"Once Or twice a week. Depends on how many is in town. They keep records."
"Where do you receive your VA checks?"
"What?"
"Your disability payments."
"I don't get them no more. I ain't gone in to certify in five or six years."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause I don't like them sonsabitches."
"I see," I said, then I spoke to him in French.
"I don't speak it," he said.
"I think you're not telling me the truth, Vic."
He dropped his cigarette to the cement and mashed it out with his foot.
"You interested in my life story, run my prints," he said, and turned up his palms. "We were buttoned down when they put one up our snout. I was the only guy got out. The hatch burned me all the way to the bone when I pushed it open. I don't know no preacher, except at the mission. You saying I look in people's windows, you're a goddamn liar."
His breath was stale, his eyes like heated marbles inside his red, manikinlike face.
"Where are you staying?" I said.
"At the Sally, in Lafayette."
"I don't have anything to hold you on, Vic. But I'm going to ask you to stay out of Iberia Parish. If these same people are bothered by a man who looks like you, I want to know that you were somewhere else. Do we have an agreement on that?"
"I go where I want."
I tapped my fountain pen on the back of my knuckles, then stood up and swung the door wide for him.
"All right, podna. The deputy at the end of the corridor will drive you back to Lafayette," I said. "But I'll leave you with a thought. If you're Verise Sonnier, don't blame your children for your unhappiness. They've had their share of it, too. You might even learn to be a bit proud of them."
"Get out of my way," he said, and walked past me, tucking in his shirt over his skinny hips.
I went home, turned on the window fan in the bedroom, and slept for four hours. On the edge of my sleep I could hear Alafair and Bootsie weeding the flower beds under the windows, walking through the leaves, scraping ashes out of the barbecue pit. When I awoke, Bootsie was in the shower. Her figure was brown and softly muted through the frosted glass, and I could see her washing her arms and breasts with a rag and a bar of pink soap. I took off my underwear and stepped into the stall with her, rubbed the smooth muscles of her back and shoulders, worked my thumbs up and down her spine, kissed the dampness of her hair along her neck.
Then I dried her off like she was a little girl, although it was I who often had the heart of a child while making love.
We lay on top of the sheets, and the fan billowed the curtain and drew its breeze across us. I kissed her thighs and her stomach and put her nipples in my mouth. When I entered her, her body was so hot she felt like she was burning with a high fever.
Later, I took Alafair to Saturday evening Mass at the cathedral, then attended an AA meeting. When it was my turn to talk, I did a partial fifth step before the group, which consists of admitting to ourselves, to another human being, and to God the exact nature of our wrongs.
Why?
Because I had gone to Lyle Sonnier's house in Baton Rouge and compromised my faith in my Higher Power. I had let Him down, and by doing so-seeking out the help of a man whom I had considered a charlatan-I had let Bootsie down, too. Even Lyle had said so.
When he had hit the light switch in his kitchen, the chrome, yellow plastic, white enamel, and flowered wallpaper leaped to life with the brilliance of a flashbulb. He took a bottle of milk and pecan pie from the icebox, set forks, plates, and crystal glasses on the table, then sat across from me, wan-faced, tired, obviously unsure of where he should begin.
"We can talk a long time, Dave, but I guess I ought to tell you straight out I can't give you what you want," he said.
"Then you are a fraud."
"That's a tough word."
"You said you can heal, Lyle. I'm calling you on it." I felt a bubble of saliva break in my throat.
"No, you don't understand. I was a fraud. I was strung out on rainbows and purple acid, black speed, you name it, street dealing, breaking into people's cars, hanging in some of those gay places on South Los Angeles Street in L.A., you get my drift, when I met this boozehead scam artist named the Reverend Jimmy Bob Clock.
"Jimmy Bob and me went on the tent circuit all over the South. He'd whip up a crowd till they were hysterical, then he'd walk down that sawdust aisle in a white suit with the spotlight dancing on it and grab some poor fellow's forehead in his hands and almost squeeze his brains out his ears. When he'd let go, the guy would be trembling all over and seeing visions through the top of the tent.
