I emailed…”
    “For God’s sake. That
chair
is smarter than you.”
    And finally, she caught on. He could see the light dawn on her face. She talked fast, shaking her head. “Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.”
    “I got family problems, all right? Ya think that’s ya business? Who the
fuck
ya think ya are?”
    She shrugged in that helpless way people do when they’ve exhausted their reservoir of apology. “I never thought he’d call you. I thought we were just talking.”
    “What
right
did ya have?”
    “I didn’t have any right. I don’t know. I just…” She squirmed, trying to think up some excuse. “I just think he’s lucky to have a dad,” she blurted, and looked as if she could die of embarrassment. What an unspeakably stupid thing to say, he thought. She rambled on. “I mean, I don’t even know if I’ve got one.”
    “And so you thought you’d fix us up. My son and me.”
    “No, it wasn’t that.”
    “What are you saying, then?”
    “I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to him. I was being playful, I guess.”
    Without realizing he was doing it, Eddie rose up out of his chair and stood over her, his face close to hers. “Playful? You were
playing
with other people’s lives?”
    Her chair scraped on the floor as she pushed it back, alarm spreading like a stain over her features. For some reason, that made him even madder. “Get outta my sight! Just get fuckin’ out of here!”
    She was already at the door. “Okay, Eddie,” she said, evidently feeling safer. “Sure I’ll excuse your French.”
    He knew what was going to happen, and it was unacceptable. He needed her gone. Completely gone; off the premises.
    He stomped out into the hall. “All the way out! Eileen, you too!”
    Neither of them needed to be told twice. He was speaking to their backs.
    Only when the door had snicked shut did he allow himself to acknowledge that he was choking to death, that his throat had closed. He gasped; and a howl came out of him, a baying, as if he were an animal. He half expected the women to come running back in alarm, but nothing happened. He locked the door with shaking, sweaty hands, still roaring, bellowing, and when his throat was raw, he sat down on the sofa in the anteroom and let the tears flow.
    The funny thing was, he didn’t even know what he was crying about.

Chapter 12
    For Talba, the hardest part, almost, was going down in the elevator with Eileen Fisher. They both understood that something more embarrassing than scary had happened, but Talba had other baggage as well. She thought,
Eileen’s going to say, “he’s not himself,” and I’m gonna puke.
    But when Eileen said it, she didn’t puke, instead cracked, “No, he’s the Antichrist,” which set the girl to giggling, and allowed her to stare at the elevator walls in peace.
    When she was safely in her car, she bent over the steering wheel, trying to get her breath, heart pounding, hands shaking. She was sweating too. She blasted the AC up to Arctic and sat there, contemplating the enormity of her sin.
    He had asked her why she did it, and she had had an answer, had been on the verge of saying, “It didn’t involve you. It wasn’t about you.” But that sounded so stupid and lame and phony she couldn’t get it out. Now, seeing what had happened, she