I couldn't follow what she was saying. I started to get up, but she put her hand on my shoulder and sat down beside me.
"It's about Saturday night. Those two children were in danger of falling in the pond and I just stood there and watched it happening. I feel like shit," she said.
"Bravery' and 'fear' are relative terms. What counts is you went after them," I said.
"I have some bad memories about that pond," she said. She bit on a hangnail and stared into space. "I never go inside that fence. You must think I'm an awful person."
But the truth was I didn't want to talk about Theo's personal problems. I stood and picked up the plastic bottle that had bounced off the trash can and dropped it inside. When I sat back down I felt the blood rush from my head.
"Are you okay?" she said.
"I still have bouts with malaria sometimes," I said.
She wore a scarf tied under her chin, the points of her hair pressed flat against her cheeks. "Something else is bothering me, too, Dave. I think I make you uncomfortable," she said.
"No, that's not true. Not at all," I said, focusing my eyes on the bayou.
"That night we had the little fling? We'd both been drinking our heads off. Neither one of us was married at the time. I admit I thought you might come back around, but you didn't. So I wrote it off. It's no big deal."
"You're right, it's no big deal. I didn't say it was a big deal," I replied.
"Then why are you so "
"It's not a problem. That's really important to understand here," I said.
"I'm afraid I've intruded upon you."
"No, you haven't. Everything is fine. Give Merchie my best."
"Will you come out to dinner?"
I pinched my temples and looked down the bayou at the Evange-line Oak looming over the water and at the spire of the old French church, a sliver of moon rising behind the steeple.
"Maybe we can talk about it later," I said.
"Sure. I'm sorry for being here like this. Since my psychiatrist died.. No, that's the wrong word. Since he shot himself I feel this terrible sense of guilt. I've got two days' sobriety now. That's pitiful, isn't it? I mean, taking pride in staying off the hooch for two days, like I invented the wheel?"
"I'll see you, Theo."
She exhaled her breath and I felt it touch my skin. She raised her eyebrows, staring inquisitively into my face, as though I needed to supply the endings to all her unfinished thoughts. Then she seemed to give it up and kissed the tips of two fingers, pressed them against my cheek, and walked out of the cemetery, a solitary firefly lighting in a tree above her head.
In the morning I called a homicide detective at the Lafayette City Police Department by the name of Joe Dupree. He had been in the 173 Airborne Brigade in Vietnam, but never spoke of the war and ate aspirin constantly for the pain he'd carried in his knees for thirty-five years. He was also one of the most thorough investigators I had ever known.
"What do you have on this psychiatrist who shot himself in Girard Park?" I said.
"Dr. Bernstine? It's going down as a suicide. Why do you ask?"
"A woman named Theodosha Flannigan has brought it up a couple of times."
"Merchie Flannigan's wife?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"Her name was in Bernstine's appointment book," he replied.
"You don't buy the suicide?"
"He took two.25 caliber rounds in the right side of the head. The muzzle burns were an inch apart, just above the ear. If the second round was discharged as a spastic reaction, why were the entry wounds almost identical?"
"Any witnesses?" I asked.
"None who could give a visual. But a kid said he heard two pops. At first he said they were a few seconds apart. Then he said they were together. Finally he said he couldn't be sure what he heard. Anyway,
Bernstine had powder residue on his right hand. I'd like to say he was left-handed so my suspicions would have more basis. But he was ambidextrous."
"What's bothering you, besides the kid originally saying there was a time lag between the shots?"
"Bernstine died on a Saturday. The Flannigan woman was scheduled to see him the following Tuesday. But there was no case record on her in his files."
"Maybe he had just started seeing her."
"No, I called Ms. Flannigan. She said she'd been going to Bernstine for six months. Anyway, Bernstine's wife calls me every day and tells me no way in hell he shot himself. Maybe not. But he'd lost his butt in the stock market and rumor has it he was messing around on his wife. So it's going down as a suicide."
