Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“Not by the likes of Sally Dee, I’m not.”

I put my arm around her shoulders again and tried to brush back her hair with my hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, but this time calmly, with her eyes straight ahead. Then she got out of the jeep and stood in the dark with her arms folded and her face turned toward the lake. The water’s surface was black and flecked with foam in the wind. I walked up next to her and put my fingers lightly on her neck.

“It’s no good,” she said softly.

I could not see her face in the shadows. I walked away from her toward my truck. The gravel crunched loudly under my feet, and the wind was cold through the pines.

The next morning was Friday. I was headed back to the other side of the Divide when my water pump went out at Bonner, on the Blackfoot River, ten miles east of Missoula. I had my truck towed to a garage in town and was told by the mechanic that he would not have the repairs done until Monday at noon. So I had to mark off two days that I could sorely afford to lose.

The air was cool and smelled of woodsmoke when I woke Monday morning, and the sun was bright on the lip of Hellgate Canyon and the valley was filled with blue shadows. I made cush-cush for Alafair and me, walked her to school in the spreading sunlight, then sat on the front porch in a long-sleeved flannel shirt and drank another cup of coffee and read the paper. A few minutes later a Landrover with a fly rod case in the gun rack pulled to a stop in front. Dan Nygurski got out, dressed in a pair of beltless jeans, an army sweater, and a floppy hat covered with trout flies.

“I’ve got a day off. Take a drive with me up the Blackfoot,” he said.

“I have to pick up my truck in the shop later.”

“I’ll take you there. Come on. You got a fishing rod?”

His seamed, coarse face smiled at me. He looked like he could bench three hundred pounds or break a baseball bat across his knee. I invited him in and gave him a cup of coffee in the kitchen while I got my Fenwick rod out of the closet and tied on my tennis shoes.

“What have you got in the way of flies?” he asked.

“Nothing really, popping bugs.”

“I’ve got what you need, brother. A number-fourteen renegade. It drives them crazy.”

“What’s this about?”

His mouth twitched, and the muscles in the side of his face and throat jumped.

“I thought I’d pick up some tips from you on how to handle Sally Dee,” he said. “I think you’ve got a first there. I don’t believe anybody’s ever cleaned Sal’s clock before.”

“How’d you hear about it?”

“The sheriff’s office reports to us whenever Sal comes to their attention. A deputy told me you tried to use Sal’s face to repaint the side of his van. I always knew he had some worthwhile potential.”

“He’s got skag and coke in that house.”

“How do you know?”

“A friend told me.”

“Purcel?”

“No.”

“Ah, the Indian girl.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Nothing. She’s just some gal Purcel picked up. They come and go at Sally Dee’s. What’s your point about the coke and the skag?”

“Get a warrant and bust the place.”

“When I put Sal away, it’s going to be for the rest of his worthless life, not on a chickenshit possessions charge. He’d have one of those lamebrain beachboys doing his time, anyway.”

“I spent some time up at the Flathead courthouse. Why’s he buying and leasing up property around the lake?”