PI On A Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 1
    It was one of those robot voices, a male one: “You have a collect call from Orleans Parish Prison.”
    Uh-uh. She didn’t.
    Talba Wallis was already crying and she didn’t need any more grief, but she didn’t give it a thought. This one wasn’t for her. She got those calls about every three months. Something happened to people’s dialing fingers in Central Lockup, maybe from the drugs or alcohol that got them in there in the first place. She clicked off her cell phone and went back to chopping onions. Her mama, Miz Clara, was slow-cooking ribs in the oven, and Talba was making potato salad for a family meal: Her brother Corey, his wife Michelle, and the adorable Sophia Pontalba (partially named for her aunt, and now talking a blue streak) were coming over soon. Talba still had to make greens, too—her way, not Miz Clara’s. Her mother was inclined to cook them for hours, with lots of pork. Talba and Michelle liked them just barely wilted. Dessert was king cake, a present from one of Miz Clara’s housecleaning clients, so no worries there.
    She had time, if she put her mind to it.
    By the time the phone rang again, she had the salad together and had begun washing the greens. The same voice again. She sighed. May as well tell the poor bastard he had the wrong number. She reached for the phone, nearly tripping over two cats currently trying to wrap themselves around her legs to get her mind off her cooking and on their dinner. She waited for the prisoner’s name.
    “Talba, it’s Angie. I need you.”
    Angie?
Angela Valentino? Angie was about as likely to be in Central Lockup as Sister Helen Prejean. Angie neither relieved herself on the street nor smoked pot in public. She avoided bar fights and had no domestic partner to chase with a cleaver. She was a lawyer in good standing. What the hell was this?
    “Angie, hang on; I’ve got to dry my hands.” Talba set the phone down for a moment and found a paper towel. “What the hell did you do?”
    “Listen, I’m not the problem, they popped Alabama, too—planted drugs on us.”
    Big Chief Alabama Bandana, one of Angie’s most celebrated clients, a musician and Mardi Gras personality famous for his drug problem.
    Somebody
could
have planted drugs on him—or maybe that was just what Angie wanted to believe. “But…but…your parents…” Talba said. She couldn’t figure out why Angie was calling her instead of them. Talba’s boss was Angela’s father, Eddie Valentino, one of the best-connected people in town. If anyone could spring his daughter, Eddie could.
    “They went to the Gulf Coast for the weekend. Dad’s got his cell phone off.”
    I’ll just bet he has
, Talba thought. Eddie was nothing if not discreet, but you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that the Gulf Coast had an aphrodisiac effect on his wife, Audrey. He took her there whenever he could and was always unavailable until they got back.
    “You know what it’s like in Central Lockup? God forbid you should ever find out. You get access to a phone, but no phone book. You can only call numbers you know by heart.”
    “Oh. Maybe that’s why I get so many wrong numbers.” Talba heard herself babbling, aware that she was in shock.
    Angie said, “Huh? Listen, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got to get us out of here.”
    “Obviously. Where do I start?”
    “We’ve got to find a judge who’ll set bond on a Saturday night.”
    “Give me a name and I’ll call it.”
    “No, let my lawyer do it. Jimmy Houlihan. Problem is, I don’t know his home number. See if you can find it, will you?”
    “Your lawyer? Lawyers have lawyers?”
    “Jimmy’s a friend.”
    Uh-huh,
Talba thought.
Ex-boyfriend.
Fingers shaking, she looked him up. “Not here—only his office. But I could call his service. Or better yet, let me go online. I can’t call you back, right?”
    “No, but I can call you next time the phone’s free.”
    “Forget it. You’ve made contact—I’ll do the rest. You okay, by the way?”
    “I’m making lots of new friends, none of them deputies. No problem, I’ll live. I’m just worried about Al.”
    “Want me to call his family?”
    “You can try, but I don’t know his number by heart. His real name’s Albert Brazil; he might be listed.”
    “Okay, I’ll take it from here. Hang in there, okay?”
    “Thanks.” Talba heard the relief in her voice. “Listen, one last thing. Tell Jimmy it can’t be Buddy Champagne.”
    “What can’t