"Before the show he'd have me go to the rear of the line and ask some of the old folks if they wouldn't like a wheelchair to sit in, and wouldn't they like to be right down on the front row? I'd wheel them down there, and halfway into his sermon he'd jump off the stage, take them by the hands, and make them rise up and walk. Then he'd shout, 'What time you got' And they'd shout back, 'It's time to run the devil around the block with the Reverend Jimmy Bob Clock.' "
"Jimmy Bob was a pistol, son. On camera he'd grab a handful of somebody's loose flesh and shake it like Jell-O and say he'd just cured it of cancer. He'd lift up somebody's legs from a wheelchair and hold them at an angle so one looked shorter than the other, then he'd straighten them out" praying all the time with his eyes squeezed shut, and holler out that a man born lame could now walk without a limp.
"Except they got Jimmy Bob on a check-writing rap in Hattiesburg, and I had to do the next show in Tupelo by myself. The tent was busting with people, and I was going to try to get through the night with the wheelchair scam and maybe curing somebody of deafness or back pain or something else that nobody can see, because if that crowd doesn't get a miracle of some kind they're not shelling out the bucks when the baskets go around. But right in the middle of the sermon this old black woman comes up the aisle on two canes and I know I've got a problem.
"She started pulling on my pants leg and looking up at me with these blue cataracts, opening and closing her mouth like a baby bird in its nest. Then everybody in the tent was looking at her, and there wasn't any way out of it, I had to do something.
"I said, 'What's brought you here, auntie?' And I held the microphone down to her."
"She said, 'My spine's fused. They ain't nothing for the pain. 'Lectric blanket don't do it, chiropractor don't do it, mo'phine don't do it. I wants to die.' "
"She had on these big thick glasses that were glowing from the spots, and tears were running down her face. I said, 'Don't be talking like that, auntie.' "
"And she said, 'You can cure this old woman. God done anointed you. It ain't no different than touching the hem of His garment.' And she dropped her canes and set her hands on the tops of my shoes.
"I thought my conscience had been eaten up with dope a long time ago. But I wanted God to take me off the planet, right there. I wanted to tell everybody in that tent they were looking at a man who had gone as low as spit on the sidewalk. I didn't have any words, I didn't know what to do, I couldn't see anything but those spots burning in my eyes. So I got down on my knees and I put my hands on that old woman's head. Her hair was gray and wet with sweat and I could feel the blood beating in her temples. I prayed to God, right up through the top of the canvas, 'Punish me, Lord, but let this lady have her way.' "
"That's when I felt it for the first time. It kicked through both my arms just like I grabbed hold of an electric fence. It made my teeth rattle. She straightened her back, and the pain and misery drained out of her face like somebody had poured cool water through her whole body. I'd never seen anything like it. I was trembling so bad I couldn't get off my knees. Something broke inside me and I started crying. The whole tent went crazy. But I knew, even at that moment, the power had come up through that old woman, through the faith in that old, sweaty, tormented black head. Sometimes in my sleep I can still feel her hair on my palms.
"It
won't work for you, Dave. You came here for magic. You don't believe in the world I belong to. It's going to make you remorseful later, too."
I hadn't eaten any of the pie. I pushed it away from me with the back of my wrist and looked through the side window at the headlights of a car clicking whitely along the dark line of oak trees on Highland Drive.
"What I'm saying is, you gave up on your own belief," he said. "But don't beat up on yourself about it. You got desperate and you came here to get help for somebody else, not yourself. Just go back to doing what you were before. Sometimes you got to hump it a long way before you get out of Indian country, Loot."
I looked down between my knees at the linoleum. I didn't think I had ever been so tired.
"I appreciate your time, Lyle," I said.
He touched the teardrop scar tissue that ran from his right eye.
"Long as you're here, there's something I want to own up to," he said. "The last time I saw you, I tried to push buttons on you. I mean, when I mentioned that stuff about you poking my sister."
