Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“It’s called libel.”

“It’s called filing a police report,” I said.

“Who the fuck are you?” the other man said.

“My name’s Dave Robicheaux.”

“You’re an ex-cop or some kind of local bird dog?” he said.

“I’m going to ask you guys to disengage,” I said.

“You’re asking us! You’re unbelievable, man,” the tall man said.

I started to get in my truck. He put his hand around the window jamb and held it.

“You’re not running out of this,” he said. The accent was East Texas, all right, piney woods, red hills, and sawmills. “Pugh’s a pathetic man. He melted his brains a long time ago. The company gave him a break when nobody else would. Obviously it didn’t work out. He gets souped up with whiskey and dope and has delusions.” He took his hand from the window jamb and pointed his finger an inch from my chest. “Now, if you want to spend your time talking to somebody like that, that’s your damn business. But if you spread rumors about me and I hear about it, I’m going to look you up.”

I got in my truck and closed the door. I breathed through my nose, looked out at the shadows on the church, the stone statue of Evangeline under the spreading oak. Then I clicked my key ring on the steering wheel. The faces of the two men were framed through my truck window.

Then I yielded to the temptations of anger and pride, two serpentine heads of the Hydra of character defects that made up my alcoholism.

“It was the Coleman fuel for the stove, wasn’t it?” I said. “You spread it around the inside of the cabin, then strung it down the steps and up the levee. As an added feature maybe you opened the drain on the gas drum, too. You didn’t expect the explosion to blow Dixie Lee out into the water, though, did you?”

It was a guess, but the mouth of the short man parted in disbelief. I started the engine, turned out into the traffic, and drove past the old storefronts and wood colonnades toward the edge of town and the back road to New Iberia.

In my dreams is a watery place where my wife and some of my friends live. I think it’s below the Mekong River or perhaps deep under the Gulf. The people who live there undulate in the tidal currents and are covered with a green-gold light. I can’t visit them there, but sometimes they call me up. In my mind’s eye I can see them clearly. The men from my platoon still wear their pots and their rent and salt-caked fatigues. Smoke rises in bubbles from their wounds.

Annie hasn’t changed much. Her eyes are electric blue, her hair gold and curly. Her shoulders are still covered with sun freckles. She wears red flowers on the front of her nightgown where they shot her with deer slugs. On the top of her left breast is a strawberry birthmark that always turned crimson with blood when we made love.

How you doing, baby love? she asks.

Hello, sweetheart.

Your father’s here.

How is he?

He says to tell you not to get sucked in. What’s he mean? You’re not in trouble again, are you, baby love? We talked a long time about that before.

It’s just the way I am, I guess.

It’s still rah-rah for the penis, huh? I’ve got to go, Dave. There’s a big line. Are you coming to see me?

Sure.

You promise?

You bet. I won’t let you down, kiddo.

“You really want me to tell you what it means?” the psychologist in Lafayette said.

“Dreams are your province.”

“You’re an intelligent man. You tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”