Purple Cane Road (Dave Robicheaux 11)

My knees buckled, and a wave of pain rose like a gray, red-veined balloon out of my loins, took all the air from my lungs, and spread into my hands. I fell against the wall, the backs of my legs quivering, the .45 on the floor by my foot, the hammer on full cock.

Andropolis kicked the screen out of the window, placed one foot on the jamb, and leaped outside.

He stared back at me, the clouds etched with purple fire behind his head.

“When your mother died? I hope it didn’t go like I think it probably did. I hope they hurt her,” he said.

He ran through the shallow water across the mudflat toward a distant clump of willow trees. The water splashing from under the impact of his feet had the same amber brilliance in the sunlight as whiskey splashed in a thick beer glass. I sighted the .45 on the middle of his back and felt my finger begin to tighten inside the trigger guard.

Clete Purcel exploded the dead bolt off the men’s room door frame with one thrust of his massive shoulder.

“What are you doing, Dave?” he said incredulously.

I lay my forehead down on my arms and closed my eyes, my heart thundering in my ears, a vinegar-like odor rising from my armpits.

The next afternoon I drove out to the Labiche house on the bayou and was told by a black kid watering down the azaleas in front that Passion was at the café and nightclub she owned outside St. Martinville. I drove to the club, a flat-roofed, green building with rusty screens and a fan-ventilated, hardwood dance floor. The sun’s glare off the shale parking lot was blinding. I went in the side door and walked across the dance floor to the bar, where Passion was breaking rolls of quarters and dumping them into her cash drawer.

In the far corner stood the ancient piano that Letty used to play nightly. The keys were yellow, the walnut edges of the casement burned by cigarettes. Letty was one of the best rhythm-and-blues and boogie-woogie piano players I had ever seen perform. You could hear Albert Ammons, Moon Mulligan, and Jerry Lee Lewis in her music, and whenever she did “Pine Top’s Boogie,” the dance floor erupted into levels of erotic behavior that would have received applause at the baths of Caracalla.

Passion sometimes played in the house band as a bass guitarist, but she had never possessed her sister’s talent. To my knowledge, no one had sat seriously at the piano since Letty had been arrested for the murder of Vachel Carmouche. At least not until today.

“You’re walking with a list, chief,” Passion said.

“Really?” I said.

“You get hurt or something?”

“I’m doing fine. How about you, Passion?”

I sat at the bar and looked at an empty, oversized beer mug in front of me. The near side of the mug was coated with a thick, orange residue of some kind.

“The governor of Louisiana just drank out of that. I’m not sure if I should boil it for germs or not,” Passion said. She wore a white cotton dress printed with flowers. The light colors made her look even bigger than she was, and, in a peculiar way, more attractive and forceful.

“Belmont Pugh was here?” I said.

“He played Letty’s piano. He’s not bad.”

“What did he want from you?”

“What makes you think he wanted anything?” she asked.

“Because I know Belmont Pugh.”

Then she told me. It was vintage Belmont.

His black Chrysler had braked to a stop in the shell parking lot, drifting a dry, white cloud of dust across the building, and Belmont had come through the front door, stooping under the door frame, moisture leaking out of his hat, his silver shirt glued to his skin, a sweaty aura of libidinal crudeness and physical power emanating from his body.

“I’m in need of massive liquids, hon,” he said, and sat with his face in his hands while Passion drew a draft beer for him. “Sweetheart, that little-bitty glass ain’t gonna cut it. Give me that big’un yonder, bust three raw eggs in it, and tell my family I died in your arms.”

She laughed, her arms folded across her chest.

“I always heard you were unusual,” she said.

“That’s why my wife throwed me out, God bless her. Now what am I gonna do heartbroken, hungover, too old to have a beautiful, young Creole thing like you in his life? It’s a misery, girl. Fill this up again, will you? Y’all got anything good to eat?”

He played the piano while she fixed him a sandwich in the café. She put the sandwich on a plate and set the plate on the end of the bar. He sat down on the stool again and removed his hat and mopped his face with a handkerchief. The skin across the top of his forehead was as pale as a cue ball.

“That record your sister cut in jail? She’s a major talent, if you ask me. The minister at my church says she’s a fine woman, too,” he said.