"Thanks for your time, Joe."
"You haven't told me what Ms. Flannigan said to you."
"For some reason she feels guilty about Bernstine's death," I said.
"Think she was in the sack with him?"
"If she had been, she would have told you about it. She's a little neurotic," I said.
"I'm shocked you'd know anybody like that, Dave."
The following Monday Father Jimmie Dolan had just returned to the rectory after saying a 7:00 A.M. Mass when the phone rang in his office.
"Hello?" he said.
There was no reply. He heard a streetcar bell clanging in the background.
"Hello?" he repeated.
"Oh hello, Father. Sorry. I couldn't get the bloody door closed on the booth," a voice said.
"It's you again, is it?"
"Father, you've put me seriously in the shitter."
"I think you need counseling, my friend."
"Sir, you're a prelate and hence I believe a man of honor. Can you give me your word you won't continue to interfere in certain enterprises that are fully legitimate and doing little if any harm to anyone?"
Father Jimmie shuffled some papers around on his desk, then picked up a page torn off a note pad. "Your name is Max Coll?" he said.
"The coppers must have paid you a visit.".
"Are you on Canal or St. Charles?"
There was a pause, then Max Coll said, "Now, how would you be knowing where I am?"
"There's only one streetcar line in operation today. It runs only on those two streets. So that means you're not too far away from me."
"You're a mighty intelligent man. But I need to "
"You stay out of my church."
"Sir?"
"You heard me. If you ever bring a weapon into my confessional again, I'll tear you apart."
"Excuse me for saying this, Father, but that is a fucking mean-spirited statement for a Christian minister to make."
"Be thankful I don't have my hands on you," Father Jimmie said, and hung up.
Then he stood motionlessly by his desk, his heart hammering against his chest.
CHAPTER 6
That same evening, Leon Hebert, the daiquiri-store operator who had fired Josh Comeaux, had to handle the window by himself because Josh's replacement had called in sick. Hebert didn't like to work alone, at least not at night. He was a cautious man, both with money and people, and had made his living over the years on the soiled edges of society wherever he had gone. If there was any group of people he understood in this world, it was his clientele.
After he was discharged from the United States Navy, he had owned a liquor store on South Central Avenue in Los Angeles. The profits were huge and, except for the insurance, the overhead minimal. He accepted food stamps, welfare grocery orders, and even Bureau of Public Assistance bus tokens in place of money. After 2:00 A.M. he and a hired man would drive a panel truck down to East Fifth Street and sell eighty-nine-cent bottles of fortified wine, called short dogs, for two dollars apiece to the desperate souls who could not wait for the bars to open at 6:00 A.M.
But Leon Hebert learned there was a downside to running a business in a ghetto. On a warm summer night a white L.A. patrolman tried to hook up a drunk driver and force him into the back of a cruiser. In five minutes bricks, bottles, and chunks of curb stone were being flung into the traffic on Century Boulevard. This was in the era before the
Crips and Bloods, but their predecessors the Gladiators, Choppers, Eastside Purple Hearts, Clanton 14, and the Aranas rose to the occasion and strung fires all over the south and east sides of Los Angeles.
A Molotov cocktail crashed through the window bars and front glass of Leon Hebert's store. The inventory went up like gasoline.
In the riot only two groups of white-owned businesses were spared: funeral homes and the offices of bail bondsmen. The lesson was not lost on Leon. When he got back to New Iberia, his birthplace, he sold burial insurance to people of color, collecting their half-dollar and seventy-five-cent premiums weekly, wending his way without fear through every back-of-town slum in south Louisiana.
Then he discovered the fast lane to prosperity was still available. He didn't have to go into the ghetto to sell his wares, either. The ghetto dwellers came to him, inside a shady grove on the four-lane, their gas-guzzlers smoking at his drive-by window, his ice-packed daiquiris, sweet and cold, ready to go at five bucks a pop.
