Purple Cane Road (Dave Robicheaux 11)

“What’s going on, Dave?” Bootsie said in the kitchen.

“It was Remeta. I tried to take him down in the library. He got away.”

The phone rang. I heard Alafair walking toward the extension that was in the hallway by her room. I picked up the receiver off the wall hook in the kitchen, my heart beating.

“Hello?” I said.

“You came after me like I was a germ,” Remeta said.

“How’d you get this number?” I said.

“What do you care? I got it.”

“You stay the fuck away from my daughter,” I said.

“What’s with you? Don’t talk to me like that.”

My temples were hammering, the inside of my shirt cold with sweat, my breath sour as it bounced off the receiver.

“So far I’ve got nothing against you personally. Drag your crazy bullshit into my family life, you’ll wish you were still somebody’s hump back in Raiford.”

I could hear his breath on the phone, almost a palpable physical presence, like an emery cloth brushing across the receiver.

When he spoke again, his voice was not the same. It came out of a barrel, dipped in blackness, the youthful face dissolving in my mind’s eye.

His words were slow and deliberate, as though he were picking them one by one out of a cardboard box. “You’re not a smart man, after all, Mr. Robicheaux. But I got an obligation to you. That makes you … a lucky man. Word of caution, sir. Don’t mess with my head,” he said.

There was a click in his throat, then an exhalation of breath like a damp match flaring to life.

19

A week and a half went by and I heard nothing else from Johnny Remeta or about Axel Jennings or Micah the chauffeur or Jim and Cora Gable, and I began to feel that perhaps they would simply disappear from my life.

But my conclusions were about as wise as those of a man floating down a wide, flat stream on a balmy day, when the mind does not want to listen to the growing sounds of water cascading over a falls just beyond a wooded bend.

“You ought to go easy on the flak juice, hon,” Cherry Butera said to him.

Axel Jennings sat at the kitchen table in an undershirt and camouflage pants and house slippers without socks, a bottle of tequila and a sliced lime on a saucer in front of him. He poured into a jigger and knocked it back and licked salt from between his thumb and index finger and sucked on the lime. His shoulders were as dark as mahogany, hard and knobbed along the ridges, the skin taut and warm and smooth and sprinkled with sun freckles. He wasn’t a handsome man, not in the ordinary sense, but he had beautiful skin and she loved to touch it and to feel that she was pressing his power and hardness inside her when she spread her fingers across his shoulders and ran them down to the small of his back.

The barmaids she worked with said she could do a lot better. They said Axel had a violent history. They should talk. Their boyfriends hit them, hung paper and cadged drinks at the bar, and usually had somebody on the side. He killed those guys in the line of duty; that’s what cops got paid to do. Besides, he didn’t talk about that part of his life, and the people he hurt deserved it. Nobody came on to her or treated her disrespectfully when she was with Axel.

But it had sure gone south since Jimmy Burgoyne got killed out by the Atchafalaya. Axel brooded all the time, like he was responsible for Jimmy getting killed. Now there was even a worse problem, and she didn’t have an answer for it, either.

“Drinking don’t hurt anything,” he said. “A man decides how much he takes out of the bottle. Then he puts the cork in it. He controls the situation. That’s what my dad said.”

He had taken off his bandages and lain out in the backyard in his Jockey undershorts with a wet washcloth rolled across his eyes and talked for a half hour on his remote phone to another cop. When he came in he started up all his electric trains and poured himself a drink and didn’t replace his bandages. The collective hum of the electric trains made the house

reverberate like an enormous sewing machine.

“Maybe I’d better be getting home. I mean, so’s you can rest,” she said.

“Come over here,” he said.

He extended his hand toward her, waiting for her to take it and sit on his lap. She placed her fingers in his, but remained standing, her vision fixed so his face did not come into focus.

“The doctor says you got to take care of yourself,” she said.

“You got a problem with this, Cherry?” he said, lifting one finger toward his face.