PI On A Hot Tin Roof

shake, not sure whether this was wise with a nearly naked white guy still drunk from the night before, and sure enough, it wasn’t: The jerk kissed her hand.
    “What would you like for breakfast, sir?”
    “Oh, drop the ‘sir’ bit. And that ‘Mr.’ crap too. Call me Royce. We’re equal-opportunity assholes around here.”
    “Yes sir, Mr. Royce.” She gave him a sideways glance to see how he was taking it, then added, just in case, “Sorry—just kidding.”
    “Oh, man, we got a comedian here.” He shouted up the stairs, “Hey, Suzanne. Come on down. Ya gotta meet Edwina Murphy here. Hey, that’s good—maybe I’ll call you Eddie.”
    Okay, a license to smart off. “You do that, Mr. Royce, suh. And put in a word with Comedy Tonight, okay? I don’t cook so good; I’m scared I’ll get fired when you taste my eggs. I got a poor ol’ mama and a crippled little brother.”
    He did an approving double-take and called again, “Suzanne! You’re missin’ the show.”
    A woman appeared on the third floor landing, which was as big as a sitting room, and furnished like one, with a sofa flanked by tables and lamps, a console table on the wall across from it. She was also tall and skinny, also brown-haired, with one of those Hollywood-looking mussed coiffures that wasn’t a whole lot longer than her husband’s, which was way too long for a judge’s son, in Talba’s limited experience. The woman’s beak was long, narrow, and a bit turned under—very French—and it gave her face the kind of character she didn’t see in Royce’s. Her lips were full and her cheeks rosy from sleep. She looked elegant even in the sweatpants she was currently tying. She wore them with a tiny white T-shirt that showed a hint of midriff. “What’s going on down there?”
    “Alberta’s niece is a regular clown.”
    Talba was afraid she’d gone too far. “Years of working with kids—lose your sense of humor, say good-bye to your sanity,” she said in the general direction of upstairs. “Sandra Corey, at your service.”
    “Edwina Murphy to me,” Royce said. “Hey, Eddie, want to whip us up some eggs and grits, maybe a little boudin?”
    “Okay on the eggs and grits—I don’t know if I can do boudin on short notice. How about I ask my mama how tonight, make you some tomorrow?”
    “It’s a deal.”
    “Royce Champagne,” Suzanne said, “you are not coming to the table without taking a shower. Hi, Sandra, nice to meet you.”
    Talba was glad Suzanne hadn’t called her Eddie. She wasn’t crazy about appropriating her boss’s name.
    She went down to the kitchen and found grits, eggs, and bacon, which ought to substitute nicely for boudin, and some bread for toast. She made more coffee and offered some to Adele, who was working at her kitchen office.
    Absently, the older woman accepted a cup and then turned back to her checkbook, which she appeared to be balancing. “Those two!” she said, shaking her head and looking at her watch.
    Suzanne came down first, now wearing a hint of makeup. She poured herself a cup of coffee as Talba started the eggs. “’Lo, Mama Dell. I heard that. We only sleep late to avoid the Whore of Babylon.”
    Whoo,
Talba thought.
    “She already gone, by the way?”
    “I presume,” Adele said, “you aren’t talking about your sister-in-law.”
    “My, uh—oh, Luce. Somehow I don’t think of her that way. More like a niece.”
    “In that case, Kristin, who I find a very lovely young woman, has gone to work. You’ve heard of work, right?”
    “Hey, Royce,” Suzanne yelled, “coast is clear!” She turned back to Adele. “If you don’t think what I do is work, maybe you should come with me sometime. See what a difference feng shui can make in a house.”
    “My family’s lived in this house for twenty-two years. We like it like it is, thanks.”
    Royce joined them, actually smelling fresh and soapy, his wet hair slicked down, a loose shirt covering his torso, the same old ripped shorts tickling his knees, beat-up running shoes on his feet. He gave Adele a kiss. “Mornin’, Granny Goose.”
    She gave him a swat, the first sign of affection Talba’d seen in any of these people. “Mommo to you, young man. Tell your wife to button her lip about Kristin—she’s probably gon’ be your stepmother.”
    Talba, who was now serving the eggs, looked up to see Royce roll his eyes. “Now isn’t that just charmin’.”
    Adele, sitting in one of those desk chairs that spins on