Lousiana Hotshot

thing. You name it, it was wearing her out. She felt as if she’d eaten a meal of chocolate bars— unsatisfied and undernourished, with a strange, sticky taste in her mouth.

Chapter 16
    She was wired, and it wasn’t late— only twenty of eleven. She pulled out her cell phone and called Darryl from her car. “You’ll never guess what. Brace yourself— it’s not all good.”
    “I’ve got it: Oprah wants you— but only if you clean up your language.”
    She laughed at the ludicrousness of either possibility. “This is only slightly less likely. My brother wants to meet you.”
    “Hey. What’s so weird about that? I’m an okay dude; halfway famous, even.”
    “No, it’s weird for him to be interested in me. He wants to take us to Brigtsen’s. Tomorrow.”
    “Oh, hell, I’m playing the governor’s mansion.”
    “Oh.”
    “What do you mean ‘oh’? Tomorrow’s good. Count me in.”
    Talba was quiet. She’d half hoped he’d refuse.
    “What’s wrong,” he said. “You don’t want to do it?”
    “No, I just… I’m going to be with you tomorrow, and it’s late, and everything… ”
    “So?”
    “Well, okay. I was kind of hoping to see you tonight. But I guess that would be superfluous. I mean, I know it’s a school night and everything.”
    “Talba, what’s wrong?” If he’d sounded tired, he didn’t now. His voice was all concern and alertness.
    “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”
    “Should I put the coffeepot on, or chill the wine?”
    “Wine. Definitely wine.”
    Darryl had recently moved to Algiers Point, and a more peaceful place would be hard to imagine. It was part of Orleans Parish— therefore part of the city— but it was on the west bank of the river. Though the houses were strictly old New Orleans— neat little shotguns and larger Victorians— it had the sleepy feel of a small town. Each well-kept home was set back from the street on a nice-sized yard, and the residents took pride in their gardens.
    Young families could afford to live there— and did— but because of the neighborhood’s age and a sprinkle of gay couples, it escaped the sterility of a suburb. Darryl said he’d picked it because the price was right and on the weekends it was like being on vacation. Talba, who frequently visited for the weekend, had to agree— yet if you wanted dinner, you got on the ferry and six minutes later got off in the French Quarter.
    She went by ferry tonight, thinking how odd it was to be going there this late, and in the middle of the week.
I should call Miz Clara,
she thought, and yet it was really too late. Maybe that was good. If she stayed over, she could go home after Miz Clara left for work. She didn’t much want to see her mother right now.
    Darryl met her with a glass of wine in each hand. “For you, Your Grace.”
    “Woo. Do I need it. I’ve had one hell of a day.”
    “Sit down and tell me.” Darryl had guy furniture— big and comfortable. He liked to sit in an old, beat-up leather chair he’d gotten at a garage sale, with his feet on an ottoman. Talba, in turn, would lounge on the deep, soft sofa upholstered in brick red corduroy.
    They assumed the positions, Talba setting her drink on a massive wooden coffee table. She looked around her, getting her bearings. “I love this room.”
    “Come on. Talk.”
    “I’m feeling better. Really. Just being here.”
    “Talk, girl.”
    “Okay, here’s the short version. The day started out with a prayer breakfast, moved on to almost getting fired, getting frozen out by one person, yelled at and chased by another, and finding out my father’s dead.”
    Without missing a beat, he picked up on the relevant part. “Your father’s dead?”
    “If Corey isn’t lying. Which he might be. Everyone seems to be trying to keep me from finding out anything about my father.”
    “Oh, God. This is tied in with that funeral thing, isn’t it?”
    Talba, lying down on a fat cushion, stared up at the ceiling. “Well, now, my mother says I’ve never been to a funeral, and if I ever mention my father’s name, she’ll throw me out of the house. However, two days ago I
couldn’t
mention my father’s name because I didn’t know it. My aunt, who practically threw me out of
her
house, finally deigned to tell me it was Denman La Rose.”
    “Your mother wasn’t married?”
    “Oh, yes. It was Denman La Rose Wallis. But that’s all I know. No matter what else I ask, a hundred roadblocks go up. Nobody wants to talk