Pegasus Descending (Dave Robicheaux 15)

“You questioned my boy while I was in New Orleans. About the T-shirt that dead girl was wearing,” he said.

The sunlight was tea-colored through the oak branches overhead, the air cool from the rain, the sky throbbing with the sound of tree frogs. It was too fine an evening for an angry encounter with a primitive, tormented, and violent man. I stepped off the gallery into the yard so I would not be perceived as speaking down to him. But I did not offer him my hand. “Come see me tomorrow, partner.”

“My boy told you I was going to give the dead girl a job waitressing at the track clubhouse. I told you I didn’t remember her name. That’s ’cause I give jobs to lots of kids, particularly ones wanting to go to college. You making me out a hypocrite in front of my family?”

“That’s a term of your own choosing.”

“You cracking wise now?”

“What I’m doing is telling you to get out of here.”

“You told my son this colored kid, what’s his name, Monarch Little, is a badass motherfucker who might put out his lights?”

“I don’t think I phrased it exactly that way.”

“Come over here, Tony!” Bello said.

His son stepped out of the car. His face was bloodless in the shade, his jaws slowly chewing a piece of gum.

“What did Mr. Robicheaux here say to you?” Bello asked.

“It’s like you say, Daddy.”

“He said that colored boy was gonna cool you out?”

“Not in those words,” Tony said.

“He said this kid was a badass motherfucker and was gonna hurt you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My son is lying, here?” Bello said to me.

You don’t argue with drunks and you don’t engage with stupid or irrational people. But w

hen they insist that you are the source of all the unhappiness in their lives and denigrate you without letup, when they stand so close to you that you can smell their enmity in their sweat, at some point you have to take it to them, if for no other reason than self-respect. At least that’s what I told myself.

“You’ve got a lot more to worry about than just me,” I said.

“No, my life is fine. It’s you that’s the problem. I didn’t finish high school or go to college. But I did pretty good. Maybe that don’t always sit too well with some people. Think that might be the trouble here, Dave?”

I rested one hand on the hood of the Buick. I rubbed the finish and the passenger-side headlight molding and brushed away a leaf that was stuck to the glass. “Fine car you have here. Ever have any work done on it? Looks like somebody might have had a sander on your fender.”

He tried to keep his face empty, but I saw my words take hold in his eyes. Tony gazed down the driveway at the bayou as though he had never seen it before.

“I always treated you good,” Bello said. “We both go back to the old days, when people talked French and kids like us didn’t have ten cents to go to a picture show. How come you can’t show respect for our mutual experience? How come you treat me like some kind of bum?”

“Because you lied to me.”

The skin on his face flexed, just as though I had spit on it. I started back toward the gallery, wondering if he was not about to attack me. Just as I reached the steps, I felt his fingers touch me through my shirt.

“That’s my only son, there,” he said. “He’s gonna be a doctor. He never done anything to deliberately hurt anybody, particularly not to some poor girl who shot herself. Why you trying to mess him up? You got colored kids shooting each other in the streets. Why you got to go after my boy?”

But the hand had already been dealt, for both Bello and me and his son as well. None of us, at that moment, could have guessed at the outcome. I heard a flapping of wings above our heads, like a giant leathery bird rising from the oak tree’s crown into the sky. Chapter 8

T HURSDAY MORNING , Mack Bertrand called from the crime lab. “The blood on the Buick headlight fragment came from Crustacean Man,” he said.

“No gray area, no contamination, no dilution of the specimen, none of that stuff?”