“He’s old.”
“He’s older than I am. That doesn’t mean he’s old.”
“It’s your life, Alf.”
“Why do you have to say that, Dave?”
“I don’t trust these guys. When they get what they want, they’re gone. Every time, without exception.”
“So I should stay away from the movie business? How about publishing? Should I stay away from publishing houses?”
I arced a pecan into the middle of the bayou. “I’m at a dead end on three homicides. One thing I’m sure of, however: Antoine Butterworth is mixed up in them.”
“I think you’re wrong,” she said. “Besides, Lou hates his guts.”
“Why do you call this guy by his first name?”
“It’s what people do when they know each other. I don’t mean in the biblical sense, either. You think Desmond is corrupt?”
“No,” I said.
“Then maybe you won’t mind that he wants to cast Bailey Ribbons.”
“That’s her business.” I threw a pecan into the bayou.
“You have feelings for her?”
“Cut it out, Alafair. When are you leaving?”
“Tuesday. Lou has a private plane.”
“Have a good trip.”
I picked up Snuggs and put him on my shoulder and walked back to the house and opened a can of cat food for him and fed him on the step. Mon Tee Coon was nowhere in sight. Then I washed my hands in the sink and went out the front door without saying goodbye or telling Alafair where I was going. I walked down East Main in the twilight, under the canopy of live oaks, past the city library, counting cadence in my head, and went inside the Little River Inn and sat at a table at the back of the dining room, my mind filled with thoughts and desires that boded well for no one.
Chapter Nine
“You eating tonight, Dave?” the waiter asked.
“What do you have that’s cold?” I said.
“Iced tea?”
“What else have you got?”
“Whatever you want,” he replied.
“You have French vanilla ice cream?”
“Sure. Want anything on it?”
I gazed out the window, a fleeting tic in my eye. “What do you have?”
“Crème de menthe, brandy and chocolate, plain chocolate, butterscotch.”
There was an oak tree wrapped with tiny white lights in the backyard. The sky was purple, a sliver of moon hanging by the evening star.
“I don’t want anything,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just sit here a minute.”
“You got it, Dave,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
After the waiter was gone, I went to the restroom, then out the door. I kept walking through town, past the Shadows and across the drawbridge at Burke Street, and on up Loreauville Road to an Acadian-style cottage that sat on a one-acre green lot on the bayou. All the lights were on. I twisted the bell.
“Why, Dave. Come in,” Bailey said when she answered. She was dressed in sandals and stonewashed jeans and a shirt printed with faded flowers.
I stepped inside.
“Where’s your truck?” she said.
“I was out for a walk.”
“On Loreauville Road?”
The living room was immaculate. I could smell food on a stove. “I’m sorry if I caught you at supper.”
“No, join me.”
“I’ve already eaten. I’ll take just a few minutes.”
“Come in the kitchen. Is something wrong?”
“I was talking with my daughter this evening.”
She pointed at a chair by the table. The kitchen was bright and clean, every surface wiped down. Through the window I could see the long green sweep on the yard and the shadows of the trees on the grass and the reflection of lights on the bayou. My body felt strange, my skin dead, my ears humming. I did not know why I was there. My legs were turning to rubber. I sat down.
“Yes?” she said.
“Desmond Cormier wants to cast you in his film, even though he knows you’re investigating a homicide that might involve people he works with.”
“He hasn’t said anything to me about it.”
“I’m sorry for breaking in on you like this.”
She put a sandwich and two scoops of potato salad on her plate, then set a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses on the table. “Will you please tell me what’s bothering you?”
“There are two or three bad guys in the department,” I replied. “One of them is Axel Devereaux.”
“What about him?”
“He’s a misogynist.”
“You think I care about a man like that?”
“He may have poisoned Sean McClain’s animals.”
“Ugh,” she said. “Is somebody going to do something about that?”
“There’s no proof.”
“Every thought in that man’s brain is on his face. What’s he doing in the department, anyway?”
“From what I gather, you grew up in a traditional neighborhood in New Orleans, Bailey,” I said.
“I’m not making the connection.”
“In Vietnam we used to say ‘It’s Nam.’ Same thing here. This is Louisiana. That means we’re everybody’s punch. Wars of enormous consequence are fought in places nobody cares about.”
“You don’t have to protect me, Dave. Or patronize me.”
“I believe you. I’d better be going.”
She looked at her food. She hadn’t touched it. “How long has your wife been gone?”
“Three years.”
“A car accident?”
“I’d call it a homicide. Why do you ask?”
“My husband died when he was only twenty-five,” she said. “He was in Iraq, but he had to come home to get killed. I know what it’s like to lose someone and be alone.”
“I’m not alone.”
“Don’t pretend,” she said.
“Desmond is right. You look like the actress who played Clementine in the Henry Fonda movie.”
“I guess I’ll have to see it sometime.”
“Stay away from those guys, Bailey. They’re sons of bitches.”
“I’ll try to watch out for myself.”
I didn’t know if she was being ironic or trying to be polite. I half-filled my glass with tea and drank it down. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
“Come by anytime. Can I drive you home?”
“No.”
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be decades younger. I wanted to be everything except what I was. Unfortunately, at a certain age, wanting something you can’t be or wanting what you can’t have can become a way of life.
When I got home, Alafair and Lou Wexler were sitting in rocking chairs on the gallery.
“Where have you been?” Alafair said.
“I took a walk.”
“How about telling me next time?” she said.
“How do you do, Mr. Robicheaux?” Wexler said.
“I’m solid. How about you?”
“It’s a lovely night,” he said.
“Y’all are going to Arizona on Tuesday?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, rocking back and forth.
“In your private plane?”
“Actually, I rent it,” he said. “I get a corporate break.”
“Is that how it works?” I said. “I think I’ll incorporate my pickup truck.”
“Come in and let’s have some pecan pie, Dave,” Alafair said.
“I have to make a call on a bartender I insulted.”
“You did what?” she said.
“A black guy who bartends at that blues joint on the bayou,” I said. “I told him he should adopt a mop and pail as his coat of arms.”
“You didn’t,” Alafair said.
“I was in a bad mood.”
“Don’t go there,” she said.
“I won’t be long.”
She got up from the chair. It rocked weightlessly behind her. “Please.”
“You worry too much,” I said.
“Can we go along?” Wexler said.