Jolie Blon's Bounce (Dave Robicheaux 12)

“I see. That was the day Amanda Boudreau died?”

“That was the day. Oh, Lord, this all started ’cause I t’ought I could seduce Mr. Julian and go to college. Tee Bobby and that white girl got to pay for my sin,” she said.

“You didn’t choose the world you were born into. Why don’t you give yourself a break?” I said.

She started to get up, then her arm shook on her cane and she fell back heavily into her chair, dust ballooning out from her dress, her face riven with disbelief at what age and time and circumstance and the unrequited longings of her heart had done to her life.

. . .

I went back to the department and called Perry LaSalle at his office. His head secretary, who was an older woman, robin-breasted and blue-haired and educated at Millsaps College, told me he wasn’t in. “Is this Mr. Robicheaux?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, expecting her to tell me where he was. But she didn’t.

“Do you expect him soon?” I asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” she replied.

“Is he in court today?” I asked.

“I really don’t know.”

“Does it seem peculiar when a lawyer doesn’t tell his secretary where he is or when he will be back in his office?” I said.

“I’ll make a note of your observation, Mr. Robicheaux, and pass it on to Mr. Perry. By the way, has anyone ever told you how charming your manner can be?” she said, and hung up.

After lunch the forensic chemist with whom I had left the ex-soldier’s paper coffee cup

dropped by my office. He was an ascetic, lean man by the name of Mack Bertrand who wore seersucker slacks and bow ties and white shirts and bore a pleasant fragrance of pipe tobacco. He was a good crime scene investigator and seldom, if ever, made mistakes.

“Those latents off the paper cup?” he said.

“Yeah, what did you come up with?” I said expectantly.

“Zero,” he replied.

“You mean my man has no criminal record?”

“No record at all,” he said.

“Wait a minute, the guy who drank out of this cup was in the service. In Vietnam. Probably in a hospital as well. The V.A. must have something on him.”

“The cup was handled by three unknown persons. I assume it came from a takeout cafe or convenience store. We didn’t get a match on any of the latents I sent through the pod. I don’t know how else to put it. Sorry.”

He closed the door and walked away, his pipe stem crimped upside down in his mouth. I went after him and caught him at the end of the corridor.

“Run it through again, Mack. It’s a glitch,” I said.

“I already did. Simmer down. Take a couple of aspirin. Go fishing more often,” he said. He started to grin, then gave it up and walked outside.

I called Perry LaSalle’s office again.

“Has Perry come back?” I asked.

“He’s in a conference right now. Would you like for me to leave him another message?” his secretary said.

“Don’t bother. I’ll catch him another time,” I said.

Then I signed out a cruiser and drove directly to Perry’s office before he could get away from me. I sat on a sofa under his glass-encased Confederate battle flag and read a magazine for a half hour, then heard footsteps coming down the carpeted stairs and looked up into the faces of Sookie Motrie and two well-known operators of dockside casinos in New Orleans and Lake Charles.