The days went by uneventfully. I made two weekend trips to Galveston and talked to retired cops, checked death records in the coroner's office, interviewed a madam who had run a house on Post Office Street, called the state attorney in Austin, and found out absolutely nothing about the fate of Ida Durbin. The studio that had cut the recording of "Ida's Jump" had gone out of business many years ago, and the musician who had told Jimmie a girl named Ida had sat in with his band during the late 1950s turned out to be a lonely old fellow who became more and more confused and contradictory in his account the more I talked with him.
If Ida Durbin was alive, she had left no paper trail of any kind.
I also began to wonder if Jimmie wasn't right about Jericho Johnny. Jericho Johnny's brother was Whiplash Wineburger, a part-time Mob lawyer and full-time gasbag who, when accused by his wife in divorce court of sleeping with the Puerto Rican maid, exclaimed, "I'm no snob, Your Honor! Guilty as charged!" At best, Jericho Johnny was a sociopath with blood up to his elbows. Why believe anything he said?
For a few nights I slept with my.45 automatic under my bed and kept my cut-down twelve-gauge Remington behind the couch in the living room. But after a while I no longer looked with caution upon the arrival of a deliveryman or a meter reader from the utility company. The world was a good place, the early dawn announced by birdsong and blue shadows on the lawn and fog puffing off the bayou. Why let fear and suspicion invade the heart and lay claim on your life?
Then on a windswept, burning Friday afternoon, when the sky was yellow with dust, Helen called me into her office. The Baton Rouge Advocate was spread open on her desk. "Looks like Billy Joe Pitts won't be bothering you anymore," she said.
"Say again?"
She tapped her finger on a back-page article. "A boating accident. He was drunk in an outboard on his old man's lake. He fell out of the boat and it circled around and hit him in the head. I just got off the phone with the sheriff," she said. She tilted her weight back in her chair and watched my face. "What bwana say?"
"You buy it?" I asked.
She picked up a ballpoint pen and twisted it in her fingers, then let it drop on her desk blotter. "I'd already told the sheriff we believed Pitts may have been involved in a murder-for-hire plot. So I asked him why I had to find out about Pitts's death in the newspaper."
"And?"
"He said he'd been real busy of late."
"You talk to the coroner?"
"I have a call in. But it's not going anywhere. That place is corrupt even beyond Louisiana standards," she replied.
"Maybe it was just an accident, Helen. Guys like Pitts eventually blow out their doors."
"I'm going to ask NOPD to roust Jericho Johnny."
"Don't do it," I said.
She scratched her forearm. "Okay, boss man," she said.
That evening just at dusk, it rained hard, pounding on the tin roof of my house, the raindrops dancing with a strange yellow light on the bayou. Then suddenly it was quiet outside, the trees dripping, the air cool and smelling of flowers and wet leaves. I wanted to believe that Billy Joe Pitts had died accidentally, that there was no contract on my life, that I was no different from any other police officer or, for that matter, any ordinary person who went about his day with goodwill toward others and tried to do the best he could with the life he had. I did not want to believe that somehow I was a harbinger of violence and death, a man who dwelled in the cities of the dead and who trailed the stench of a necropolis wherever he went.
But I had always subscribed to the belief that there is no mystery to the human personality. People are what they do. My own record was one I did not care to examine. The faces of the men I had killed did not appear in my sleep, but sometimes, on the periphery of my vision, I saw a moving shadow, a figure inside the elephant grass, a tiny man in black pajamas and a conical straw hat, or I heard a voice, the phlegmy death rattle of the man who murdered my second wife, Annie, and whose life I took in turn. Or sometimes I sat on the edge of the bed, in the middle of the night, inside a square of moonlight, wondering if indeed the wind in the trees or the thropping of helicopter blades overhead was nothing more than the auditory manifestation of a world at peace or if in fact hell was a place that some individuals carried inside themselves the rest of their lives.
I did not trust myself alone anymore. Sometimes I thought I, too, was infected with bloodlust. There were moments when I could feel shards of color explode behind my eyes, a balloon of anger surge in my chest without cause. I avoided watching the evening news. I would quickly turn off the radio in my truck when I would hear the voices of what we used to call REMFs, rear echelon motherfuckers, cheering on a war they or their family members would never serve in. There were moments when I had thoughts I would never share with anyone.
I wanted to reclaim my dead wife and lead her back from the underworld, as Orpheus did when he stole Eurydice from Hades.
