"You got a sheet on a gangbanger that big?" I said.
"That doesn't mean there's not one."
"Start looking for a black mechanic named Mookie Zerrang," I said.
"Who?" he said.
"He looks like a stack of gorilla shit with gold teeth in it. Feel flattered. He gets ten large a whack in Miami. I'm surprised he'd be seen in a neighborhood like this. No kidding, they say the guy's got rigid standards," Clete said, fixing his eyes earnestly on Cramer's face.
That evening I let Batist go home early and cleaned the bait shop and the tables on the dock by myself. The air was cool, the sky purple and dense with birds, the dying sun as bright as an acetylene flame on the horizon. I could see flights of ducks in V formations come in low over the swamp, then circle away and drop beyond the tips of the cypress into the darkness on the other side.
I plugged in Jerry Joe's jukebox and watched the colored lights drift through the plastic casing like smoke from marker grenades. There were two recordings of "La Jolie Blon" in the half-moon rack, one by Harry Choates and the other by Iry LeJeune. I had never thought about it before, but both men's lives seemed to be always associated with that haunting, beautiful song, one that was so pure in its sense of loss you didn't have to understand French to comprehend what the singer felt. "La Jolie Blon" wasn't about a lost love. It was about the end of an era.
Iry LeJeune was killed on the highway, changing a tire, and Harry Choates died in alcoholic madness in the Austin city jail, either after beating his head bloody against the bars or being beaten unmercifully by his jailers.
Maybe their tragic denouements had nothing to do with a song that had the power to break the heart. Maybe such a conclusion was a product of my own alcoholic mentality. But I had to grieve just a moment on their passing, just as I did for Jerry Joe, and maybe for all of us who tried to hold on to a time that was quickly passing away.
Jerry the Glide had believed in Wurlitzer jukeboxes and had secretly worshipped the man who had helped burn Dresden. What a surrogate, I thought, then wondered what mine was.
A car came down the road in the dusk, then slowed, as though the driver might want to stop, perhaps for a beer on the way home. I turned off the outside flood lamps, then the string of lights over the dock, then the lights inside the shop, and the car went past the boat ramp and down the road and around the curve. I leaned with my forearm against the jukebox's casing and started to punch a selection. But you can't recover the past with a recording that's forty years old, nor revise all the moments when you might have made life a little better for the dead.
I could feel the blood beating in my wrists. I jerked the plug from the wall, sliced the cord in half with my pocketknife, and wheeled the jukebox to the back and left it in a square of moonlight, face to the wall.
CHAPTER 25
Early Sunday morning I parked my pickup in the alley behind Sabelle Crown's bar in Lafayette. The alley was littered with bottles and beer cans, and a man and woman were arguing on the landing above the back entrance to the bar. The woman wore an embroidered Japanese robe that exposed her thick calves, and her chestnut hair was unbrushed and her face without makeup. The man glanced down at me uncertainly, then turned back to the woman.
"You t'ink you wort' more, go check the mirror, you," he said. He walked down the wood stairs and on down the alley, stepping over a rain puddle, without looking at me. The woman went back inside.
I climbed the stairs to the third story, where Sabelle lived by herself at the end of a dark hallway that smelled of insecticide and mold.
"It's seven in the morning. You on a drunk or something?" she said when she opened the door. She wore only a T-shirt without a bra and a pair of blue jeans that barely buttoned under her navel.
"You still have working girls here, Sabelle?" I said.
"We're all working girls, honey. Y'all just haven't caught on." She left the door open for me and walked barefoot across the linoleum and took a coffee pot off her two-burner stove.
"I want you to put me with your father."
"Like meet with him, you're saying?"
"However you want to do it."
"So you can have him executed?"
"I believe Buford LaRose is setting him up to be killed."
She set the coffee pot back on the stove without pouring from it.
"How do you know this?" she said.
"I was out to his place. Those state troopers aren't planning to take prisoners."
She sucked in her bottom lip.
"What are you offering?" she asked.
"Maybe transfer to a federal facility."
"Daddy hates the federal government."
"That's a dumb attitude."
"Thanks for the remark. I'll think about it."
"There're only a few people who've stood in Buford's way, Sabelle. The scriptwriter and Lonnie Felton were two of them. Jerry Joe Plumb was another. He was killed yesterday morning. That leaves your dad."
"Jerry Joe?" she said. Her face was blank, like that of someone who has been caught unawares by a photographer's flash.
"He was methodically beaten to death. My guess is by the same black guy who killed Felton and his girlfriend and the scriptwriter."
She sat down at her small kitchen table and looked out the window across the rooftops.
"The black guy again?" she said.
"That means something to you?"
"What do I know about black guys? They pick up the trash. They don't drink in my bar."
