He put his vehicle in reverse and almost drove over my foot, then floored the accelerator and bent down on the wheel like an albino ape. As I watched him drive away in the darkness, the blue-dot brake lights coming on at the drawbridge, I felt I was witnessing the end of an era or perhaps the end of innocence in our lives. For the first time, I truly understood why the music of Johnny Shondell and Isolde Balangie laid such a large claim on our souls.
* * *
ON SUNDAY HELEN told reporters from The Daily Iberian, The Daily Advertiser, and The Associated Press that the death of Delmer Pickins was being investigated as a hit-and-run homicide and that Pickins, a former inmate of Huntsville Penitentiary, was in all probability fleeing the scene of an assault on a local priest when he was struck by a vehicle traveling at high speed. The violence of the impact indicated the vehicle was a large one, perhaps a truck.
Two days later, Mark Shondell and a houseguest, a Central American army general who may have been involved in the murder of Archbishop Óscar Romero, were having breakfast by the pool when a sniper locked down on them from across the bayou and let off three rounds. The first splattered a decanter of tomato juice on the white tablecloth; the second clipped off the general’s right index finger; and the third popped through Shondell’s blue silk kimono as he was racing for the safety of the house, with no injury to Shondell.
As soon as we got the 911, I called Clete’s cell phone, which went immediately to voicemail. I also called his office in New Iberia and his office in the French Quarter. Both receptionists told me he was out of town, perhaps fishing in the Florida Keys. Or Biloxi. Or Kemah over in Texas. “You know how Mr. Clete is,” the receptionist in New Iberia said.
“No, I don’t know how Mr. Clete is,” I said. “Can you tell me?”
“He goes here, he goes there. You never know where he’s at. Want to leave a message?”
There is nothing like life in southern Louisiana.
At noon I called Penelope Balangie at her home on Lake Pontchartrain. That probably does not seem a wise thing to have done. But I had no doubt about the identity of the shooter on the bayou. Clete was a dead shot. That the shooter had fired three times without mortally wounding his target suggested either an amateur or a pro. I believed it was the latter. My only doubt had to do with Clete’s intention.
“Is that you, Dave?” Penelope said.
Her voice had an effect on me I wasn’t expecting. You remember what it was like after you had a fling or a romance or even a marriage and you thought it was over, that it was better for both of you to part, that after a kiss or a handshake or even a last go-round in the sack you’d say goodbye and remain friends, then you’d see her or him walking down a street or getting on the elevator unexpectedly with you, and your heart would drop and your mouth would go dry and you knew that in fifteen minutes you were going to be out of breath and pawing at her or his clothes as well as yours, knowing you were back on the dirty boogie and about to get it on in serious fashion.
“How you doin’, Pen?” I said.
“Not bad. How about you?”
“We’ve had a few troubles over here,” I said. “Somebody shot at Mark Shondell this morning. That means he’s going to go full out in his war against us.”
“Who is ‘us’?”
“That depends. I’m wondering if Adonis might help Shondell by parking one between my shoulder blades.”
“Adonis wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah? Johnny Shondell said you bear me ill will.”
“That isn’t true. Do you know where Johnny is?” she said.
“He said he and Isolde were going to Nashville to cut a Hank Williams tribute record.”
“They left Nashville on a rented plane. Johnny has a pilot’s license. No one knows where they are. I’m very worried. Mark Shondell won’t rest until he ruins Isolde’s life.”
“Why did you ever turn her over to him?” I asked.
“Because I was a fool,” she said.
“Maybe she’ll call. She and Johnny are kids. They don’t know what parental worry is like.”
There was a silence. Then she said, “There’s still a chance for us, Dave.”
I had to get out of my discussion with her. She was beautiful and educated and smelled like the ocean or perhaps a mermaid and a garden full of flowers when she made love. “Is Mark Shondell mixed up with white supremacists?”
“He’s an elitist. He looks down on them.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” I said.
“He uses them.”
“Gideon saved the life of Father Julian.”