In the Friday issue of the Daily Iberian was a feature story about a picnic and hot dog roast at Sister Molly Boyle's self-help housing agency and a race down Bayou Teche involving hundreds of plastic ducks. According to the article, the children would draw numbers from a barrel that corresponded to numbers painted on the bottom of the ducks. Then at 10:00 a.m. the ducks would be released at the drawbridge on Burke Street, when the tidal current was flowing southward. Eight miles down the Teche the first ten ducks across the finish line would determine which children would win a T-shirt with Donald Duck's face ironed on it.
I convinced myself my attendance Saturday morning at the picnic was innocent in nature. It was a fine day, the sun covered by rain clouds, the wind flecked with salt, the Spanish moss straightening in the oak trees along the bayou, Frisbees sailing through the air. What could be wrong in eating ice cream and grilled frankfurters among people of color for whom a plastic duck race down the bayou was a grand event?
But it wasn't long before I found ways to put myself next to Sister Molly Boyle. I helped her set tables, turn franks on a flame-streaked grill, paint margarine on hot dog buns, and finally to dip ten ducks out of the water with a crab net.
It was all in the spirit of fun, wasn't it?
But regardless of what I was doing, my eye would travel to wherever she was on the grounds. I felt foolish and wondered if I had entered that self-deluded stage in an aging man's life when others have to protect him from knowledge about himself.
She was certainly lovely to look at. She was hard-bodied, her jeans stretched tight on her rump and hips, her shoulders powdered with freckles, her red hair feathered with light when the wind blew it, her eyes interested in whatever was being said to her, without any sign of impatience or hidden thoughts in them that I could see. My brother was a light-bearer. I believed Molly Boyle was probably one, too.
I went into the office to use the restroom. As I was coming out, I saw a little boy wandering in the hallway, about to wet his pants. I took him into the restroom and helped him use the toilet and wash his hands. When I came back out, his mother was standing by the door, fat and angry, her print dress damp against her distended dugs. "You didn't have no bidness taking him in there," she said. Then she pointed her finger at the little boy. "You gonna get it, you."
I started to speak, then saw Molly Boyle come through the door, the sun bright and hot at her back. "There was a man in a boat up the bayou. The children say he had a rifle in his boat," she said.
The angry, fat woman pulled her child down the hall and slammed the door behind her.
"Where's this guy now?" I said to Molly.
She went to a window and looked across the lawn at a line of cypress trees on the bayou. I stood behind her and could smell the heat from the grill in her clothes and a warm odor like flowers and shampoo in her hair. "He's gone. He was just behind those trees. He had a pair of binoculars. I think he was watching you walk into the building," she said.
When she turned around, her chin was pointed upwards. She seemed smaller, shorter, her face both beautiful and vulnerable, in a way that made my throat dry and caused my loins to tingle. "Can you describe what he looked like, Sister?" I said.
"Don't call me that again, will you?" she said.
"I won't."
"He was white. He had a cap on. But I didn't get a good look at him. Is someone after you?"
"Could be."
Her eyes moved over my face. "Are you feeling okay? Our air-conditioning is broken," she said.
"The heat doesn't bother me," I said.
"Would you like a glass of water?"
"No. No thanks," I said. I opened my cell phone and punched in a 911 call.
She stepped away from me, then looked back over her shoulder, waiting for me to follow her down the hall. "I'm glad you came today. The children really enjoyed meeting you. Spend more time with us," she said.
I stared at her, puzzled, unsure what I should say next. "By the way, I helped a little boy go to the restroom. I'm afraid I angered his mother."
"That's Mrs. Poche. You're lucky she didn't club you with her purse. She was angry the day she was born."
In the next five minutes cruisers from both Jeanerette and New Iberia arrived on the drawbridges to the north and south of us. But no one saw any sign of a man in a boat with binoculars and a rifle. I talked to a little black boy who had seen the man in the boat through a canebrake.
"He had a rifle. It looked like he had a tin can stuck on the end of the barrel," the boy said.
A silencer?
But contract killers don't pop you in broad daylight in front of large numbers of witnesses, I told myself.
Tell that to President Kennedy or Jimmy Hoffa, I thought.
Jimmie had gone back to New Orleans and I was alone again. I had never done well with solitude. But I had another enemy, too, one that did not depart with age. I suspect monastic saints tossed in their sleep with it, waking fatigued and throbbing at first light, their fingers knotted in prayer as they tried to extricate themselves from the soft shapes that beckoned to them from their dreams. For that reason alone I always admired them, but my admiration for them did not make my own problem with celibacy any the less, perhaps because I was a drunk as well as one of those for whom the sybaritic life was only a wink of the eye away.
