A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“Those ‘guys’ are Nazis. A better question is why are you hanging with a fraud like Eddy Firpo?”

“Eddy’s not a bad guy.”

“So why would he have Nazis around?”

“Takes all kinds?”

“You’re a good kid, Johnny. Don’t degrade yourself.”

“That hurts my feelings, Mr. Dave.”

A shaft of sunlight shone on one side of his face; the other side was buried in shadow.

“How’s Isolde?” I asked.

“All right.” He set down the chrome container and looked at the marks his fingers had left on the coldness of its surface. “I mean I’m guessing she’s all right.”

“She’s back in New Orleans?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So where is she?”

“Can I order you an ice cream soda or a malt?”

“Did you take her to your uncle’s house?” I said.

“Ask Uncle Mark.”

“I don’t get along with him. So I’m asking you.”

Three teenage girls came in, the bell ringing above their heads. They began giggling as soon as they saw Johnny. He folded his hands tightly and put them between his legs. “There’s lots of secrets in my family, Mr. Dave. Maybe our ways are strange to others, but that’s the way it is.”

“Whoever taught you that is an idiot, Johnny. Where’s Isolde?”

“I’m staying at the house alone. My uncle Mark is gone. That’s all I can tell you.” Half his face remained in shadow.

“You’ll have to do better than that. Look at me.”

“No.”

“Who hit you?”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“Your uncle struck your face? For what? You sassed him?”

“A little more serious than that.”

“It doesn’t matter. No adult of conscience would strike a young person in the face.”

“A guy gave me some purple acid. I’d never done it before. I took some and gave the rest to Isolde.”

“You gave her LSD?”

His face reddened, causing the welt on his cheek to stand out like a piece of white bone. “I didn’t think.”

“What happened?” I asked.