He raised his eyes to mine. If there’s a hell, I believe I could have reached out and touched its heat on his cheek.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE NEXT DAY was Saturday. I woke in the blueness of the dawn to a sound that I thought came from a dream. In the dream, Negro convicts of years ago were laying track on a railroad line outside Angola Farm. They were wearing ankle chains and driving steel spikes through the rails into the railroad bed, their hammers ringing in three-four time.
I sat up and looked out the back window. Lou Wexler, stripped to the waist, his shirt hanging on a camellia bush, was tossing horseshoes at a steel spike he had obviously driven into the ground without asking. I put on my khakis and a sweatshirt and went outside. “Do you invite yourself into everyone’s backyard at six in the morning, or are we just lucky?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m supposed to pick up Alafair at six-fifteen and I arrived a little early. She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“We’re having breakfast at Victor’s.”
“What does that have to do with waking up other people? I don’t want a horseshoe pit in my yard, either.”
“Felicitously noted, sir.”
“Felicitously?”
He turned his head sideways, grinning. “We’re filming a plane crash at Lake Martin later in the day. Exciting stuff. Why not come out?”
“Thank you. All booked up.”
“At heart I th
ink you’re one of us.”
“Say again?”
He offered me a stick of gum. I shook my head. He stuck one into his mouth as though we had all the time in the world. He seemed to wear sensuality like a uniform. His body had the same smooth tone and flat stomach and small nipples as Desmond’s; his armpits were shaved, his upper arms swollen like those of a gymnast. Mon Tee Coon and Snuggs stared down at us from an oak limb overhead.
“You said I’m like one of you.”
“Oh,” he said. “You obviously love movies. The same with Mr. Purcel. We’re not a bad lot. Give us a chance. We’re making this area rich.”
“I don’t see that.”
“We blew the budget out the window. One hundred and twenty million dollars, and the meter is still running. Desmond is broke. By the way, on the subject of Des, you sure got to him.”
“In what way?” I said.
“Something to do with his background, I guess. Des is full of secrets. I don’t probe them.”
“Any discussion I had with him was about a series of homicides. Nothing else.”
“I’m sure that’s the case, Mr. Robicheaux. Sir, it’s not my intention to offend. The culture I live in is garish and abrasive by nature. We spend our time diddling each other to keep our minds off other things.”
“What would those others things be?”
“Growing old. Watching our looks dissolve. Pretending we can reclaim our youth. Is there any fool like an old fool, sir?” he said.
“Who are you talking about, podna?”
“Me. Who else?” He picked up a horseshoe and flipped it thirty feet onto the steel pin, his movements as fluid as water. “Bingo! Is Alafair up?”
• • •
THIRTY MINUTES AFTER they were gone, the phone rang on the kitchen counter. I looked at the caller ID. The caller’s number was blocked, but I answered anyway. “Dave Robicheaux. Who is this?”