Sometimes I thought I heard Bootsie telling me I should not be alone. Didn't the story in Genesis indicate the same? Was it not a form of pride to set a standard above that of ordinary men?
That evening I went to Clete's cottage at the motor court, where he was waxing his Caddy under a mimosa tree. He was bare-chested and wore a Marine Corps utility cap on the back of his head and a huge pair of electric-blue Everlast boxing trunks that hung to his knees. The shadows of the mimosa branches looked like feathers moving on his skin.
"Where have you been for the last three days?" I said.
"Chasing down a couple of child molesters. They run every time. I don't know why Nig and Willie -"
"Why don't you answer your cell phone?" I said.
"I lost it somewhere. I think maybe a gal rolled me. I can't deal with working for Nig and Willie anymore. It's really affecting my stability. You think I could get on with the department?"
"In Iberia Parish?" I said.
"Something wrong with that?"
"Nothing," I said, my face empty.
"Can you run it by Helen? Salary is not a factor. Long as it's detective grade," he said.
"Sure," I said.
"I'd really like that," he said, rubbing a soft rag along a tailfin on his Cadillac, whistling to himself, as though somehow I had reassured him that people such as ourselves were not out of sync with the rest of the world.
Then I told him about the death of Billy Joe Pitts. "Pitts got hit in the head with his own motorboat?" he said.
"That's what the sheriff says."
Clete opened a Budweiser and drank from it, his throat working, his eyes flat. "You figure somebody took him off the board?" he asked.
"Who knows?"
He watched the way I was looking at him. He wiped the beer off his lips with his hand. "Get yourself a Dr Pepper out of the icebox."
"I don't want one," I said.
"What's bugging you?" he said.
"Nothing," I replied.
He picked up a pint bottle of whiskey from inside the open top of his Caddy. It was wrapped inside a brown paper bag, a shaft of sunlight flashing on the broken seal affixed to the cap. He took a hit from the neck and chased it with beer from his Budweiser can. He lit a cigarette and drank again from the whiskey, then ground the cigarette out in the gravel, his cheeks blooming with color. Unconsciously I wet my bottom lip. His eyes wandered over my face and I saw a great sadness in them.
"I'm a bad example. You stop having the thoughts you're having," he said.
"I'm not having any thoughts. I worry about you," I lied.
"Right," he said.
I headed for my truck.
"I'll put the booze up. I'll drive you to a meeting. Dave, come back here. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" he said.
I put on my running shorts and lifted weights in the backyard, did three sets of push-ups, with my feet propped on a picnic bench – thirty reps to each set – and jogged two miles through City Park, then hit it hard back across the drawbridge to home. But I could not rid myself of the restlessness that seemed to invade my metabolism without cause, nor the thoughts and images that kept drifting before my eyes.
There was no question about their nature. They had to do with the smell of perfume, the amber splash that sour mash makes when it's first poured on ice, a woman's face framed softly inside the thickness of her hair, the shine of bar light on the tops of her breasts, perhaps a cherry held between her teeth, her hand curved on the neck of a freshly opened bottle of champagne, bursting with white foam.
I opened a bottle of Talking Rain and drank it empty, then showered, put on my pajama bottoms, and tried to read, my shield, handcuffs, slapjack, and.45 on the nightstand beside me. The last of the summer light had gone out of the sky, and in the yard I could hear the bamboo rattling in the breeze and the first patter of rain on the trees. Sometime just before midnight I fell asleep with my hand over my eyes. I had not locked the front door.
When I woke, the room was black. I went to the bathroom and got back in bed. Outside, dry lightning flickered on the trees. I drifted off to sleep and dreamed I was inside a cave, my arm twisted behind me. That's when I heard the rocking chair moving back and forth in the corner.
I opened my eyes and saw a silhouette seated in the chair. When I tried to sit up, my right wrist came tight against the handcuffs that were clipped around it and the brass bedstead. I reached with my left hand for the nightstand, where my.45 should have been. It was gone, along with my slapjack. The figure in the chair stopped rocking.
"I was watching you sleep," a woman's voice said.
"Honoria?" I said.
"Your front door was unlocked. That's a dangerous thing to do," she said.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came in to see you."
My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, but I could see her face now, a pale orb wrapped in shadow. "Where's my piece?" I said.
"Your what?"
"My forty-five, where is it?"
