Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“Dave?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you marry Miss Regan?”

“I’ll give it some thought. See you tomorrow, little guy.”

“Okay, big guy.”

“Good night, little guy.”

“Good night, big guy.”

The next morning I made long-distance calls to Batist, the bondsman, and my lawyer. Batist was managing fine at the bait shop and the bondsman was tranquil about my returning to Louisiana by trial date, but the lawyer had not been able to get a continuance and he was worried.

“What have you come up with in Montana?” he said.

“Nothing definite. But I think Dixie Lee was telling the truth about Mapes, that he killed a couple of people here, maybe Indians.”

“I tell you, Dave, that might be our only out. If you can get him locked up in Montana, he won’t be a witness against us in Louisiana.”

“It’s not the ninth race yet.”

“Maybe not, but so far we don’t have a defense. It’s that simple. I hired a PI to do a background on Mapes. He beat the shit out of another kid with a golf club in Marshall, Texas, when he was seventeen, but that’s the only trouble he’s been in. He graduated from the University of Texas and flew an army helicopter in Vietnam. The rest of the guy’s life is a blank. It’s hard to make him out as Jack the Ripper.”

“We’ll see,” I said. I didn’t want to concede the truth in his words, but I could feel my heart tripping.

“The prosecutor’s talking a deal,” he said.

I remained silent and listened to the whir of long-distance sound in the earpiece. Through the window I could see the maple tree in my front yard ruffling with the breeze.

“Dave, we’re reaching the point where we might have to listen to him.”

“What deal?”

“Second-degree homicide. We’ll show provocation, he won’t contend with us, you’ll get five years. With good time, you can be out in three or less.”

“No deal.”

“It may turn out to be the only crap game in town.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“Maybe so, but there’s something else I’m honor-bound to tell you. We’re going up against Judge Mouton. He’s sent six men I know of to the electric chair. I don’t think he’d do that in this case. But he’s a cranky, old sonofabitch, and you never know.”

After I hung up the phone I tried to read the paper on the front porch with a cup of coffee, but my eyes couldn’t concentrate on the words.

I washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and started to change the oil in my truck. I didn’t want to think about my conversation with my lawyer. One day at a time, easy does it, I told myself. Don’t live in tomorrow’s problems. Tomorrow has no more existence than yesterday, but you can always control now. We live in a series of nows. Think about now.

But that sick feeling around the heart would not go away. I worked my way under my truck, fitted a crescent wrench around the nut on the oil pan, and applied pressure with both hands while flakes of dried mud fell in my eyes. Then the wrench slipped and I raked my knuckles across the pan. I heard the telephone ring inside.

I crawled out from under the truck, went in the house, and picked up the receiver. The skin was gone on the tops of two of my knuckles.

“What’s happening, Dave?”

“Dixie?”

“Yeah. What’s happening?”