"That's right."
"Do you think anybody kills one of Balboni's hookers and gets away with it without his knowledge and consent?"
"Except there's a bump in the road here. The man who murdered Kelly Drummond probably thought he was shooting at me. The mob doesn't kill cops. Not intentionally, anyway."
"Maybe he's a cowboy, out of control. We've got rogue cops. The wiseguys have rogue shitheads."
I laughed. "You're something else," I said.
"Cut the patronizing attitude, Dave."
"Sorry," I said, still smiling.
Her eyes looked into mine and darkened.
"I'm worried about you. You don't know how to keep your butt down," she said.
"Everything's copacetic. Believe me."
"Sure it is."
"You know something I don't?"
"Yes, human beings and money make a very bad combination," she said.
"I'd appreciate it if you could stop speaking to me in hieroglyphics."
"Few people care about the origins of money, Dave. All they see is a president's picture on a bill, not Julie Balboni's."
"Let's spell it out, okay?"
"A few of the locals have talked to the sheriff about your taking an extended leave. At least that's what I've heard."
"He's not a professional cop, but he's a decent man. He won't give in to them."
"He's an elected official. He's president of the Lions Club. He eats lunch once a week with the Chamber of Commerce."
"He knows I wasn't drinking. The people in my AA group know it, too. So do the personnel at the hospital. Dr. Landry thinks somebody zapped me with LSD. What else can I say?"
Her face became melancholy, and she looked out at the sunlight on the field with a distant, unfocused expression in her eyes.
"What's the trouble?" I asked.
"You don't hear what you're saying. Your reputation, maybe your job, are hanging in the balance now, and you think it's acceptable to tell people that somebody loaded your head with acid."
"I never made strong claims on mental health, anyway." I tried to smile when I said it. But the skin around my mouth felt stiff and misshaped.
"It isn't funny," she said. She stood up to go, and the bottom of her purse, with the .357 magnum inside, sagged against her hip. "I'm not going to let them do this to you, Dave."
"Wait a minute, Rosie. I don't send other people out on the firing line."
She began walking through the sideyard toward her car, her back as square and straight as a small door.
"Rosie, did you hear me?" I said. "Rosie? Come back here and let's talk. I appreciate what you're trying to—"
She got into her automobile, gave me the thumbs-up sign over the steering wheel, and backed out onto the dirt road by the bayou. She dropped the transmission into low and drove down the long tunnel of oaks without glancing back.
Regardless of Rosie's intentions about my welfare, I still had not resolved the possibility that the racial murder I had witnessed in 1957 and the sack of skin and polished