The Neon Rain (Dave Robicheaux 1)

I believed him, too. But as I sat in the warm breeze with the drowsy heat of the whiskey working in my head, my concern was not for Clete or an ex-baseball pitcher. I knew that my own fuse was lit, and it was only a matter of time before my banked fires would roar out of control in my life. I had never felt more alone, and I uttered a prayer that seemed a contradiction of everything I had learned back at the Catholic school: Dear God, my higher power, even though I've abandoned You, don't abandon me.

* * *

EIGHT

Late that afternoon I fixed a poor-boy sandwich of oysters, shrimp, lettuce, and a sauce piquante, then drove through the cooling, tree-shaded streets toward the Times-Picayune, where a night editor sometimes let me use their morgue.

But first I wanted to make amends to Annie for deserting her at the houseboat the other night. Afternoon Jim Beam always endowed me with that kind of magical power.

I bought a bottle of Cold Duck and a box of pralines wrapped in orange cellophane and yellow ribbon, kept my freshly pressed seersucker coat on, and strolled up her sidewalk in the dusky light. The air smelled of lilac and spaded flower beds and clipped lawns and water sprinklers clicking across hedges and the trunks of trees.

When she didn't answer the bell, I walked around back and found her barbecuing steaks on a portable grill on a brick patio under a chinaberry tree. She wore white shorts and Mexican straw shoes and a yellow shirt tied under her breasts. Her eyes were watering in the smoke, and she stepped away from the fire and picked up a gin gimlet from a glass tabletop that was set with plates and silverware. The gimlet glass was wrapped in a paper napkin with a rubber band around it. Her eyes lighted briefly when she saw me, then she looked away.

"Oh, hello, Dave," she said.

"I should have called. I caught you at a bad time."

"A little bit."

"I brought these pralines and some Cold Duck," I said.

"That was nice of you."

"I'm sorry I left you the other night. It's something you won't understand very well, I'm afraid."

The light came back in her blue eyes. I could see the red birthmark on the top of her breast.

"The best way to end a conversation is to tell somebody she can't understand something," she said.

"I meant there was no excuse for it."

"There was a reason. Maybe you just don't want to look at it."

"I went after liquor. I was drunk all night. I ended up in a bar on Old 90 with a bunch of sideshow performers. I called up the CIA and cussed out the duty officer."

"I guess that prevented you from finding a telephone for two days."

"I tried to find Bobby Joe Starkweather. Somebody canceled him out in a hog lot."

"I'm not interested, Dave. Did you come by to screw me?"

"You think I'm giving you a shuck?"

"No, I think you're singleminded and you're bent on revenge. I made the overture the other night and complicated things for you. Now you're feeling the

gentleman's obligation. Sorry, I'm not in the absolution business. I don't have any regrets. If you do, that's your problem."

She began to poke the meat on the grill with a fork. The fire flared up and her eyes winced in the smoke. She poked at the meat all the harder.

"I'm truly sorry," I said. "But you're right about my being singleminded. There's only one girl I'm interested in."

I wanted to put my arms around her waist and take her out of the smoke, hold her against me and feel her curly hair under my hands.

"You just can't leave a woman alone in the night, Dave."

I looked away from her face.

"I woke up and you were gone and I thought maybe those defective people had come back. I drove up and down the beach looking for you until dawn," she said.