"I already forgot it."
"No, you don't know everything involved, Dave. Drew had the hots for you back in college, and maybe she's still got them. But maybe for a reason you don't understand. You're a lot like Weldon."
I raised my head and looked at him.
"You're both big, nice-looking guys," he said. "You were both officers in the war. Neither one of you likes rules or people telling you what to do. Both of you. have electric sparks leaking off your terminals."
I stared into his eyes.
"Growing up, we didn't have anybody but ourselves," he said. "It screws you up. What's sick behavior to one person is love to another. We didn't care what other people said was right or wrong. They were the same people burning us with hot cigarettes or sticking us in foster homes. Weldon and Drew weren't just brother and sister for each other. And I'm not innocent in this, either. But it was always Weldon she loved."
I looked away from the fine bead of pain in his eyes.
"Why do you think I've had three wives?" he asked. "Or why's Weldon married to an addict who hangs on him like a child? Or why does Drew get it on with anybody who's got hair sticking out the top of his shirt? It's like your feelings and your head are never on the same wavelength. Every time you make love with somebody, you get mad at them and resent them. Figure that one out.
"Dave, you've got a lock on sanity. Don't come to the likes of us for insight."
He forked a piece of pie into the back of his mouth and chewed it silently, his eyes never leaving my embarrassed averted face.
Sunday morning Bootsie, Alafair, and I went crabbing down the coast. We tied chicken necks inside the weighted traps, whose sides would collapse on the bottom of the wire bay and then snap back into place with a jerk of the cord that was strung through a ring on the top. In three hours we filled a washtub with bluepoint crabs, washed them later with a garden hose in the backyard, and boiled them in a black iron pot on top of my brick barbecue pit. There was a breeze through the oaks, and the sky had a blue sheen to it, like stretched silk, and white clouds were piled high as a mountain on the western horizon.
It was a wonderful day. I had been to Mass and communion the previous evening, I had done a step on my lapse of faith in my Higher Power, and I had determined once again to stop keeping score in my ongoing contention with the world, time, and mortality, and to simply thank providence for all the good things that had come to me through no plan of my own.
Eddy Raintree, with all the instincts of a mainline con and trapped animal, had tried to trade off information about a hit on Weldon, Drew, and perhaps even me. So far I hadn't talked with either of them about Raintree's possible knowledge of a contract on them, primarily because it was a waste of time; I had already warned them repeatedly about the possible consequence of not cooperating with the investigation, and I was tired of being dismissed as an adverb in their lives.
Also, I didn't take Raintree seriously. Every sociopath or recidivist about to go down for a serious jolt suddenly has access to information about armored-truck scores, judges on the pad for the syndicate, the assassination of John Kennedy, or dope sales to a U.S. vice president.
I would leave Sunday intact, keep it the fine day it was, and let tomorrow and its uncertainties take care of themselves. We drove into New Iberia in the purpling light and ate ice cream under a spreading oak by Bayou Teche and listened to a Cajun band play in the park. I hugged Bootsie and Alafair against me.
"What's that for?" Alafair said, her eyes squinting with her grin.
"I have to make sure you guys don't get away from me," I said.
At eleven o'clock that night, just as raindrops started to splash on the window fan in our bedroom, the sheriff called and said that Drew Sonnier had been found nailed to the gazebo in her backyard.
CHAPTER 11
A neighbor had found her seated on the steps, half conscious, white with shock, her left hand impaled on the gazebo floor with a sixteen-penny nail, a pool of vomit in her lap.
"Hey, are you all right?" the sheriff said.
"Yes."
"She's at the hospital, she's doing okay. At least under the circumstances."
"Who did it?"
"I don't know if you're ready for this."
"The guys from the Garrett killing?"
"Joey Gouza himself. Or at least he gave the orders and watched while two of his goons held her down and drove it through her hand."
"What?" I said incredulously.
