A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

I tried to keep my mind blank and not think about the care I was putting into my appearance.

Then I drove down St. Charles to South Carrollton and parked my pickup truck in front of the nineteenth-century building by the levee where Kim Dollinger lived.

Her apartment was on the second floor, and there was a hand-twist bell on the door. I had to ring it twice before she answered, a towel in her hand, her neck spotted with water. She wore jeans, tan sandals, and a white peasant blouse with a pink ribbon threaded through the top. The front of her blouse hung straight down from her breasts.

"Oh boy," she said.

"May I come in?"

She blotted the water on her neck and looked into my face.

"I'm getting ready to go to work," she said.

Her back window was open, and I smelled the draft that blew out into the hall.

"That's not all you've been doing," I said.

"Look—"

"Come on, I just got out of the bag. You can't offer me a cup of coffee?"

She stood back from the door for me to enter. I heard her close it behind me. Through the open window I could see the green of the levee and the wide, flat expanse of the Mississippi and the sandy bank and willow trees on the far side. The living room looked furnished from a secondhand store. Off to one side was a small kitchen with bright yellow linoleum. She sat down at a breakfast table that was located between the kitchen and living room. The legs of the table and chairs were chrome and had rusty scratches on them that looked like dismembered parts of insects.

"Kim, I'm not telling you what to do, but if you've already got the dragons after you, reefer just makes the problem a lot worse," I said.

She crumpled the towel on the tabletop. Her eyes looked out into space.

"What is it that you want?" she said.

"To talk with you on the square, with no bullshit."

"That's it? Nothing else?"

"That's right."

"You wouldn't like to ball me while you're at it, would you?"

"Cut the badass act, Kim. It's a drag."

"I tried to talk with you. You wouldn't hear me."

"I can get you out of this."

"You?"

"That's right."

"A guy with a mouthful of stitches."

"I'm tired of being your dartboard. You'd better listen when a friend is talking to you."

She put the heel of her hand against her forehead. Her skin reddened from the pressure. She crossed her legs and breathed through her mouth. There were patches of color in her throat and cheeks. She made me think of someone who might have been wrapped in invisible rope.

"Have you ever been down?" I said.

"Have I what?" Her mouth hung open.

"Have you ever done time?"