Lousiana Hotshot

away.”
    “No’m, I don’t think so— they call my house last night to see was she there.”
    Damn!
They’d lied to Eddie.
    The girl looked miserable. “After Rhonda got run over, Pammie say maybe Toes done it. She say…”
    “Rhonda knew about Toes and Cassandra?”
    “I don’t know. Why?”
    Because she had to— otherwise Pammie wouldn’t have put it together. And, sure enough, just like we thought, that’s what started it all.
Talba could see the whole thing: Rhonda gets outraged, partly on behalf of her own baby sister, pitches a fit, and threatens to go to the cops.
    It had to be that— if it were blackmail, he probably would have just paid her. But by the time Aziza got around to blackmail, the stakes were a lot higher. Now he couldn’t just pay— he’d already killed one Bergeron sister and maybe two.
    And thanks to me, Aziza knew.
    “Never mind, baby,” she said. “A lot of bad stuff’s been going on. It’s time to go to the police about this.”
    The girl took a step backward, dread inching over her face. “No po-lice.
Uh-uh.
No po-lice!”
    Talba tried to think how to talk about this without scaring her— if she hadn’t already figured out she and Cassandra were in danger, she was plenty scared about something. Adding to it was only going to make it worse. “Why not?” she asked. “What are you afraid of?”
    Shaneel took off running. Talba started to chase her, but a boy, a football player from the size of him, bumped her out of the way. She tried again, but everywhere she turned, someone else blocked her. Apparently, the kids at Fortier stuck together. Shaneel was gone by the time she threaded her way to the sidewalk. Gone, and she didn’t know where the girl lived.
    But there was always choir practice. She called the church and learned it wasn’t being held today.
    Okay,
she thought.
Back to Uncle Eddie. Also the drawing board.

Chapter 22
    It was possible to walk to Galatoire’s from the office, but Eddie’s limp posed a problem. He could make it fine, but his leg would ache tonight. And right now he was feeling good. Anthony was back in the family, he and Audrey were lovers again, and he hadn’t had a headache in almost a week. No point messing it up with an aching leg— there was a perfectly good parking lot at Dauphine and Bienville.
    He was meeting three guys from the old days— Calvin, a deputy along with him; Sal, a prosecutor; and Philip, a judge. Of the four, only Philip still had his old job. And why not? It was a good gig. The other two reeked.
    Sal and Calvin had long since gone into business for themselves, much as Eddie had. But one had a video store and the other worked for a shipping company— as far as Eddie was concerned, he was the only one still in the trenches. A couple of days ago, he’d have said that was a bad thing. Today he was feeling smug.
    The others, in keeping with New Orleans tradition, had come early to save a table. Eddie sailed past the jealous folk still waiting for one, greeted the maître d’, shook hands with his favorite waiter, and nearly teared up at the sight of his old buddies. He wanted to hug them, but Galatoire’s was more a handshake kind of place, more French than Italian. A lot of masculine back-clapping was a pretty good substitute.
    Sal started the bidding. “Eddie, ya lookin’ good for an old coot.”
    Philip said, “Eye bags are the latest thing in Paris.”
    “That’s what I tell my wife,” said Calvin. “She still wants a face-lift. Audrey still gorgeous?”
    They could go on like that for hours, and did, insult piled upon courtesy, thrust following parry, joke chasing joke, crab salad disappearing, trout meunière appearing, crumbs from the crispest, sweetest bread blanketing the table.
    There was wine too— not too much for Eddie, because of the kid he had to see after school— but enough to make everybody sentimental. Eddie rose and proposed a toast: “To my three oldest friends. And to friendship. And to living so goddam long we’ve known each other forever— excuse my French.” They’d barely gotten their glasses to their lips, much less thought of a counter-toast when he said, “I got good news. Anthony’s back in the family.”
    And then of course he had to tell the story, which produced such an orgy of storytelling they might have closed the place down if such a feat could be accomplished— on Fridays, men who go for lunch just call their wives to come join them when they check their