Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“The judge’s already gone home or the sheriff could ask him to let you out on your own recognizance. We’ll see what we can do tomorrow.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You came all the way up here from Louisiana to stomp Sally Dio’s ass?”

“It sort of worked out that way.”

“You sure picked on one bad motherfucker. I think you’d be better off if you’d blown out his light altogether.”

For supper I ate a plate of watery lima beans and a cold Spam sandwich and drank a can of Coca-Cola. It was dark outside the window now, and the other deputy went home. I sat in the gloom on the wood bench and opened and closed my hands. They felt thick and stiff and sore on the knuckles. Finally the Indian looked at his watch.

“I left a message for the judge at his house. He didn’t call back,” he said. “I got to take you upstairs.”

“It’s all right.”

As he took the keys to the cell out of his desk drawer his phone rang. He nodded while he listened, then hung up.

“You got the right kind of lady friend,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re cut loose. Your bail’s your fine, too. You ain’t got to come back unless you want to plead not guilty.”

He turned the key in the iron lock, and I walked down the wood-floored corridor toward the lighted entrance that gave onto the parking lot. She stood under the light outside, dressed in blue jeans and a maroon shirt with silver flowers stitched on it. Her black hair was shiny in the light, and she wore a deerskin bag on a string over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you back to your truck,” she said.

“Where’s Clete?”

“Up at Sal’s.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“I guess he does. I don’t hide anything from him.”

“Nothing?” I said.

She looked at me and didn’t answer. We walked toward her jeep in the parking lot. The sheen on her hair was like the purple and black colors in a crow’s wing. We got in and she started the engine.

“What’s China pearl?” she asked.

“High-grade Oriental skag. Why?”

“You knocked out one of Sal’s teeth. They gave him a shot of China pearl for the pain. You must have been trying to kill him.”

“No.”

“Oh? I saw his face. There’re bloody towels all over his living room rug.”

“He dealt it, Darlene. He’s a violent man and one day somebody’s going to take him out.”

“He’s a violent man? That’s too much.”

“Listen, you’re into some kind of strange balancing act with these people. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s crazy. Clete said he met you when you drove Dixie Lee all the way back to Flathead from a reservation beer joint. Why would you do that for Dixie Lee?”

“He’s a human being, isn’t he?”

“He’s also barroom furniture that usually doesn’t get hauled across the mountains by pretty Indian girls.”