He should have felt good about his situation, he told himself. He'd saved every cent he'd made peddling burial insurance and put it in a surefire franchise that gave him 60 percent of the profits. He made people happy, didn't he? Why did these damn kids from Loreauville get themselves killed with his cups in their car? And how about Josh Comeaux telling the physician, what was his name, Dr. Parks, teenagers were always served at Leon's drive-by?
Mondays were slow and Leon thought about closing up early. What was it that was bothering him? The doctor? The sheriff's detective who got in his face? He looked out the service window into the dusk and saw blue-collar families leaving a barbecue-and-po'boy place on the corner of the short span of asphalt that joined the east-bound and westbound highways, between which he operated his store. The evening was warm and fireflies floated in the oak trees. He watched the people from the barbecue place getting into their cars and pickups, their children bouncing up and down on the seats. For just a moment he wanted to join them and free himself from whatever presence it was that seemed to cling to his skin like road film.
Three spoiled brats from Loreauville run themselves off the road into a telephone pole and he's in the toilet. There was no justice, he told himself.
A junker car filled with black men pulled to the window and Leon removed six plastic-sealed daiquiris from the ice compartment of his giant refrigerator and handed them one by one through the driver's window.
Leon waited for the car to pull away, but it didn't. The driver continued to stare into Leon's face, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. A passenger in the backseat was smoking a cigarette, the ash glowing in the darkness. The passenger by the right front window held a metallic object in his lap, one that glinted dully in the light from the dashboard.
"I'm not alone. I got a man here with me," Leon said, his pulse quickening.
"What you talking 'bout, man?" the driver said.
The passenger by the right front window lifted a Zippo from his lap and lit a cigarette with it.
Leon let out his breath. "Y'all want something else?" he said.
"Yeah, you ain't give me my change," the driver said.
Three hours later Leon Hebert put his money bag in the floor safe, locked the doors, and turned off the lights. It was a beautiful night. The wind rustled in the trees overhead and the constellations were stenciled across the sky. An eighteen-wheeler passed on the highway, then an ambulance with its flashers on. The ambulance continued on past the hospital and turned onto the drawbridge and the state highway that fed into Loreauville Road, where the three girls had been trapped inside their burning Buick.
Why did he have to think in images like that? He didn't do it, he told himself. That kid who worked for him, Josh Comeaux, had a boner in his pants for the Parks girl and would have let her slam it in the car door if she'd wanted to. Why didn't they put that in the paper? he said to himself.
No justice, he thought.
Someone started a pickup truck in front of the barbecue place and backed out of the parking lot, then headed slowly down the asphalt strip toward Leon Hebert's store, pieces of gravel clicking under the tires.
Leon fished his car keys out of his pocket, then dropped them in the darkness. When he bent over to retrieve them, the driver of the pickup turned into the oyster-shell loop that curved past Leon's drive-by service window.
"We're closed," Leon said, the high beams of the pickup burning red circles into his eyes.
But there was no response from inside the truck.
"Who is that?" he said, trying to smile.
A figure opened the truck door and stepped out on the oyster shells. Leon raised his hand to shield his eyes and squinted into the brilliance of the headlights. "My clerk already went to the bank. There's nothing here for you," he said.
The first pistol shot hit him high up on the chest with an impact like an anvil iron, knocking him backward, the hard-packed oyster shells slamming into the back of his head. The shooter had cut the lights on the pickup and was walking toward him, stooping for just a second to pick an object off the ground. The shooter stared down at Leon, perhaps realizing a mistake had been made, that the wrong person had been shot, that Leon Hebert should not have had a fate like this imposed upon him.
The figure leaned over him, blotting out the sky. Leon tried to speak, but the only sound that issued from his body was the air wheezing through the hole in his lung.
