“What's on your mind?”
“I talked with a couple of guys I know at NOPD.
Tommy Carrol isn't pressing charges. He's got a beef pending on an automatic weapons violation.”
“That's the flash?”
“That's it.” She began leafing through some pages in a file folder as though I were not there. “But I've got a personal problem about yesterday's events,” I said. “What might that be?” she said, not looking up from the folder.
“We need to take it out of overdrive, Helen.”
She swiveled her chair toward me, her eyes as intense and certain as a drill instructor's.
“I've got two rules,” she said. “Shitbags don't get treated like churchgoers, and somebody tries to take me, a civilian, or another cop down, he gets neutralized on the spot.”
“Sometimes people get caught in their own syllogism.”
“What?”
“Why let your own rules lock you in a corner?”
“You don't like working with me, Dave, take it to the old man.”
“You're a good cop. But you're unrelenting. It's a mistake.”
“You got anything else on your mind?”
“Nope.”
“I ran this guy Emile Pogue all kinds of ways,” she said, the door already closed on the previous' subject “There's no record on him.”
“Hang on a minute.” I went down to my office and came back. “Here's the diary and notebook Sonny Boy Marsallus gave me. If this is what Delia Landry's killers were after, its importance is lost on me.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“Read it or give it back, Helen, I don't care.”
She dropped it in her desk drawer.
“You really got your nose out of joint because I took down that gun dealer?” she said.
“I was probably talking about myself.”
“How about getting the corn fritters out of your mouth?”
“I've put down five guys in my career. They all dealt the play. But I still see them in my dreams. I wish I didn't.”
“Try seeing their victims' faces for a change,” she said, and bent back over the file folder on her desk.
The juke joint run by Luke Fontenot was across the railway tracks and down a dirt road that traversed green fields of sugarcane and eventually ended in a shell cul-de-sac by a coulee and a scattered stand of hackberry and oak trees. The juke joint was a rambling wood shell of a building on top of cinder blocks, the walls layered with a combination of Montgomery Ward brick and clapboard; the cracked and oxidized windows held together with pipe tape, still strung with Christmas lights and red and green crepe paper bells. A rusted JAX sign, with stubs of broken neon tubing on it, hung above the front screen door. In back were two small dented tin trailers with windows and doors that were both curtained. Inside, the bar was made of wood planks that had been wrapped and thumbtacked with oilcloth. The air smelled of the cigarette smoke that drifted toward the huge window fan inset in the back wall, spilled beer, okra and shrimp boiling on a butane stove, rum and bourbon, and melted ice and collins mix congealing in the bottom of a drain bin. All of the women in the bar were black or mulatto, but some of the men were white, unshaved, blue-collar, their expressions between a leer and a smile directed at one another, as though somehow their presence there was part of a collective and private joke, not to be taken seriously or held against them. Luke Fontenot was loading long-necked bottles of beer in the cooler and didn't acknowledge me, although I was sure he saw me out of the corner of his eye. Instead, it was his sister, who had the same gold coloring as he, who walked on her cane across the duckboards and asked if she could help me. Her eyes were turquoise, her shiny black hair cut in a pageboy, except it was shaped and curled high up on the cheek, the way a 19205 Hollywood actress might have worn it. “I think Luke wanted to see me,” I said. “He's tied up right now,” she said.
“Tell him to untie himself.”
“Why you want to be bothering him, Mr.
Robicheaux? He cain't do anything about Aim Bertie's land problems.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.”
“Ruthie Jean.”
“Maybe you've got things turned around, Ruthie Jean. I think Luke was out at my house at sunrise Saturday morning. Why don't you ask him?”
She walked with her cane toward the rear of the bar, and spoke to him while he kept lowering the bottles into the cooler, his face turning from side to side in case a hot bottle exploded in his face, her back turned toward me.
He wiped his hands on a towel and picked up an opened soft drink. When he drank from it he kept the left side of his face turned out of the light.
“I'm sorry Batist gave you a bad time out at my dock,” I said.
“Everybody get cranky with age,” he said.
“What's up, podna?”
“I need me a part-time job. I thought you might could use somebody at your shop.”
“I should have known that. You walked fifteen miles from town, at dawn, to ask me about a job.”
“I got a ride partway.”
A white man in an oil field delivery uniform went out the back screen door with a black woman who wore cutoff Levi's and a T-shirt without a bra. She took his hand in hers before they went into one of the tin trailers. Luke's sister glanced at my face, then closed the wood door on the screen and began sweeping behind where the door had been.
“What happened to your face?” I asked Luke.
“It get rough in here sometime. I had to settle a couple of men down.”
“One of them must have had a brick in his hand.”
He leaned on his arms and took a breath through his nostrils. “What you want?” he said.
“Who doze red the cemetery by your house Friday night?”
“I done tole you, I don't know about no graves on that plantation. I grew up in town.”
