Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

He didn’t answer. He traced a design on the bed with his index finger, as though he were pushing a penny around on the sheet.

“You grew up Catholic, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes.”

“You still go to church?”

“Sure.”

“You think God punishes us right here, that it ain’t just in the next world?”

“I think those are bad ideas.”

“My little boy died in a fire. A bare electric cord under a rug started it. If I hadn’t been careless, it wouldn’t have happened. Then I killed that man’s little boy over in Fort Worth, and now I been in a fire myself and a young girl’s dead.”

I looked at the confusion and pain in his face.

“I had preachers back home tell me where all that drinking and doping was going to lead me. I wouldn’t pay them no mind,” he said.

“Come on, don’t try to see God’s hand in what’s bad. Look outside. It’s a beautiful day, you’re alive, you’re feeling better, maybe you’ve got alternatives now that you didn’t have before. Think about what’s right with your life, Dixie.”

“They’re going to try and pop me.”

“Who?”

“Vidrine and Mapes. Or some other butthole the company hires.”

“These kinds of guys don’t come up the middle.”

He looked back at me silently, as if I were someone on the other side of a wire fence.

“There’re too many people looking at them now,” I said.

“You don’t know how much money’s involved. You couldn’t guess. You don’t have any idea what these bastards will do for money.”

“You’re in custody.”

“Save the dog shit, Dave. Last night Willie out there said he was going for some smokes. It was eleven o’clock. He handcuffed my wrist to the bed rail and came back at one in the morning, chewing on a toothpick and smelling like hamburger and onions.”

“I’ll talk to the sheriff.”

“The same guy that thinks I’ve got fried grits for brains? You think like a cop, Dave. You’ve probably locked a lot of guys up, but you don’t know what it’s like inside all that clanging iron. A couple of swinging dicks want a kid brought to their cell, that’s where he gets delivered. A guy wants you whacked out because you owe for a couple of decks of cigarettes, you get a shank in your spleen somewhere between the mess hall and lockup. Guys like Willie out there are a joke.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. You tried. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not going to leave you on your own. Give me a little credit.”

“I ain’t on my own. I called Sally Dee.”

I looked again at the roses in the green vase.

“Floral telegram. He’s a thoughtful guy, man,” Dixie Lee said.

“It’s your butt.”

“Don’t ever do time. You won’t hack it inside.”