Lousiana Hotshot

to work the case by herself. “Come on. Let me treat you to dinner. Ya like the Bon Ton?”
    “I just keep thinking about Cassandra. Eddie, tell me something. Did you ever lose a client?”
    Talba was way too tired and discouraged to eat, but if ever there was a business dinner, this was it. She couldn’t imagine what Eddie was going to tell her— everything he knew, she hoped (“Secrets of a Hard-Boiled Dick— Revealed At Last”)— but if he was going to impart knowledge, she was going to be there to receive it.
    Of course, maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe he was just trying to cheer her up for screwing up so badly.
    She’d never actually been to the Bon Ton, though the minute she saw it, she knew it was Eddie all over. These days downtown was full of fancy new places— the Metro Bistro would have been more Talba’s style— but the Bon Ton was the exception. It was all checked tablecloths and crawfish bisque— an old-line Creole joint famous for its bread pudding with bourbon sauce.
    It was a comfort food kind of place, a restaurant for rainy winter days, not a see-and-be-seen, crawfish-eggroll-with-caviar kind of place. She and Eddie both ordered the shrimp étouffée. “I think I’ve had enough scotch” he said, and ordered a bottle of wine to share, though Talba didn’t think she’d drink much, especially if there were things to be learned, wisdom bytes to be stored.
    It was a good bottle, too. Eddie tasted with relish. He might talk like something out of an old movie, but he’d been around, and not just on the mean streets. She said, “You know a lot about wine.”
    He gave her a raised eyebrow. “How do you know? I just ordered one bottle.”
    Her cheeks heated up in embarrassment. She raised her glass. “Well, so far, so good.”
    “Ya stereotyped me, didn’t ya? Ya think just because I’m a wop, I gotta be ignorant.”
    “I didn’t. I…”
    “Client cultivation, Ms. Wallis.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “That’s why I learned about wine. Had this old guy, rich as Croesus, used to hire me every couple of months to follow his wife. She never was up to anything, but he was.” Holding a wineglass, he really looked quite sophisticated. “See, he used to come over from Houston to see this lady, but she worked as a secretary or something, so he had nothing to do in the daytime. He liked to go to this one place for lunch, so I’d go with him. Usually turned into an all-day thing, and over the course of it, my favorite waiter’d teach me a little and then a little more about what wines to order.”
    “An all-day thing sounds like Galatoire’s.”
    “Ahhh. That was the punch line. I was savin’ it. This guy— the client— called it Galatorey’s; always, no matter how many times he heard it right.”
    “You kidding?
Galatorey’s?”
    “Swear to God.”
    And all of a sudden, they were laughing, the two of them; belly laughing, carrying on far out of proportion to a simple mispronunciation. It was a great tension release.
    Something was wrong with the story, though. “I don’t get it,” Talba said. “The guy was from Houston? You had to go there to spy on his wife?”
    “Noooo. No way. She lived Uptown. They’d been separated for years.”
    “Worse and worse. Let me try again— they were separated, but he came here to see his mistress and while he was here, he used the time productively to get the goods on his wife.”
    Eddie shrugged. “Guess he was tired of supporting her. She later turned up dead— accidental overdose.”
    “Woo. You believe that?”
    “Could have been. She liked her booze and pills.”
    “But did you do anything about it?”
    “Sure. Told the cops. What else could I do— solve the case myself? Ya think I’m Sherlock Holmes or somethin’?”
    She had to smile. “More like Mike Hammer.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “He’s not real, either.”
    Their étouffeé came, and Eddie tore into his with a gusto she was glad to see. Though he didn’t show the least sign of being drunk— except, perhaps, for an unaccustomed affability— she definitely didn’t want to end up driving him home.
    And yet, when she really thought about it, it wasn’t that. She just didn’t want to see him drunk.
    “Lady, ya want to know who I am? Want to know who I really am?”
    “I’m not sure. I mean… I looked you up on the Internet. I know enough.”
    “No, ya don’t. Ya really don’t.”
    “Okay, who are you then?” Actually, she was curious.
    “I’m a