Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

There was an intense, measured look in his eye. Then the moment passed. He pointed his finger at me.

“You can tell the cops about it. They’ll be out to see you. I guarantee it,” he said. Then he walked to the back steps, put his tools back in his leather pouch, and replaced all the articles in his wallet. He didn’t bother to look at me as he recrossed the lawn toward the alley and his parked truck. My face felt round and tight in the wind.

Two uniformed cops were there ten minutes later. I didn’t try to explain my troubles with Sally Dio; instead, I simply told them that I was an ex–police officer, that the DEA had warned me that an attempt might be made on my life, that they could call Dan Nygurski in Great Falls to confirm my story, and that I had made a serious mistake for which I wanted to apologize. They were irritated and even vaguely contemptuous, but the telephone man had not filed charges against me, he had only phoned in a report, and I knew that it wasn’t going anywhere and that all I had to do was avoid provoking them.

“I just didn’t act very smart. I’m sorry,” I said.

“Where is the gun?” the older of the two cops said. He was big and bareheaded and wore pilot’s sunglasses.

“In the house.”

“I suggest you leave it there. I also suggest you call us the next time you think somebody’s trying to hurt you.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that. Actually I tried. Didn’t the handbill man call you all?”

“The what?”

“A guy who puts handbills on front doors. I sent him to the grocery

to call you when I thought my line was cut.” I realized that I was getting back into the story again when I should let it drop.

“I don’t know anything about it. Believe me, I hope I don’t hear any more reports from this address. Are we fairly straight on that?”

“Yes, sir, you’re quite clear.”

They left, and I tried to reorder my morning. When the squad car had pulled up out front, some of the neighbors had come out on the porches. I determined that I was not going to be a curiosity who would hide in his house, so I put on my running shorts and an old pair of boat shoes and began pulling weeds in the front flower bed. The sun was warm on my back, and the clover among the rye grass in the yard was full of small bees. The willow trees out on the river were bent in the breeze. After a few minutes a man’s shadow fell across my face and shoulders.

“The phone was broke. I had to go up on Broadway,” the man said. His clear blue eyes looked down at me from under his cap.

“Oh, yeah, how you doing?” I said. “Look, I’m sorry to send you running off like that. It was sort of a misfire.”

“I saw the cops leave from the corner. So I had me a soda. Everything worked out all right, huh?”

“Yeah, and I owe, you five bucks. Right?”

“Well, that’s what you said. But you don’t have to, though. It was three blocks before I found a phone.”

“A deal’s a deal, partner. Come inside. I’ll get my wallet.”

I opened the screen and walked ahead of him. He caught the screen with his elbow rather than his hand when he came in.

“Could I have a glass of water?” he asked.

“Sure.”

We went into the kitchen, and as I took a jelly glass out of the cabinet I saw him slip both hands into his back pockets and smile. I filled the glass from the tap and thought how his smile reminded me of lips painted on an Easter egg. He was still smiling when I turned around and he raised the slapjack and came across my forehead with it. It was black and flat and weighted at the end with lead, and I felt it knock into bone and rake across my eye and nose, then I was falling free into a red-black place deep under the basement floor, with a jelly glass that tumbled in slow motion beside me.

I woke as though I were rising from a dark, wet bubble into light, except my arms were locked behind my head, I couldn’t breathe or cry out, and I was drowning. Water cascaded over my face and ran down my nostrils and over the adhesive tape clamped across my mouth. I gagged and choked down in my throat and fought to get air into my lungs and felt the handcuffs bite into my wrists and the chain clank against the drainpipe under the sink. Then I saw the handbill man squatting on his haunches next to me, an empty iced tea pitcher in his hand, a curious expression on his face as though he were watching an animal at the zoo. His eyes were sky blue and laced with tiny threads of white light. He wadded up a ball of paper towels in his hand and blotted my face dry, then widened my eyes with his fingers as an ophthalmologist might. By his foot was one of his handbill sacks.

“You’re doing all right. Rest easy and I’ll explain the gig to you,” he said. He took an Instamatic camera from his bag, focused on my face and the upper half of my body, his mouth askew with concentration, and flashed it twice in my eyes. My head throbbed. He dropped the camera back in his bag.

“I got to take a piss. I’ll be right back,” he said.

I heard him urinate loudly in the toilet. He flushed it, then walked back into the kitchen and knelt beside me.

“The guy wants before-after shots,” he said. “So I give him before-after shots. He’s paying for it, right? But that don’t mean I have to do everything else he wants. It’s still my gig. Hell, it’s both our gig. I don’t think you’re a bad dude, you just got in the wrong guy’s face. So I’m going to cut you all the slack I can.”

He looked steadily into my face. His eyes were vacuous, as clear and devoid of meaning as light itself.