Then his mouth was pried apart and something that was stiff and bittersweet and crusted with dirt was shoved between his teeth and forced deep into his throat. Leon's right hand tried to clasp the shoe of the figure bending over him, to somehow telegraph the plea for mercy that his lungs and throat could not make. At that moment he looked into the face of his tormentor and knew what his final moments on earth would be like. He twisted his head sideways and looked desperately out at the highway, wondering how the world of normal people and normal events could be only a heartbeat away.
No one reported the shooting until just before sunrise, when a tramp who had been sleeping in the weeds by the railway track crossed the road and tripped over the body. Helen Soileau picked me up at my house in a cruiser and handed me a thermos filled with coffee and hot milk. She hit the flasher and we rolled through town to the crime scene.
"You're the skipper now. You don't have to do this early A.M. stuff anymore," I said.
"Somebody has to keep you guys on your leash," she replied.
Her eyes looked straight ahead, her expression flat. We passed a long row of shacks, the reflection of the flasher rippling across the house fronts.
"This isn't a robbery-homicide, is it?" I said.
Cane trucks packed to the top were already on the road when we got to the crime scene, snarling traffic at the intersection by the drawbridge. The early sun was red through the trees and mist was rising off the bayou behind the hospital. Leon Hebert lay on the oysters shells a few feet from his drive-by window, a bullet wound in his chest, a second one puckered in the center of his forehead, a third through the eye. A blue daiquiri cup had been compressed into a cone and stuck in his mouth.
An ambulance and three sheriff's department vehicles were parked outside the yellow crime-scene tape that had been strung through the oak trees. The coroner had not arrived but our forensic chemist, Mack Bertrand, was kneeling beside the body, slipping plastic bags over the hands of the dead man. A small man in tattered clothes and tennis shoes without socks sat outside the tape his back against a tree trunk, his knees drawn up before him.
"How do you read it, Mack?" I said.
"The shooter used a revolver or he picked up his brass. I'd say the wounds were made with either a .38 or a nine-millimeter," he replied. He had ascetic features and wore a clip-on bow tie, suspenders, a crinkling white shirt, and a briar pipe in a little leather holster on his belt.
He lifted the dead man's right wrist. "It looks like there's shoe polish under his fingernails," he said. "My guess is the first round was fired from a distance and hit h
im in the chest. Then the shooter walked up close and put the next two in him point-blank. The victim probably looked up into the shooter's face and grabbed his shoe before he died."
"Why would he do that?" Helen asked.
Mack shook his head. He popped open another plastic bag and with a pair of tweezers lifted the coned plastic cup from the dead man's mouth, then dropped it inside the bag. "Take a look at this," he said, getting to his feet. "There's blood on the bottom of the cup. That means the victim's heart was probably still pumping when the cup was shoved into his mouth."
"Meaning?" Helen said.
"Who knows?" he said.
"No forced entry on the building?" I said.
"None that I could see," he said.
"How about tire impressions?" Helen asked.
"Probably every kind of tire made in the western world has been through here. Did y'all know this guy?" Mack said.
"He moved back here from L.A. He used to sell burial insurance," Helen said.
I looked at the small man in tattered clothes sitting against the tree trunk outside the tape "Is that the guy who found the victim?"
"Yeah, good luck. I get the impression he's a traveling wine connoisseur," Mack said.
I stepped outside the crime-scene tape and squatted down eye-level with the man in tattered clothes. His skin was grimed with dirt and he wore a greasy cap crimped down on his head. Like all men of his kind, his origins, the people who had conceived him, the place or home where he grew up had probably long ago ceased being of any importance to him.
"You were sleeping by the tracks?" I said.
"I fell off the train. I was pretty much knocked out," he said.
"Did you see or hear anything that might be helpful to us?" I asked.
"I told it to that other guy." He nodded toward Mack Bertrand.
"Nothing bad is going to happen to you, podna. You're not going to jail. We're not holding you as a material witness. All those things are off the table Just tell me what you saw."
He wiped his nose with his wrist. "Late last night I heard some thing go 'pop." Then I heard it again. Maybe twice. Then a pickup truck drove off."
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