Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“He came out and left his card.”

“I hope he’ll be of some help to you if you have more trouble there.”

“Look, Dan—”

“I have another call. We’ll see you,” he said.

I went into the kitchen to fix a bowl of Grape-Nuts and spilled the box all over the floor. I cleaned up the cereal with a wet paper towel and threw it in the trash.

“I’m heading out for work,” Dixie Lee said.

“All right.”

“Who was that?”

“Nobody.”

“Yeah… well, what do you want to do after Wednesday?”

“What?”

“About Alafair. That job ain’t but four hours a day. I can put them in any time I want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“School’s out for the summer, ain’t it? I can help look after her. What’s the best time for me to be home?”

“I don’t know, Dixie. I can’t think about it right now.”

I felt him looking quietly at the side of my face, then he turned and walked outside to his automobile. I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. I locked the house, put the .45 under the truck seat, and drove south once again into the Bitterroot Valley.

This time the black Jeepster was parked right next to the Mercury, and when I pulled into the yard and got out of the truck, woodsmoke was blowing off the stone chimney. Through the front window I could see the woman named Betty drinking coffee with a man at a table in the living room.

The porch rails and the lacquered yellow logs of the house were wet with dew. I stepped up on the porch, knocked on the door, and when the woman opened it I saw Harry Mapes stare at me with his mouth parted over his coffee cup. Then he got up and walked out of my line of sight into a side room.

“Hi,” she said, and smiled with recognition. “You’re—”

“I didn’t tell you my name yesterday. It’s Dave Robicheaux. I’d like to talk to Harry.”

“Sure. He’s here. But how’d you know where I lived?”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I’d appreciate it if you’d ask him to step out here.”

“I don’t understand this,” she said, then turned and saw Mapes standing behind her. “Harry, this is the guy I told you about.”

“I figured it was you,” he said to me.

He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, and a black automatic hung from his left hand. The chain scars on his face were almost totally gone now.

“Harry, what are you doing?” she said.

“This is the guy who attacked me in Louisiana,” he said.

“Oh!” she said. Then she said it again, “Oh!”

“Come outside, Mapes,” I said.

“You don’t know when to leave it alone, do you?” he said. “My lawyer told me you might try something like this. He also told me what to do about it.”