The New Iberia Blues (Dave Robicheaux 22)

“No.”

I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be decades younger. I wanted to be everything except what I was. Unfortunately, at a certain age, wanting something you can’t be or wanting what you can’t have can become a way of life.

• • •

WHEN I GOT home, Alafair and Lou Wexler were sitting in rocking chairs on the gallery.

“Where have you been?” Alafair said.

“I took a walk.”

“How about telling me next time?” she said.

“How do you do, Mr. Robicheaux?” Wexler said.

“I’m solid. How about you?”

“It’s a lovely night,” he said.

“Y’all are going to Arizona on Tuesday?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, rocking back and forth.

“In your private plane?”

“Actually, I rent it,” he said. “I get a corporate break.”

“Is that how it works?” I said. “I think I’ll incorporate my pickup truck.”

“Come in and let’s have some pecan pie, Dave,” Alafair said.

“I have to make a call on a bartender I insulted.”

“You did what?” she said.

“A black guy who bartends at that blues joint on the bayou,” I said. “I told him he should adopt a mop and pail as his coat of arms.”

“You didn’t,” Alafair said.

“I was in a bad mood.”

“Don’t go there,” she said.

“I won’t be long.”

She got up from the chair. It rocked weightlessly behind her. “Please.”

“You worry too much,” I said.

“Can we go along?” Wexler said.

“No need. They cater to a rough trade,” I said. “You know how Louisiana is.”

“Try a couple of ports in West Africa,” he said.

“That’s right, you and Butterworth were mercenaries,” I said.

“I was a security contractor. Butterworth was a degenerate fop.”