The Tin Roof Blowdown (Dave Robicheaux 16)

“Lay off Clete. He cut you slack when he could have destroyed you in front of your wife.”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

I had waded out into deep water, but I figured Sidney had asked for it. “Clete knew you had gotten it on with Natalia Ramos. He could have shown you up for the sorry-ass sack of shit you are, but he’s too much of a gentleman to do something like that.”

“I guess the lesson here is wet-brains hang together. Let me try to line it out for you. I met Natalia Ramos at the video store. She loves movies, like I do. I gave her a job cleaning my office. I also tried to help the junkie priest she was shacked up with. He was a good man, but his cancer kept him on the spike. Tell Purcel he’s even

dumber than I thought he was.”

“You knew Father Jude LeBlanc?”

“You and Dumbo flap your ears down to the state mental hygiene clinic and see if they do brain transplants.”

“Ronald Bledsoe broke into my house. That’s on you, Sidney.”

But he hung up while the words were only half out of my mouth.

The tops of the oak trees in the backyard were denting in the wind, and leaves were tumbling onto the surface of the bayou. I could see children playing with a Frisbee on the green slope of City Park and hear their voices carrying across the water. It was a fine evening, one that should not have been stained by thoughts about men like Ronald Bledsoe. But evil is evil, and it does not depart from our lives because we wish for it to leave. Otis Baylor’s advice about not empowering Bledsoe was right on target, but that did not mean I had to play Bledsoe’s game.

I called Clete on his cell phone. “Bledsoe doesn’t sleep at night?” I said.

“No.”

“What does he do?”

“Scares the hell out of hookers or plays card games.”

“Cards?”

“On his laptop. There’s a bumper sticker from the casino on his car. Maybe that’s his jones. All these guys got one. Why?” Chapter 22

I DROVE TO CLETE’S motor court at two o’Clock Sunday morning. The sky was dark, the trees alive with wind, the lights burning inside Ronald Bledsoe’s cottage. When I knocked, he pulled aside the blinds and looked outside, then dropped the night chain and opened the door. He was dressed in a navy blue robe and fluffy white slippers. He was smiling, his missing tooth replaced by a bridge.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Bledsoe. But I saw your light and didn’t think you’d mind,” I said.

“Not in the least. What a treat.” He looked at his watch. “You’re just like me. A night owl is what you are. Come in.”

The interior of his cottage was immaculate, the bed still made, an open laptop on the breakfast table. “Bet I know what you’re gonna ask me,” he said.

“Bet you don’t,” I said.

“You want to know if I’m gonna file charges against your little girl.”

“Are you?”

“No, sir, that’s not my way.”

“That’s good of you. Can I call you ronald?”

“Everybody does, ’Cause that’s my name.” his elongated, waxed head gleamed under the electric light. He lifted a coffeepot off the stove and began filling two cups, glancing sideways at me. “You want sugar and cream?”

“No, nothing,” I said, temporarily distracted by the images on his computer screen.

“I run different kinds of games on my laptop,” he said. “You like to play cards, Mr. Robicheaux?”

“Call me Dave. I used to go to the track a bit. In fact, it became a problem for me, along with a bigger one I already had.”

“That so?”