"She said it was Gouza. She can identify him, she'll testify against him. Maybe we just hit the big one…. What's the matter?"
"She can make Joey Gouza? How does she know him?"
"All I know is what the city cops told me, Dave."
"What's the motive?"
"Since it's your day off, I was going to send somebody else to take her statement. But I think maybe you'd better do it. Or had you rather somebody else do it?"
He was a good man, but he was basically an administrator and more conscious of the need for professional civility than dealing with realities.
"I'll go on over there in a few minutes," I said. "Besides the neighbor, who was the first person at the scene?"
"I think the paramedics got there first, then the city cops." He paused a moment. The rain was clattering on the tin roof of the gallery now. "They're cutting a warrant on Gouza now. I don't care if he's in the city jail or ours, but I want that sonofabitch in a cage. Nobody's going to do that to a woman in this parish while I'm sheriff."
I was surprised. He wasn't given to profanity or anger. I had an idea that Joey Meatballs was about to wish that he had not gotten involved with the Sonnier family and the rural unsophistication of Iberia Parish.
I went to the hospital, but I didn't go up to Drew's room.
Instead, I questioned one of the paramedics who had brought her in. I sat next to him on a wood bench by the emergency-room entrance while he drank coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. He told me he had been a navy corpsman before he had gone to work for the parish as a paramedic.
His face was young and clean-shaved, and he reminded me of most medics, firemen, or U.S. Forest Service smoke jumpers whom I had known. They were enamored of the adrenalin rush, living on the edge, but they tended to be quiet and self-effacing men, and unlike many cops they didn't have self-destructive obsessions.
"What'd you see at the scene besides Miss Sonnier?" I asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Did you see a hammer?"
He looked out the glass door at the rain falling on the bayou.
"No," he answered. "I don't think so. But it was getting dark."
"What do you think they used to nail her hand down?"
"I don't know. But whoever did it drove it all the way down to the skin. It was a son of a gun to pull out of the boards. I had to press her hand down flat while my partner worked the nail out with a pair of vise grips. She passed out while we were doing it, poor lady."
"Did she look like she had fought with them? Was she bruised or scratched?"
"She could have been, I didn't notice. I was thinking about getting that nail out of her hand."
"Did she tell you anything?"
"She was in trauma. When something like that happens to them, it's like they've been drug behind a car. Maybe you ought to talk with the city cops. They were up there a little while ago."
"I will. Thanks for your time. Here's my telephone number in case you think of anything later that might be important."
"She's a nice lady. She jogs by my house sometimes. She must have got messed up with a bad guy. Maybe they were both drunk when he did it to her. I've seen some bad stuff since I came to work here, but not one like this."
"What do you mean drunk?"
"She must have puked up a fifth of gin and vermouth. There's no mistaking the smell."
I decided not to take a statement from Drew right then.
Sometimes trial attorneys use the axiom "Never ask a question you don't know the answer to." The same is not absolutely true for a police officer, but you do have to know some of the answers in advance in order to gauge the accuracy or truthfulness of the others.
I drove to the city police station and read the report written up by the investigating officer. It was one paragraph long, ungrammatical, full of misspellings, and described almost nothing about the crime scene or the crime itself except the nature of the injury to the victim and the fact that in the hospital she had identified her assailants as two white males of medium height and build and a third white male by the name of Joey Gouza, who had watched the assault from the driver's window of his automobile.
The only evidence recovered or noted at the crime scene was the sixteen-penny nail.
Drew's house was dark and the rain was slanting through the trees as I walked through her side yard with a six-battery flashlight. I squatted down on the floor of the gazebo and shined the bearn on the planks by the top of the steps. They were smeared with miniature horsetails of dried blood, and one was centered with a blond nail hole. I walked back into the rain and searched in the myrtle bushes around the gazebo. The light flicked across a pop bottle impacted with dirt, two broken bricks, and what looked like a shattered slat from an apple crate that lay propped against some myrtle branches at the base of the gazebo.
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