Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

I moved quickly up to the edge of the house, the .45 in my right hand. I could feel the moisture in my palm against the thin slick of oil on the metal. The wind was cool between the houses and smelled of damp earth and old brick. The repairman pushed his yellow hard hat up on his forehead, rested his hand on the leather pouch of his tool bag, and started to knock on the screen door. Surprise time, motherfucker, I thought, cocked the .45, stepped out into the yard, and pointed it at him with both hands.

“Right there! Hands behind your head, down on your knees!” I shouted.

“What?” His face went white with shock. He stared incredulously at the automatic.

“Do it! Now!”

I saw his right hand flutter on his tool pouch.

“You’re an inch from the next world, bubba,” I said.

“All right, man! What the hell is this? All right! All right! I’m not arguing.” He knelt on the wood steps and laced his fingers behind his neck. His hard hat slipped down over his eyes. His arms looked thick and red in the sunlight, and I could see the taut whiteness of his chest where the sleeves of his denim shirt were cut off. He was breathing loudly.

“You got me mixed up with somebody else,” he said.

“Where’s your truck?”

“Down the street. In the fucking alley.”

“Because you’re shy about parking it on the street. With your left hand unstrap your tool belt, let it drop, then put your hand behind your head again.”

“Look, call my company. You got the wrong guy.”

“Take off the belt.”

His hand worked the buckle loose, and the heavy pouch clattered to the step. I rattled the tools loose out on the concrete pad—pliers, blade and Phillips screwdrivers, wire cutters, an ice pick with a small cork on the tip. I held the ice pick up to the corner of his vision.

“You want to explain this?” I asked.

“Wasps build nests inside the boxes sometimes. I use it to clean out the corners.”

“Drop your wallet behind you.”

His fingers went into his back pocket, jerked the wallet loose, and let it fall. I squatted down, the .45 pointed at the center of his back, picked up the wallet, moved back on the grass, and shook everything out. The back of his neck was red and hot-looking in the bright air, and his shirt was peppered with sweat marks. I fingered through the dollar bills, ID cards, photographs, and scraps of paper at my feet, and gradually became more and more uncomfortable. He had a Montana driver’s license with his picture on it, a social security card with the same name on it, a local Elks membership card, and two tickets to a U.S. West Communications employees dance.

I let out my breath.

“Where did you say your truck was?” I asked.

“Down the alley.”

“Let’s take a look,” I said, getting to my feet. “No, you walk ahead of me.”

He stayed in front of me, as I had told him, but by this time I had eased down the hammer on the .45 and had let it hang loose at my side. We walked past the garage into the alley. Parked at the end of the alley, hard against somebody’s toolshed in the shade of a maple tree, was his company truck. I stuck the pistol in my back pocket. His face was livid with anger, and he closed and unclosed his fists at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You’re sorry? You sonofabitch, I ought to knock your fucking teeth down your throat.”

“You got a right to. You probably won’t understand this, but somebody is trying to do me and maybe a little girl a lot of harm. I thought you were that guy.”

“Yeah? Well, you ought to call the cops, then. I tell you, buddy, I feel like ripping your ass.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“That’s all you got to say? You don’t blame me?”

“You want a free shot?”