Pegasus Descending (Dave Robicheaux 15)

I got up to go.

“You still interested in somebody who might have done a hit-and-run last year sometime?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“Friend of mine up the bayou got a li’l shop in his backyard. Last summer a man brung a big Buick in there wit’ the headlight knocked in and the right fender scratched up. Said he hit a deer. Said he heard my friend done real fine work and he didn’t feel like paying the Buick dealer a lot of money when my friend could do the job just as good.”

“Who was the guy?”

Monarch looked up at me and let his eyes hold on mine. “You gonna t’ink I set it up.”

“Who was it, Monarch?”

“Better go out to my friend’s place and ax him yourself.”

space

THE FRIEND’S AUTO REPAIR BUSINESS was conducted in a pole shed behind an ancient, rust-leaking trailer that sagged on cinder blocks, just outside St. Martinville. The sun was down in the sky now, red and dust-veiled above a line of live oaks on the opposite side of Bayou Teche. The air was breathless, the clouds crackling with electricity in the south. Monarch’s friend was one of the most unusual-looking human beings I had ever seen. He was an albino, with negroid features and gold hair and pink-tinted eyes, his entire body encased in long-sleeved coveralls zipped to the throat. He had been working next to a gas-fired forge. I couldn’t imagine what the temperature was like inside his clothes, but he grinned constantly just the same, as though a grin were the only expression he knew. He seemed delighted at my visit. I had the feeling he was one of those rare individuals who genuinely loves life and has no issue with the world or grievance against his fellow man, regardless of what they may have done or not done to him.

“Your name is Prospect Desmoreau?” I said.

“That’s me,” he said. But like every other mismatched element in his makeup, his accent didn’t fit. It was genuine peckerwood, a yeoman dialect that runs through the pine forests and plains from West Virginia into West Texas, one that probably goes back to the early days of the Republic. “Hep you with something?”

“Monarch Little said a man brought you a Buick last summer that had been damaged from a collision with a deer.”

“He sure did. I fixed it good as new, too.”

“Did this man act hinky to you?”

“No, suh.”

“What was this fellow’s name?”

Prospect Desmoreau looked at the wind ruffling the bayou, an amber blaze of late sunlight on its surface. But no matter where his eye traveled, he never stopped grinning. “Mr. Bello brought it in,” he said.

“Bellerophon Lujan?”

“Yes, suh. He give me a twenty-dollar tip.”

“Where was the damage?”

“Passenger-side fender, passenger-side headlight.”

“Did you see any material on the car body that indicated Mr. Bello hit a deer? Hair, a piece of antler embedded in the headlight?”

“Looked to me like somebody had already hosed it down and wiped it off. People do that sometimes when they plow into livestock and such. You looking for somebody done a hit-and-run on a pedestrian?”

“That pretty well sums it up, Prospect.”

“There was blood inside the headlight glass. I didn’t see no deer hair, though. Least none I remember. Don’t mean wasn’t none there.”

“There’s no way you saved the headlight glass, huh?” I said, putting my notebook back in my shirt pocket.

“You want to look at it?”

“Sir?”

“I got a pileful of trash and junk on the other side of the barn. ’Bout every two years I haul it to the dump. I know right where that glass is at, ’cause I seen it just the other day when I was hunting around in the pile for a radio speaker I pulled out of a ’fifty-five Chevy.”