PI On A Hot Tin Roof

it was the second day of the twelve days of almost constant parading that mesmerized the city while paralyzing its traffic every year at this time. The only break would come on the following Monday. Otherwise, there would be at least two parades a day in New Orleans itself, plus many more in the suburbs until Ash Wednesday. No one who lived on St. Charles or near it escaped entertaining. People with college-age children found themselves running impromptu dormitories and soup kitchens; those with out-of-town friends who had the price of airline tickets became instant B&B proprietors; and anyone who was left who knew anyone at all pretty much held open house—whether they wanted to or not.
    Since it was only the second day, spirits would be high; nobody’d yet be burned out. No wonder you couldn’t hear yourself think at the Houlihan house. Talba was going to have to pay the lawyer a visit, and that wasn’t going to be easy, given the traffic. Still, she knew she could do it if she followed Eddie Valentino’s Foolproof Carnival Driving Formula, which involved staying on I-10 whenever she could and avoiding Magazine and Prytania as if they were St. Charles itself—in other words, sticking to the lake side of the parade route. (It got more complicated the night of the Endymion Parade, which rolled in another neighborhood entirely, but there were ways, and Eddie knew them.)
    Talba followed the Valentino blueprint, ending up on Baronne and wondering where she was going to park. But as it turned out, she needn’t have—many of Central City’s most enterprising entrepreneurs had set up temporary lots at twenty dollars a spot. This had to be a place where they just couldn’t
wait
for Mardi Gras to come around. It was a dicey neighborhood, the kind where, on a normal night, you might not be all that surprised to find a car window broken or a lock smashed when you returned. Talba figured that tonight the twenty dollars not only paid for the spot, but ought to cover protection as well. Best of both worlds, she thought, admiring capitalism in action, and, despite herself, catching the festive feeling of the neighborhood. Carnival might be a pain, but once you broke down and gave in to it, it sucked you in like a purple, green, and gold patch of quicksand. She certainly hoped Jimmy Houlihan was a good enough friend of Angie’s to resist the irresistible.
    The Houlihan house was overrun. It was a big brick edifice with columns, decked out with Mardi Gras garlands that failed to make a good showing against the red brick, but a Mardi Gras wreath on the white door took up the slack. The door was open now, and the porch was jammed with white people, glasses and go-cups in their hands. A pale guy in a pinstriped shirt, obviously thinking Talba didn’t belong, asked if he could help her.
    “Happy Mardi Gras,” she said. “Jimmy said to pop by if I could.”
    He planted a big one on her. “Happy Mardi Gras,” he rejoined. “Bar’s inside.”
    Talba grinned at him, dying to wipe off the slobbery kiss, but thinking it might be rude. “Jimmy around?”
    He shrugged. “Saw him awhile ago. Look for a Mardi Gras rugby shirt.”
    She checked out the crowd. Half the men in the crowd wore green, gold, and purple shirts. “Thanks a lot.”
    She left him guffawing, obviously having had a beer or two, and made her way inside the house. A woman in jeans, smooth hair in one of those neat pageboys favored in this neck of the woods, spotted her and snaked her way through the crush, probably wondering if Talba was someone off the streets, attracted by the crowd. Talba waved as if she knew her. “Hiii! You must be Patsy Houlihan.” She’d found the name on an opera website. “I’m Talba Wallis.”
    “Oh, uh, hi. Uh. Talba. You must work with Jimmy.” She looked a little confused.
    Good. Talba must have guessed right. “I’m a client.” She let it hang there awkwardly, forcing the other woman to make some kind of move.
    “Well. Let’s get you a drink.” She turned, expecting Talba to follow her to the bar, which Talba did.
    The bartender was African-American, like Talba herself, wearing a white waiter’s jacket. “Just water, please.”
    The guy didn’t smile at her, didn’t seem to be enjoying his work. She tried Patsy again. “I was hoping to say hello to Jimmy.”
    Patsy swiveled her head. “Oh. Jimmy. He may have gone out to the street.”
    Better fess up, Talba decided. “Actually, I’m kind of a client by