Last Car to Elysian Fields (Dave Robicheaux 13)

I drummed my fingers on top of the chair where my raincoat rested and looked out the window at an oak tree whipping in the wind, its leaves shredding high in the air. Then I picked up my raincoat and left, just as the nurse entered with the letter I had typed at the nurse's station.

"This was left for you, Mr. Vidrine," I heard her say behind me.

I waited five minutes, then reentered Vidrine's room. "I forgot my hat," I said, picking it up from the chair.

The letter I had written lay unfolded on top of his bed tray. He was staring into space, his expression disjointed, like a man at a bus stop who has watched the bus's doors close in his face and the bus drive away without him.

The letter I had typed at the nurse's station read as follows:

Herbert,

Sorry you got your ass stomped by that queer bait we had trouble with at the cafe in Jeanerette. But if you can't deal with a fat shit like that, I don't need you on the job. Take this as your official notice of termination. Also be advised you are forfeiting all fees due on uncompleted work.

Will Guillot

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"Yeah, there is. You want to know about Sunbelt Construction?"

"Yeah, what's up with these guys?"

"They got connections with gangsters in New Orleans."

"That's not real specific."

"Maybe they're selling dope. I'm not sure. But Will Guillot is going to take over the company. He's got something on the old man."

"CastilleLeJeune?"

"Yeah, him. The war hero."

"What does Guillot have on him?"

"I don't know. I asked him once and all he said was, "I finally got the goods on both him and that cunt." I asked him which cunt he meant. He told me it wasn't my business."

"Ever hear the name of Junior Crudup?"

"No," he said.

It had stopped raining outside. The sky was gray, the sun buried in a cloud like a wet flame, the hospital lawn blown with camellia petals. "That's all you got for me, Herbert? It's not too much," I said.

"I'm an electrician. People don't confess their sins to me."

"See you around," I said.

"One time I told Will Fox Run was a beautiful place. He said, "Don't let it fool you. All these places got a nigger in the woodpile." I wasn't sure what he meant, though." He tilted his head inquisitively, waiting for me to speak, as if somehow we were old friends.

So Vidrine repeated a racist remark that confirms what you already knew," Helen said in her office an hour later. "Maybe a convict was killed on the Lejeune plantation fifty years ago. Or maybe not. We didn't find a body, bwana."

"That's the point," I said. "How could Will Guillot be blackmailing Castille Lejeune about the death of Junior Crudup? Guillot has something else on him."

"I'm glad we cleared that up. Now get out of here," she replied.

I couldn't blame Helen for her feelings. The real issues were the murders of the daiquiri-store operator and Fat Sammy Figorelli, and in both instances we had no viable suspects. In the meantime I had gotten myself abducted, gotten deeply involved in a murder case from a half century ago, and had helped bring Max Coll to our community.

As a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, the axiom "keep it simple" was supposed to guide my daily life.

What a joke.