The New Iberia Blues (Dave Robicheaux 22)

“You got a good memory.”

“You never heard of Evangeline. You called me ‘asshole’ and ‘fuckball.’?”

“I was having an off night. You were acting weird on top of it. Sorry about the asshole and fuckball references. You come here often?”

“No,” I said. “I’m waiting on Bella Delahoussaye.”

“The black gal with the magical fingers?”

“Pardon?” I said.

“The way she plays guitar. She’s got magic.”

I started eating. I tried to catch the bartender’s eye.

“What’d you think I meant?” Harvey asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

He saw me trying to get the bartender’s attention. “What do you need?”

“My drink.”

“The bartender here’s got an attitude.” He tapped his knuckles on the bar.

“He’s all right,” I said. “Let him alone.”

The front d

oor opened and a clutch of people came in. In the center was a slender ebony-skinned woman wearing an African head wrap and a sleeveless turquoise and gold dashiki, her body clicking with beads and chains and bracelets. I got up and clamped my hand onto Harvey’s shoulder. “You’re on guard duty again.”

The woman was not Bella. I stopped by Sean McClain’s table. He stood up to shake hands. His friends smiled. “I didn’t know you hung out here, Dave.”

“Not really. Just tonight,” I said.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure.”

“Want to join us?” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Nice seeing y’all.”

I went back to the bar. A soda cup filled to the brim had been placed next to my plate. “Where’d that come from?”

“I told him to get on it. He said he didn’t have Dr Pepper. I asked him if he had Coca-Cola. Between you and me, I think the guy’s got a racial problem. Better eat up.”

“You paid for the Coke?”

“Big deal.”

I looked at the doorway. No Bella. I could feel a sensation like a guitar string tightening around my head. I filled a fork with chicken and dirty rice. It was cold and tasted like confetti. I lifted the cup to my lips and tilted back my head. I felt the Coca-Cola and crushed ice slide over my tongue and down my throat. But something else was in the cup. What had I done? Did I not recognize the smell, the golden glow inside the barrel the whiskey was aged in, the cool fire that lit my loins and caused me to close my eyes with release and surrender, as though a treacherous lover had returned from long ago for another go-round between the sheets?

I set the cup down on the bar, harder than I should have, perhaps more in pretense than in alarm.

“You dig Jack, right?” Harvey said. “He didn’t have Dr Pepper. So I told the guy to give you Coke and Jack. What’s with you?”

“Everything.”