A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

I walked outside to my truck, set the box on the floor, and started the engine. The Latin man came out the front door, got in a TransAm, turned around in a circle, his headlights bouncing up into my face, and headed down the dirt road in the rain. Through the living room window I could see the girl speaking heatedly to Fontenot.

I went back up on the gallery and opened the door.

"You want to go with me, Red?" I said.

"Red?" she said.

"Kim."

"Why not?" she said.

She was quiet for a long time in the truck. The rain slackened, and the moon rose among the strips of black cloud. When we crossed the flooded section of saw grass and dead cypress the light reflected off the canals and small bays like quicksilver. I cracked my window, and the wind smelled of rain and moss and wet leaves.

"You were really a cop?" she said.

"Off and on."

"Why'd you give it up?"

"It gave me up."

"They say you were taking juice."

"Sometimes you get some bad press."

"What do you think about that back there?" she said.

"I think they're going to do time."

"Have you?"

"What?"

"Done time."

"I was in the bag a little while in Lafayette," I said.

"What for?"

"Murder."

She turned her head and looked at me directly for the first time since she had gotten in the truck.

"I was cleared. I didn't have anything to do with it," I said.

"You don't add up."

"Why's that?"

"They could have taken you off tonight. You should have known that."

"I don't figure them for it."

"What a laugh. You sure you were a cop?"

"They work for Tony Cardo, right? They're not going to burn his customers. Are they?"

I could feel her eyes roving on the side of my face.