"Get a hold of your old man, Sabelle."
"Say, you're wrong about one thing."
"Oh?"
"Daddy's not the only guy in Buford's way. Take it from a girl who's been there. When he decides to fuck somebody, he doesn't care if it's male or female. Keep your legs crossed, sweetie."
I looked at the glint in her eye, and at the anger and injury it represented, and I knew that her friendship with me had always been a presumption and vanity on my part and that in reality Sabelle Crown had long ago consigned me, unfairly or not, to that army of male violators and users who took and never gave.
Monday an overweight man in a navy blue suit with hair as black as patent leather tapped on my office glass. There was a deep dimple in his chin.
"Can I help you?" I said.
"Yeah, I just kind of walked myself back here. This is a nice building y'all got." His right hand was folded on a paper bag. I waited. "Oh, excuse me," he said. "I'm Ciro Tauzin, state police, Baton Rouge. You got a minute, suh?"
His thighs splayed on the chair when he sat down. His starched dress shirt was too small for him and the collar button had popped loose under the knot in his necktie.
"You know what I got here?" he asked, putting his hand in the paper bag. "An oar lock with a handerchief tied through it. That's a strange thing for somebody to find on their back lawn, ain't it?"
"Depends on who the person is."
"In this case, it was one of my men found it on Buford LaRose's place. So since an escaped convict is trying to assassinate the governor-elect, we didn't want to take nothing for granted and we took some prints off it and ran them through AFIS, you know, the Automatic Fingerprint Identification System. I tell you, podna, what a surprise when we found out who those prints belonged to. Somebody steal an oar lock off one of your boats, suh?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"You just out throwing your oar locks on people's lawn?"
"It was just an idle speculation on my part. About a body that might have been buried there."
"Is that right? I declare. Y'all do some fascinating investigative work in Iberia Parish."
"You're welcome to join us."
"Ms. LaRose says you got an obsession, that you're carrying out a vendetta of some kind. She thinks maybe you marked the back of the property for Aaron Crown."
"Karyn has a creative mind."
"Well, you know how people are, suh. They get inside their heads and think too much. But one of my troopers told me you were knoc
king around in the stables, where you didn't have no bidness. What you up to, Mr. Robicheaux?"
"I think Aaron's a dead man if he gets near your men."
"Really? Well, suh, I won't bother you any more today. Here's your oar lock back. You're not going to be throwing nothing else up in their yard, are you?"
"I'm not planning on it. Tell me something."
"Yes, suh?"
"Why would the LaRoses decide to put in a gazebo right where I thought there might be an unmarked burial?"
"You know, I thought about that myself. So I checked with the contractor. Mr. LaRose put in the order for that gazebo two months ago."
He rose and extended his hand.
I didn't take it.
"You're fronting points for a guy who's got no bottom, Mr. Tauzin. No offense meant," I said.
That night I went to bed early, before Bootsie, and was almost asleep when I heard her enter the room and begin undressing. She brushed her teeth and stayed in the bathroom a long time, then clicked off the bathroom light and lay down on her side of the bed with her head turned toward the wall. I placed my palm on her back. Her skin was warm through her nightgown.
She looked up into the darkness.
"You all right?" she said.
"Sure."
"About Jerry Joe, I mean?"
"I was okay today."
"Dave?"
"Yes?"
"No . . . I'm sorry. I'm too tired to talk about it tonight."
"About what?"
She didn't reply at first, then she said, "That woman . . . I hate her."
"Come on, Boots. See her for what she is."
"You're playing her game. It's a rush for both of you. I'm not going to say any more . . ." She sat on the side of the bed and pushed her feet in her slippers. "I can't take this, Dave," she said, and picked up her pillow and a blanket and went into the living room.
The moon was down, the sky dark, when I was awakened at five the next morning by a sound out in the swamp, wood knocking against wood, echoing across the water. I sat on the edge of the bed, my head still full of sleep, and heard it again through the half-opened window, an oar striking a log perhaps, the bow sliding off a cypress stump. Then I saw the light in the mist, deep in the flooded trees, like a small halo of white phosphorous burning against the dampness, moving horizontally four feet above the waterline.
I put on my khakis and loafers and flannel shirt, took a flashlight out of the nightstand and my .45 automatic out of the dresser drawer and walked to the end of the dock.
The light out in the trees was gone. The air was gray with mist, the bayou dimpled by the rolling backs of gars.
"Who are you?" I called.
It was quiet, as though the person in the trees was considering my question, then I heard a paddle or an oar dipping into water, raking alongside a wood gunnel.
"Tell me who you are!" I called. I waited. Nothing. My words sounded like those of a fool trapped by his own fears.