“Okay, partner. Here's my business card. I'll see you around.”
He slipped it in his shirt pocket and began rinsing glasses in a tin sink.
“I ain't meant to be un polite he said. ”Tell that to that old man work for you, too. I just ain't no hep in solving nobody's problems.“
”I pulled your jacket, Luke. You're a hard man to read.“ He raised his hand, palm outward, toward me. ”No more, suh,“ he said. ”You want to ax me questions, come back with a warrant and carry me down to the jail.“ When I got into my pickup the sky was steel gray, the air humid and close as a cotton glove. Raindrops were hitting in flat drops on the cane in the fields. Ruthie Jean came through the side door and limped toward me. She rested one hand on my window jamb. She had full cheeks and a mole by her mouth; her teeth were white against her bright lipstick. ”You saw something out here you gonna use against him?“ she said. The curtains were blowing in the windows and doors of the tin trailers in back.
”I was never a vice cop,“ I said.
”Then why you out here giving him a bunch of truck?“
”Your brother's got a ten-year sheet for everything from concealed weapons to first-degree murder.“
”You saw on there he stole something?“
”No.“
”He hurt somebody didn't bother him first, didn't try cheat him out of his pay, didn't take out a gun on him at a bouree table?“
”Not to my knowledge.“
”But y'all make it come out like you want.“
”I'd say your brother's ahead of the game. If Moleen Bertrand hadn't pulled him out of the death house, with about three hours to spare, Luke would have been yesterday's toast.“ I felt myself blink inside with the severity of my own words.
”Y'all always know, always got the smart word,“ she said.
”You're angry at the wrong person.“
”When y'all cain't get at the people who really did something, y'all go down into the quarters, find the little people to get your hands on, put inside your reports and send up to Angola.“
I started my truck engine. Her hand didn't
move from the window jamb.
”I'm not telling the troot, no?“ she said.
Her gold skin was smooth and damp in the blowing mist, her hair thick and jet black and full of little lights.
”Who supplies your girls?“ I said.
Her eyes roved over my face. ”You're not very good at this, if you ax me,“ she said, and limped back toward the front door of the juke.
That afternoon, just before five, I received a call from Clete Purcel.
I could hear seagulls squeaking in the background.
”Where are you?“ I said.
”By the shrimp docks in Morgan City. You know where a cop's best information is, Streak? The lowly bail bondsman. In this case, with a fat little guy named Butterbean Reaux.“
”Yeah, I know him.“
”Good. Drive on down, noble mon. We'll drink some mash and talk some trash. Or I'll drink the mash while you talk to your buddy Sonny Boy Marsallus.“
”You know where he is?“
”Right now, handcuffed to a D-ring in the backseat of my automobile. So much for all that brother-in-arms bullshit.“
Chapter 8
GAVE ME directions in Morgan City, and an hour later I saw his battered Cadillac convertible parked under a solitary palm tree by an outdoor beer and hot dog stand not far from the docks. The sky was sealed with gray clouds, and the wind was blowing hard off the Gulf, capping the water all the way across the bay. Sonny sat in the backseat of the Cadillac, shirtless, a pair of blue suspenders notched into his white shoulders. His right wrist was extended downward, where it was cuffed to a D-shaped steel ring inset in the floor.
Clete was drinking a beer on a wood bench under the palm tree, his porkpie hat slanted over his forehead.
”You ought to try the hot dogs here,“ Clete said.
”You want to be up on a kidnapping charge?“ I said.
”Hey, Sonny! You gonna dime me?“ Clete yelled at the car. Then he looked back at me. ”See, Sonny's stand-up. He's not complaining.“
He brushed at a fleck of dried blood in one nostril.
”What happened?“ I said.
”He'd rat-holed himself in a room over a pool hall, actually more like a pool hall and hot pillow joint. He said he wasn't coming with me. I started to hook him up and he unloaded on me. So I had to throw him down the stairs.“
He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand unconsciously. ”Why do you have it in for him, Clete?“
”Because he was down in Bongo-Bongo Land for the same reasons as the rest of us. Except he pretends he's got some kind of blue fire radiating around his head or something.“ I walked over to the car. Sonny's left eye was swollen almost shut. He grinned up at me. His sharkskin slacks were torn at the knee. ”How's the man, Streak?“ he said. ”I wish you had come in on your own.“
”Long story.“
”It always is.“
”You going to hold me?“
”Maybe.“ I turned toward Clete. ”Give me your key,“ I called. ”Ask Sonny if I need rabies shots,“ he said, and pitched it at me. ”You're not going to get clever, are you?“ I said to Sonny. ”With you guys? Are you kidding?“
”You're the consummate grifter, Sonny,“ I said, opened the door, and unlocked his wrist. Then I leveled my finger at his face. ”Who were the guys who killed Delia Landry?“
”I'm not sure.“
”Don't you lie to me, Sonny.“
”It could be any number of guys. It depends who they send in. You didn't lift any prints?“
”Don't worry about what we do or don't do. You just answer my questions. Who's theyT “Dave, you're not going to understand this stuff.”
