Jolie Blon's Bounce (Dave Robicheaux 12)

Then I would have sworn his voice and accent actually changed, that it seemed to rumble and echo out of a cavern that was far larger in circumference and depth than his size.

“You’d better leave me the fuck alone,” it said.

I felt my scalp recede against my skull. I got up from my stool, my face suddenly cold and moist in the air-conditioning.

I wiped my forehead on my coat sleeve and picked up my cane. When I did, the man called Legion looked ordinary again, a workingman bent over his dinner, his lips smacking his food.

But my heart was still racing. As I stared at his back, I was determined that whatever fear he had engendered in me would not be one I walked out of the room with.

“This time I’ll give you something to remember. Just so you’ll know what it’s going to be like every time we meet,” I said, and pulled his plate sideways and spit in it.

Clete came into the bait shop on Wednesday afternoon, his hair and eyebrows freshly trimmed, wearing new slacks and a starched shirt and a gold neck chain and religious medal I’d never seen before. “Want to wet a line?” I asked.

“No, not really. Just thought I’d drop by.”

“I see,” I said.

“I took Barbara Shanahan to a luncheon on Monday,” he said.

“A luncheon?”

“Yeah, at the country club. It was full of lawyers. Last night we went to a lawn party on Spanish Lake. The governor was there.”

“No kidding? Who else?”

“Perry LaSalle.”

“Was he at the luncheon, too?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Clete was sitting on one of the counter stools now, drumming his nails on the Formica. He looked up at me. “You saying Barbara’s using me to jerk LaSalle around?”

The phone rang and I didn’t have to answer his question. After I hung up, I turned around and Clete was staring out the screened window at the bream popping the surface among the lily pads on the far side of the bayou. Three long lines, like strands of wire, were stretched across his forehead.

“What’s wrong, podna?” I asked.

“Last night I told Barbara I liked her a lot. I also told her maybe she was carrying a torch for a guy I don’t have much respect for, but if that was her choice, I could boogie on down the road.”

“How’d she take it?”

“She got mad.”

“Her loss. Blow it off.”

“That’s n

ot all of it. She lives in this apartment on the bayou. I’m downstairs, on my way to the parking lot, and here she comes down the staircase. She apologizes. The moon’s up, the azaleas and the bougainvillea and wisteria are blooming. She’s standing there in her hose, her shoes off, her face like a little girl’s. She takes me by the arm and leads back up the stairs again. Dave, stuff like this doesn’t happen to guys like me with women like that. I kissed her in the living room and rockets went off in my head.”

“Uh, maybe you don’t need to tell me anymore, Cletus.”

“There’s a knock at the door.”

“LaSalle?”

“No, some peckerwood who sells magazines and Bibles. His name is Marvin something or another.”

“Marvin Oates?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. A real con man. He’s got this hush-puppy accent and pitiful look on his face, like the orphanage just slammed the door on his nose. But Barbara laps it up, fixing him a sandwich and pouring a glass of milk for him, asking him if he wants some ice cream and melted chocolate to go with it. It was sickening. She said she’d forgotten she’d told Marvin to drop by, which meant I was supposed to leave.”