She stood up from the chair and walked to the side of the bed. She wore Mexican-style jeans, gold sandals, hoop earrings, and a white blouse that was fluffy with lace. She sat down beside me, her rump pressing deep into the mattress. "I hid it," she said.
I couldn't smell alcohol on her, nor even cigarette smoke, which meant she had probably not been in a bar. "My handcuff key is in my pants. You need to unhook me, Honoria," I said.
"Why?"
"Because friends don't do this to one another," I replied.
She looked into my face and brushed back my hair, then leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. "You like me, don't you?" she said.
"I'm too old for you."
"No, you're not." She placed her hand on my stomach and leaned down again.
"What you're doing is no good for either of us, Honoria," I said.
She took her hand away and sat very still. I could see her breasts rising and falling against the light from the street.
"I think the devil lives under the bayou. I think the devil lives in my father, too," she said.
"I believe you need some help with this stuff. I know a doctor in Lafayette," I said.
"A therapist?"
"I used to see him after my wife Annie was killed. He helped me a lot," I said.
She looked at nothing, her small hand by my hip. "Do you mind if I stay with you a while?"
"No, but I -"
"Just say yes or no."
"No, I don't mind."
"I didn't think you would. I always liked you, Dave. You're a misplaced figure from Elizabethan theater, you know. Your tragedy is the fact no one ever explained that to you."
And with that, she curled up next to me, her face on my shoulder, her arm across my stomach, and went to sleep.
The sun was above the rooftops when I woke. The space beside me was empty and my right wrist was free of the handcuffs that hung from the bedstead. My.45 and slapjack had been replaced on the nightstand, along with the key to my cuffs. From the kitchen I could hear someone clattering pots or pans on the stove.
After I used the bathroom, I pulled on my khakis and went into the kitchen. Honoria was dripping coffee, heating a pan of milk and stirring a pot of oatmeal. Both Snuggs and Tripod were eating out of their pet bowls on the floor. Honoria's hair was brushed and her face made up, but when she glanced in my direction her face had the stark expression of someone who has been caught unawares by a photographer's flash.
"There was no water in the cat's bowl," she said.
"He drinks out of the toilet," I said.
"That's disgusting."
"That's what I've been telling him," I said.
But she saw no humor in my remark. She served oatmeal in two bowls and placed them on the breakfast table, then began hunting for spoons and coffee cups. I looked at my watch. "I'm running a little bit late for Mass," I lied.
"Where's your butter dish?"
"I don't have one. Look, Honoria -"
"The oatmeal is getting cold. I fixed it for you. It would be nice if you ate it."
"Sure," I said, and sat down at the table.
She poured coffee, and placed toast, jam, and sugar in front of me, preoccupied, her eyes darting about the room, as though somehow she needed to impose order on it. "Your cat is climbing in the sink," she said.
"Snuggs is his own man," I said.
"You should train your animals," she said, lifting him off the drainboard and scooting him out the back door. "Don't you ever rake your leaves? A couple of days' work and this place would look fine."
"Last night you said the devil lived under the bayou and also inside your father."
"Where'd you get that?" she said, smiling for the first time that morning.
I studied her eyes. They were dark brown, like warm chocolate, possessed of visions and privy to voices and sounds that I believed only she saw and heard. They were the eyes of someone who would never be changed by therapy, analysis, Twelve-Step programs, religion, or medical treatment.
"Do you know what you did in your sleep last night?" she said.
"Nothing," I said.
"Have it your way. I don't kiss and tell," she said.
"This bullshit ends now, kiddo. The Robicheaux Fun House is officially closed. Thanks for fixing breakfast," I said, and dumped my food into a sack under the sink.
She took a half pint of gin from her purse, poured a three-finger shot into a glass, and drank it at the back door, staring in a desultory fashion at the yard. "Have you ever spent the spring in Paris? I fell in love there with a boy who was gay. My father hounded him without mercy. He drowned himself in the Seine," she said.
But I was all out of Purple Hearts and had decided that Honoria was going to leave of her own accord or be picked up by a cruiser. My determination suddenly dissipated when I looked out the front window and saw the Chalonses' handyman, with his son and Sister Molly next to him, turn into my driveway.
"I'm going to talk to some people out front. There's no need for you to leave right now," I said to Honoria.
"Too late, my love," she said. She walked out the front door and down the street toward the Shadows, her purse swinging from a shoulder string.
I stood on the gallery, barefoot, unshaved, looking down at Molly Boyle, my face burning.
