PI On A Hot Tin Roof

be?”
    “The judge. Anybody but Buddy. Whatever happens, not Buddy. Even if we have to spend a week in jail.”
    “Got it. Not Buddy.”
    When Talba put down the phone, she noticed that her palm was damp, along with her temples. Whew. This was a blow.
    Well, so much for Michelle’s health-food greens. She went in search of Miz Clara, who was taking a preprandial snooze, secure in the knowledge that her daughter had dinner under control. “Mama? Can you wake up?”
    Miz Clara started. She was wearing a pair of old sweats and a T-shirt, the kind of thing she wore to work; no wig, and she probably wouldn’t put one on, either—this was just family. “Sandra, whassup, for heaven’s sake? I jus’ barely drop off and you come in here shakin’ me like somethin’ on fire.” She called her daughter a different name from the one Talba called herself, and thereon hung a tale—no one in the family ever mentioned Talba’s birth name, which was neither Sandra nor Talba.
    “Mama, Angie’s in jail.”
    “Angie?
What she do, insult a judge?”
    “Says she was framed. Listen, I’ve got to get her out. The potato salad’s done; you mind fixing the greens?”
    Miz Clara looked at her watch. “Take two hours to make greens—I got thirty minutes.”
    “Mama, it doesn’t. Just put them in a steamer for awhile.”
    “Mmph.”
    “Michelle likes them that way.”
    “She would.” Michelle came from a much fancier family than the Wallises ever thought about being.
    Talba could feel the minutes ticking away. Every second she wasn’t working on the problem was a second Angie and Alabama would have to spend in jail. “Go on,” Miz Clara said. “Do what ya gotta do. I’ll feed ya rats.” Cats, she meant. Blanche and Koko were more her cats than Talba’s.
    First, Talba thought, the musician’s family. An Albert Brazil was listed on Villere Street. That would be him. Most Mardi Gras Indians lived in Tremé. A woman answered. “Mrs. Brazil?”
    “Ain’ no Miz Brazil.”
    “I’m looking for the family of Albert Brazil.”
    The woman’s voice changed. “Somethin’ happen to Albert? Yeah, I’m Miz Brazil.”
Just not legally,
Talba thought.
    “Listen, Albert’s fine. But there’s been a mix-up, and I’m working on it. I work with his lawyer, Angela Valentino….”
    “Oh, Lord, don’t tell me he in jail again!”
    “Not for long, if I can help it.”
    “Who you? Why you callin’ ’steada Miss Angela? I ain’ know who you is.”
    “My name’s Talba Wallis. I’m a P.I. who works with her father, Eddie Valentino. We do a lot of work for Angie’s firm.”
    “Well, why ain’t Miss Angela callin’?”
    “She’s—uh—” Something told Talba to dissemble. “We’re both working on it. She’s trying to get a judge to set bond. Asked me to call you; set your mind at ease.”
    “Swear to God, this the last time! Albert done swore on the Big Book he clean, he stayin’ clean. He barely out of jail, and now he back in. You get him out, tell him he better not come home.”
    Talba knew she shouldn’t give out any more information than she had to, but she wanted to ease the woman’s pain if she could. “Angela says the drugs were planted.”
    “Oh, yeah! Uh-huh. That what he always say. They all say that; don’t you know nothin’?” She hung up in a fury, leaving Talba with uncomfortable nigglings. Everybody in jail said they were framed. She was well aware of that. She knew Angie well enough to know she wasn’t a druggie, but surely the lawyer was being naive where the Chief was concerned. Talba was inclined to agree with the self-styled Mrs. Brazil—there were probably very few innocent people moldering in Central Lockup.
    Finding Jimmy Houlihan’s number was a piece of cake, given Talba’s computer skills. And after no more than twelve or thirteen rings, a man answered. “Mr. Houlihan?” Talba asked.
    “Jimmy? You want Jimmy?” The man sounded as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. In the background she could hear the buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and two different kinds of loud music, one involving drums. “Think he went to the parade.”
    Talba thanked him and hung up, surmising that since Houlihan lived on St. Charles Avenue itself—the main artery of almost every parade of Carnival—a parade party was in progress. Technically speaking, it wasn’t the first weekend of parades—Krewe du Vieux had rolled the weekend before in the French Quarter.
    But