Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“I’m sorry,” I said. I wiped my mouth with my hand. “But am I supposed to be impressed?”

“A lot of people would be. His family used to run Galveston. Slots, whores, every floating crap game, dope, you name it. Then they moved out to Vegas and Tahoe and about two years ago they showed up in Montana. Sal came back to visit his cousins in Galveston and got nailed with some hot credit cards. I hear he didn’t like Huntsville at all.”

“I bet he didn’t. It’s worse than Angola.”

“But he still managed to turn a dollar or two. He was the connection for the whole joint, and I think he was piecing off part of his action to Pugh.”

“Well, you have your opinion. But I think Dixie’s basically an alcoholic and a sick man.”

Nygurski took a newspaper clipping out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me.

“Read this,” he said. “I guess the reporters thought this was funny.”

The headline read “CURIOSITY KILLED THE BE

AR.” The dateline was Polson, Montana, and the lead paragraph described how a duffel bag containing forty packages of cocaine had been dropped by parachute into a heavily wooded area east of Flathead Lake and was then found by a black bear who strung powder and wrappers all over a hillside before he OD’d.

“That parachute came down on national forestland. But guess who has a hunting lease right next door?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sally Dio and his old man. Guess who acted as their leasing agent?”

“Dixie Lee.”

“But maybe he’s just a sick guy.”

I looked away at the softness of the light on the bayou. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the knuckles on his hand as he clenched the soda can.

“Come on, what do you think?” he said.

“I think you’re in overdrive.”

“You’re right. I don’t like these cocksuckers—”

“Nobody does. But I’m out of the business. You’re tilting with the wrong windmill.”

“I don’t think killing bears is funny, either. I don’t like to see these guys bring their dirt and greed into a beautiful country. Your friend Pugh is standing up to his bottom lip in a lake of shit and the motorboat is just about to pass.”

“Then tell him that,” I said, and looked at my watch. The breeze dented the leaves in the pecan trees.

“Believe me, I will. But right now I’m fiigmo here.”

“What?”

“It means ‘Fuck it, I got my orders.’ In three days I go back to Great Falls.” He drained his soda can, crushed it in his palm, and set it gently on the porch step. He stood up and handed me his card.

“My motel number in Lafayette is on the back. Or later you can call me collect in Montana if you ever want to share any of your thoughts.”

“I’ve got nothing worth sharing.”

“It sounds depressing.” His mouth made that peculiar jerking motion again. “Tell me, do you find something strange about my face?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Come on, I’m not sensitive.”

“I meant you no offense,” I said.