"I should have called first, I guess, but Tee Bleu says he knows where the boat is," she said, speaking awkwardly and too fast, trying to hide her embarrassment at my situation.
"Which boat?" I said.
"The one the man with the gun was in. Tee Bleu says it's moored in a canebrake the other side of the drawbridge."
But I couldn't concentrate on her words. "There's a misunderstanding about what you just saw here. The lady who just left has some mental problems. I left my door unlocked and she -"
"I know who she is. You don't have to explain."
"No, hear me out. She hooked me up to my bed with my cuffs. I was trying to get her out of the house when you arrived."
"Locked you in your own handcuffs?"
"Right. I was asleep."
"I didn't mean to intrude. I thought you should know about the boat."
"You didn't intrude. Y'all come inside."
"No, we'd better run. Thank you. It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"
She tried to smile over her shoulder as she got into her car.
Way to go again, Robicheaux, I thought, my stomach churning. "Give me ten minutes. I'd really appreciate it," I said.
I followed Molly and the handyman and his son to the drawbridge south of Molly's agency. The little boy pointed at a boat that had floated into a flooded clump of reeds and bamboo. I waded into the water and dragged the boat's hull up on the mudbank. The boat was old, made of wood, the stern printed with rust where the engine mounts had been removed. There were no tags or registration numbers of any kind on it. "What makes you think this was the man's boat, Tee Bleu?" I asked.
"It got blue paint on the front end," he replied.
"Thanks for telling me about this," I said.
"I seen the gun. I ain't made it up. Seen the man, too. He was old," he said.
"Y'all gonna dust the boat for fingerprints?" his father said.
"It doesn't work quite like that," I said.
The father's half-moon eyebrows gave him a happy look, even when he wasn't smiling. He had a habit of turning his whole head as he glanced about himself, like a curious owl on a tree branch. "I got to make my deliveries. Can y'all run Tee Bleu home for me?" he said.
"Show Dave your birdhouses," Molly said.
"They ain't that much to look at," he said.
"No, show him," she said.
He opened up the trunk of his car, exposing a half dozen or so notched and pegged cypress birdhouses lying on a blanket, each with a wood plug in the roof. "See, the trick is not to get no foreign smells inside the house. I stain the outside with vegetable oil and that way it don't have no paint smell. I got a plug in the roof and a feeder shelf inside so you can pour the feed t'rew the hole and not get no human smells on it. If you stick this house up in your tree, every kind of bird there is gonna be flying around in your backyard. They're t'irty-five dol'ars, if you want one."
Thanks, Molly, I thought.
"I already have one. Maybe another time," I said.
" 'Cause I got 'em, ready and waiting," he replied.
Molly Boyle and I dropped Tee Bleu off at the gated entrance to the Chalons property, where he lived in a small house down by the bayou with his father and mother.
We watched him walk through the shade and around the side of the main house. I could not get over his resemblance to Honoria Chalons.
"You didn't want to take him down the driveway?" Molly said.
I turned my truck back onto the highway and headed toward Jeanerette and New Iberia. "I don't want any more contact with the Chalonses except in an official capacity. About this morning -" I said.
"I believe what you told me. You don't have to explain your life to others."
We recrossed the bayou and entered a tunnel of trees that separated the Teche from a row of antebellum homes that were so perfect in their detail and ambiance they looked like they had been constructed only yesterday. The windows in the truck were down,, and Molly Boyle's hair kept blowing in her face.
"Can you have lunch with me?" I said.
She continued to stare straight ahead. I could hear the truck keys jiggling against the dash, a flurry of leaves sucking across the windshield.
"Do you like trouble?" she asked.
"I don't seek it out," I said.
"I heard you were a Twelve-Step person."
"I'm in AA, if that's what you mean."
"Maybe that's what you need to keep doing and not complicate things."
"I'd sure like to have lunch with you."
She looked out the window at Alice Plantation, the acres of clipped St. Augustine grass and the flowers growing along the brick base of the building. "Can we invite another person to join us, an elderly lady who volunteers at the agency?" she asked.
"That'd be fine," I said.
I could feel her eyes on the side of my face. Up ahead, a black cloud moved across the sun, dropping the countryside into shadow. "Do you have any idea who the man in the boat might have been?" she said.
"Probably just a guy shooting water moccasins," I said.
"That seems kind of cavalier," she said.
"When the pros punch your ticket, they're at your throat before you know it. The guy in the boat was just a guy in a boat," I said.
"I worked at a mission in Guatemala during the civil war. Men with binoculars and guns didn't use them to hunt snakes," she replied.