I unlocked the bait shop and turned on the flood lamps, then unchained an outboard by the end of the concrete ramp, set one knee on the seat, and shoved out into the bayou. I cranked the engine and went thirty yards downstream and turned into a cut that led back into a dead bay surrounded by cypress and willows. The air was cold and thick with fog, and when I shut off the engine I heard a bass flop its tail in the shallows. Nutrias perched on every exposed surface, their eyes as red as sapphires in the glow of my flashlight.
Then, at the edge of the bay, I saw the path a boat had cut in the layer of algae floating between two stumps. I shined my light deep into the trees and saw a moving shape, the shadow of a hunched man, a flash of dirty gold water flicked backward as a pirogue disappeared beyond a mudbank that was overgrown with palmettos.
"Aaron?" I asked the darkness.
But no one responded.
I tried to remember the images in my mind's eye—the breadth of the shoulders, a hand pulling aside a limb, a neck that seemed to go from the jaws into the collarbones without taper. But the reality was I had seen nothing clearly except a man seated low in a pirogue and—
A glistening, thin object in the stern. It was metal, I thought. A chain perhaps. The barrel of a rifle.
My flannel shirt was sour with sweat. I could hear my heart beating in the silence of the trees.
I came home for lunch that day. Alafair was at school and Bootsie was gone. There was no note on the corkboard where we left messages for one another. I fixed a ham and onion sandwich and a glass of iced tea and heated a bowl of dirty rice and ate at the kitchen table. Batist called from the bait shop.
"Dave, there's a bunch of black mens here drinking beer and using bad language out on the dock," he said.
"Who are they?" I asked.
"One's got a knife instead of a hook on his hand."
"A what?"
"Come see, 'cause I'm fixing to run 'em down the road."
I walked down the slope through the trees. A new Dodge Caravan was parked by the concrete boat ramp, and five black men stood on the end of the dock, their shirtsleeves rolled in the warm air, drinking can beer while Jimmy Ray Dixon gutted a two-foot yellow catfish he had gill-hung from a nail on a light post.
A curved and fine-pointed knife blade, honed to the blue thinness of a barber's razor, was screwed into a metal and leather cup that fitted over the stump of Jimmy Ray's left wrist. He drew the blade's edge around the catfish's gills, then cut a neat line down both sides of the dorsal fin and stripped the skin back with a pair of pliers in his right hand. He sliced the belly from the apex of the V where the gills met to the anus and let the guts fall out of the cavity like a sack of blue and red jelly.
The tops of his canvas shoes were speckled with blood. He was grinning.
"I bought it from a man caught it in a hoop net at Henderson," he said.
"Y'all want to rent a boat?"
"I hear the fishing here ain't any good."
"It's not good anywhere now. The water's too cool."
"I got a problem with a couple of people bothering me. I think you behind it," he said.
"You want to lose the audience?" I said.
"Y'all give me a minute," he said to the other men. They were dressed in tropical shirts, old slacks, shoes they didn't care about. But they weren't men who fished. Their hands squeezed their own sex, almost with fondness; their eyes followed a black woman walking on the road; they whispered to one another, even though their conversation was devoid of content.
They started to go inside the shop.
"It's closed," I said.
"Hey, Jim, we ain't here to steal your watermelons," Jimmy Ray said.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me a racial name," I said.
"Y'all open the cooler. I'll be along," he said to his friends. He watched them drift in a cluster down the dock toward the van.
"Here's what it is," he said. "That cracker Cramer, yeah, you got it, white dude from Homicide, smells like deodorant, is down at my pool hall, axing if I know why Jerry the Glide was in the neighborhood when somebody broke all his sticks."
Not bad, Cramer, I thought.
"Then your friend, Purcel, hears from this pipehead street chicken Mookie Zerrang's got permission to burn his kite, so he blames me. I ain't got time for this, Jack."
"Why was Jerry Joe in your neighborhood?"
"It ain't my neighborhood, I got a bidness there. I don't go in there at night, either." He brushed the sack of fish guts off the dock with his shoe and watched it float away in the current. "Why you got to put your hand in this shit, man?"
"You know how it is, a guy's got to do something for kicks."
"I hear it's 'cause you was fucking some prime cut married to the wrong dude. That's your choice, man, but I don't like you using my brother to do whatever you doing. Give my fish to the old man in there," he said, and started to walk away.
I walked after him and touched his back with the ball of my finger. I could feel his wingbone through the cloth of
his shirt, see the dark grain of his whiskers along the edge of his jaw, smell the faint odor of sweat and talcum in his skin.
"Don't use profanity around my home, please," I said.
"You worried about language round your home? Man put a bullet in mine and killed my brother. That's the difference between us. Don't let it be lost on you, Chuck."