“You're starting to piss me off, Sonny.”
“I don't blame you.”
“Get out of the car.” I patted him down against the fender, then slipped my hand under his arm and turned him toward my truck. “Where we going?” he said. “You're a material witness. You're also an uncooperative material witness. That means we'll be keeping you for a while.”
“Mistake.”
“I'll live with it.”
“Don't count on it, Dave. I'm not being cute, either.”
“He's a sweetheart,” Clete said from the bench. Then he rubbed the knuckles on his right hand and looked at them.
“Sorry I popped you, Cletus,” Sonny said.
“In your ear, Sonny,” Clete said.
We drove past boatyards then some shrimp boats that were knocking against the pilings in their berths. The air was warm and smelled like brass and dead fish.
“Can I stop by my room and pick up some things?” Sonny asked.
“No.”
“Just a shirt.”
“Nope.”
“You're a hard man, Streak.”
“That girl took your fall, Sonny. You want to look at her morgue pictures?”
He was quiet a long time, his face looking straight ahead at the rain striking the windshield.
“Did she suffer?” he said.
“They tore her apart. What do you think?”
His mouth was red against his white skin.
“They were after me, or maybe the notebook I gave you,” he said.
“I've got it. You've written a potential best-seller and people are getting killed over it.”
“Dave, you lock me up, those guys are going to get to me.”
“That's the breaks, partner.”
He was quiet again, his eyes focused inward.
“Are we talking about some kind of CIA involvement?” I said.
“Not directly. But you start sending the wrong stuff through the computer, through your fax machines, these guys will step right into the middle of your life. I guarantee it, Dave.”
“How's the name Emile Pogue sit with you?” I said.
He let out his breath quietly. Under his suspenders his stomach was flat and corded with muscle.
“Another officer ran him all kinds of ways and came up empty,” I said.
He rubbed the ball of his thumb across his lips. Then he said, “I didn't eat yet. What time they serve at the lockup?” Try to read that. Two hours later Clete called me at home. It was raining hard, the water sluicing off the gutters, and the back lawn was full of floating leaves. “What'd you get out of him?” Clete said. “Nothing.”
I could hear country music and people's voices in the background.
“Where are you?”
“In a slop chute outside Morgan City. Dave, this guy bothers me. There's something not natural about him.”
“He's a hustler. He's outrageous by nature.”
“He doesn't get any older. He always looks the same.” I tried to remember Sonny's approximate age. I couldn't. “There's something else,” Clete said. “Where I hit him.
There's a strawberry mark across the backs of my fingers. It's throbbing like I've got blood poisoning or something.”
“Get out of the bar, Clete.”
“You always knoW how to say it.” I couldn't sleep that night. The rain stopped and a heavy mist settled in the trees outside our bedroom window, and I could hear night-feeding bass flopping back in the swamp. I sat on the edge of the bed in my skivvies and looked at the curtains puffing in the breeze. “What is it, Dave?” Bootsie said behind me in the dark. “I had a bad dream, that's all.”
“About what?” She put her hand on my spine. “A captain I knew in Vietnam. He was a stubborn and inflexible man. He sent a bunch of guys across a rice field under a full moon. They didn't come back.”
“It's been thirty years, Dave.”
“The dream was about myself. I'm going into town. I'll call you later,” I said. I took two paper bags from the kitchen pantry, put a clean shirt in one of them, stopped by the bait shop, then drove up the dirt road through the tunnel of oak trees and over the drawbridge toward New Iberia.
It was still dark when I reached the parish jail. Kelso was drinking a cup of coffee and reading a comic book behind his desk. His face looked like a walrus's in the shado
ws from his desk lamp, the moles on his neck as big as raisins.
“I want to check Marsallus out,” I said.
“Check him out? Like a book from the library, you're saying?”
“It's the middle of the night. Why make an issue out of everything?”
He stretched and yawned. His thick glasses were full of light. “The guy's a twenty-four kick-out, anyway, isn't he?”
“Maybe.”
“I think you ought to take him to a shrink.”
“What'd he do?”
“He's been having a conversation in his cell.”
((C V
So?
“There ain't anybody else in it, Robicheaux.”
“How about bringing him out, Kelso, then you can get back to your reading.”
“Hey, Robicheaux, you take him to the wig mechanic, make an appointment for yourself, too.”
A few minutes later Sonny and I got in my truck and drove down East Main. He was dressed in his sharkskin slacks and a jailhouse denim shirt. There were low pink clouds in the east now and the live oaks along the street were gray and hazy with mist.
“There's a shirt in that bag by the door,” I said.
“What's this in the other one? You carrying around a junkyard, Dave?”
He lifted the rusted chain and ankle cuff out of the bag.