Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)
Page 72
”What's the worst thing you saw in Vietnam, Dave?“ he asked.
”It's yesterday's box score.“
”You ever leave your own people behind, sell them out, scratch their names off a list at a peace conference, lie to their families?“
”Quit sticking thumbtacks in your head. Go public with it.“
”It is public, for God's sakes. Nobody cares.“
”Why do these guys want to kill Sonny?“
”He's a one-man firing squad. He gets them in his sights and they tend to dissolve in a red mist.“
”A good woman cares for you, Moleen. A guy could have worse problems,“
I said.
”Which woman?“
”See you around, partner. Don't let them get behind you.“ I started to get up.
”You're always the wise guy Dave. Try this. Ruthie Jean got her Aunt Bertie to file suit against the plantation. They retained a little sawed-off ACLU lawyer from New Orleans who can tie us up in court for years.“
”Sounds like a smart move.“
”Glad you think so. I know some gentlemen who probably won't agree with you. After they take Marsallus off the board, you may get to meet a few of them.“
”I already have. They're just not that impressive a crowd,“ I said, got up off the stool, and collided into the deformed man. His wood shoe-shine box tumbled out of his hands; brushes, cans of wax and saddle soap, bottles of liquid polish clattered and rolled across the floor. His eyes had the panicked, veined intensity of hard-boiled eggs. He slobbered and made a moaning sound in his throat as he tried to pick up a cracked bottle of liquid polish that was bleeding into a black pool in the wood. But his torso was top-heavy, his arms too short and uncoordinated, and he stared helplessly at the dripping polish on his fingers as the bottle rolled farther from his grasp and left a trail of black curlicues across the floor.
I got down on my knees and began putting his things back in the box.
”I'm sorry, partner. We'll go down to the store and replace whatever I broke here. It's going to be okay,“ I said.
His expression was opaque, his tongue thick as a wet biscuit on his teeth. He tried to make words, but they had no more definition than a man clearing a phlegmy obstruction from his throat.
I saw Moleen grinning at me.
”Racial empathy can be a sticky business, can't it, laddie?“ he said.
I wanted to wipe him off the stool.
The anger, the inability to accept, would not go out of Bootsie's words. There were pale discolorations like melted pieces of ice in her cheeks. I couldn't blame her.
”Dave, she's only thirteen years old. She could have killed someone,“
she said.
”But she didn't. She didn't chamber the round, either,“ I said.
”That seems poor consolation.“
”I'll lock up all the guns,“ I said.
It was eleven Friday night and we were in the kitchen. I had turned on the floodlight in the mimosa tree in the backyard. Alafair was in her room with the door closed.
I took another run at it.
”I know it's my fault. I left the Beretta where she could find it,“ I said. ”But what if this guy had tried to come through the door or window?“