In the Electric Mist With Confederate Dead (Dave Robicheaux 6)

"I saw you talking to him, then he went barreling-ass down the road like his nose was out of joint."

"Maybe he was late for lunch."

"Yeah, probably. It don't take too much to get Twinky's nose out of joint, anyway. I've always suspected he could do with a little more pussy in his life."

"He's not married?"

"He used to be till his wife run off on him. Right after she emptied his bank account and all the money in his safe. I didn't think Twinky was going to survive that one. That was a long time ago, though."

He used an Exacto knife to trim away a tiny piece of dried glue from one of the motors on his model airplane. He blew sawdust off the wings and held the plane aloft.

"What do you think of it?" he asked.

"It looks good."

"I've got a whole collection of them. All the planes from World War II. I showed Mikey Goldman my B-17 and he said maybe he could use my collection in one of his films."

"That sounds all right, Murph."

"You kidding? He meant I should donate them. I figured out why that stingy Jew has such a big nose. The air's free."

"He seems like an upfront guy to me," I said.

"Try working for one of them."

I looked at him. "You say Julie's at his old high school?" I said.

"Yeah, him and some actor and that guy named Cholo."

He set his bifocals on the work table and rubbed his hands on the smooth blond surface of his plane. His skin was wrinkled and brown as a cured tobacco leaf.

"Thanks for your time," I said.

"Stop by more often and have coffee. It's lonely sitting out here in this shack."

"By the way, do you know why Goldman might be with a bunch of attorneys?"

"Who knows why these Hollywood sonsofbitches do anything? You're lucky, Dave. I wish I was still a real cop. I do miss it."

He brushed with the backs of his fingers at the starch-white scar on his throat.

A HALF HOUR LATER, AS RAIN CLOUDS CHURNED THICK AND black overhead, like curds of smoke from an oil fire, I parked my truck by the baseball diamond of my old high school, now deserted for the summer, where Baby Feet and I had played ball as boys. He stood at home plate, wearing only a pair of spikes and purple gym shorts, the black hair on his enormous body glistening with sweat, his muscles rippling each time he belted a ball deep into the outfield with a shiny blue aluminum bat.

I walked past the oak trees that were carved with the games of high school lovers, past the sagging, paintless bleachers, across the worn infield grass toward the chicken-wire backstop and the powerful swing of his bat, which arched balls like tiny white dots high over the heads of Cholo and a handsome shirtless man whose rhythmic movements and smooth body tone reminded me of undulating water. A canvas bag filled with baseballs spilled out at Julie's feet. There were drops of moisture in his thick brows, and I could see the concentrated, hot lights in his eyes. He bent over effortlessly, in spite of his great weight, picked up a ball with his fingers, and tossed it in the air; then I saw his eyes flick at me, his left foot step forward in the batter's box, just as he swung the aluminum bat and ripped a grounder like a rocket past my ankles.

I watched it bounce between the oak trees and roll into the street.

"Pretty good shot for a foul ball," I said.

"It looked right down the line to me."

"You were never big on rules and boundaries, Feet."

"What counts is the final score, my man."

Another ball rang off his metal bat and arched high into the outfield. Cholo wandered around in a circle, trying to get his glove under it, his reddish-gray curls glued to his head, his glove outstretched like an amphibian's flipper. The ball dropped two feet behind him.

"I hear you've been busy out at the movie set," I said.