Jolie Blon's Bounce (Dave Robicheaux 12)

“Oh, Dave, you’re so crazy,” she said, and put her face close to mine and touched my sex with her fingers.

“The doc loaded me up on downers. I don’t know if I’m up to it, Boots,” I said.

“That’s what you think, bubba,” she replied.

She raised herself up and stroked my sex, then kissed it and placed it in her mouth.

“Boots, you don’t need to—” I began.

A moment later she spread her knees and sat on top of me and held me between her hands. As I looked up at her, the light from the side window woven in her hair, all the goodness and beauty in the world seemed to gather in her face. She placed me inside her, then leaned down and kissed me on the mouth again and brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes.

I ran my hands over her back and pressed her down on top of me and kissed her hair and bit her neck. Then, for just a moment, all the pain and solitary rage, all the ugly images that the man called Legion had tried to leave forever in my memory, seemed to become as dross. The only sound in the room was the rise and fall of Bootsie’s breath against my chest and the squeak of the bedsprings under our weight and occasionally a small moist, popping noise when her stomach formed a suction against mine. Then her body began to stiffen, the muscles in her back hardening, her thighs tightening on mine. Her eyes were closed now, her face growing small and soft and tense at the same time. I held her as close as I could, as though we were both balanced on the tip of a precipice, then I felt my sex harden and swell and burn in a way it never had, to a degree that made me cry out involuntarily, more like a woman than a man, and the entirety of my life, my identity itself, seemed to dissolve and break and then burst from my loins in a white glow, and in that moment I was joined with her, the two of us locked inseparably together inside the heat of her thighs, the mystery of her womb, the beating of her heart, the sweat on her skin, the flush of blood in her cheeks, the odor of crushed gardenias that rose from her hair when I buried my face in it.

After I showered and put on a fresh pair of khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, I took my holstered 1911-model .45 automatic from the dresser and placed it on the rail of the gallery, then went into the kitchen and rubbed Bootsie on the back and kissed her neck. “You’re special, kid,” I said.

“I know,” she replied.

“I’ll be gone for a little while. But I’ll be back in time to go to the game.”

“What are you about to do, Dave?”

“There’s not a perp or lowlife or shitbag in Louisiana who would come after a cop with a blackjack unless he thought he was protected.”

“You and Clete are going to settle things on your own?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Clete’s out of it,” I replied, and went out the front door and backed the truck down the drive. Through the windshield I saw Bootsie come out on the porch. I waved, but she didn’t respond.

I crossed the freshwater bay onto Poinciana Island and followed the winding paved road through red-dirt acreage and hummocks and oaks green with lichen to Ladice Hulin’s house, where she sat on the gallery, absorbed in a magazine, directly across from the scorched stucco shell of the place in which Julian LaSalle’s wife had burned to death like a bird caught inside a cage. I got out of my truck and limped toward her with my cane. “May I sit down?” I asked.

“Looks like you better. A train hit you?” she said.

I eased myself down on the top step and propped my cane across the inside of my leg and looked at the peacocks picking in the grass across the road. In the

distance I could see the sunlight on the bay, like thousands of coppery lights, and a boat with a sky-blue sail turning about in the wind. Neither of us spoke for a long time.

“I want to take Legion down. Maybe blow up his shit,” I said.

“You use that kind of language in front of white ladies?” she asked.

“Sometimes. With the ones I respect.”

Her eyes roved over my face. “Legion done this to you?” she asked.

I nodded, my gaze fixed across the road. I heard her close her magazine and set it down on the gallery.

“It ain’t just the beating that bother you, though, is it?” she said.

“I really don’t know what I feel right now, Ladice,” I lied.

“He done somet’ing to you right befo’ he finished, somet’ing that makes you feel dirty inside. You wash yourself all over, but it don’t do no good. Every place you go, you feel his hand on you. He always in your thoughts. That’s what Legion know how to do to people. Every black woman on this plantation learned that,” she said.

I snuffed down in my nose and cleared my throat. I put on my sunglasses, even though there was no glare in the yard, and rubbed my palms on my knees.

“Maybe I should go,” I said.