“My old man wasn’t. He was just a drunk who figured himself a failure and didn’t know where to put his anger.”
People make peace with themselves in different ways, sometimes being more generous than they should. But you don’t pull life preservers away from drowning people or deny an opiate or two to those who have taken up residence in the Garden of Gethsemane.
“Did you get enough to eat?” I asked.
“No.”
I looked at my watch. “We have time for a refill.”
* * *
CLETE HAD ALLUDED to my childhood experience with a man named Mack. I didn’t argue with him about the influence of Mack on my life. In fact, I don’t think about Mack anymore. Eventually, he turned into a specter who drifted off into the mist, a dirty smudge not worth remembering. But there was never a man I hated as much, and I carried my hatred to Indochina and put his face on many an enemy solider, none of whom deserved to be a surrogate for this evil man. For that reason alone I did not willingly discuss my experience in the Orient, or the deeds I committed there, or the ribbons and wounds I brought home. Evil is evil, and you don’t give the son of a bitch a second life.
AT 10:41 A.M., Helen came into my office and looked out the window on the bayou. She had a manila folder clamped under her arm. “Rowena and Levon Broussard just left,” she said.
“Were they here for what I think?”
“I took her statement. He says he talked with you late yesterday.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your opinion?” she asked.
“I didn’t get many details. Alcohol seemed to be involved. No medical report. What’d they tell you?”
“She and Nightingale went to a lounge. They had four rounds of Manhattans. Then he wanted to show her his boat down at Cypremort Point. That’s where he did it.”
“What time of day?”
“About ten P.M.”
When I didn’t answer, she said, “Not good, huh?”
“I wonder if it’s going to be prosecutable. She’s married. It sounds like a tryst.”
“I pushed her on that. She said she and her husband had a fight and she used bad judgment.”
“Where was her car?”
“At the supermarket.”
“How’d she get back to it?”
“Nightingale drove her. Don’t make that face.”
“The defense will put a scarlet letter on her brow,” I said.
“We won?
??t let that happen, though,” Helen said. “Will we?”
“We?”
She put the folder on my desk.
“No,” I said.
“I’ve got the video in my office. Let’s get started.”