Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

“I don’t know. He likes casinos and attractive women and working people who think he’s one of their own.” She looked into space. “I remember something a woman said at a party once, like, ‘Jimmy would be the perfect man if he hadn’t tried to be like his father. He shouldn’t have done that to those poor people.’?”

“Poor like sad or economic?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Don’t be fooled, Dave. He’s a chameleon.”

“Can you check out some of this stuff?” I said. “If you’re not doing anything else.”

“I don’t mind. Why don’t you copyedit my new book while I do that?”

* * *

FROM THE OFFICE, I called Levon’s home and was told by the maid that he was at a bowling alley on East Main. It was a five-minute drive. Most of the lanes were empty. Levon was bowling by himself, his sleeves rolled. I walked up behind him and sat down. He curved the ball beautifully into the pocket and exploded the pins with much more force than I associated with him. A bottle of beer was perched next to the score sheet. The time was 9:13 A.M.

“I didn’t know you were an enthusiast,” I said.

“It beats analysis.”

“Emmeline Nightingale came to my house last night.”

“Here we go.”

“Nope. I’ll make it short. She says your wife was assaulted by two men twenty years ago in Kansas.”

“She’s a charming girl, isn’t she? And you’re a son of a bitch.”

“I didn’t make up the information. It’s part of the record. Maybe it’s time you start dealing with reality.”

“How is one assault related to the other?”

“In reality, it’s not. The courtroom is a different matter. Why didn’t you square with me?”

“Run the tape backward. I told you she has nightmares about a black man’s hand coming through a window.”

“I asked you about that at the time, and you changed the subject.”

He sat down behind the score table and took a swig from the beer bottle. There were no entries on his score sheet. “How bad is this going to hurt us?”

“Nightingale’s lawyers will use your wife’s history and her suicide attempt or her nationality or her life in Latin America or whatever bogus issue they can think up to bias the jury in his favor.”

“You really know how to say it.”

“What happened in Wichita?”

“The ADA was going to run for district attorney. She didn’t want to be perceived as a dupe for a white woman who willingly left a bar with two black men and went willingly to their house. That she was trusting and young was thrown out the window.”

“How’s Miss Rowena now?”

“There’re mornings I have to be by myself.”

He took another hit off the bottle. I clinked it with my fingernail. “If you’re depressed, this will screw you up proper.”

“I’m glad to hear that from such a great source of wisdom on the subject.”

I’d asked for it. “If I were you, I’d get together with my attorney and go to the department and make an addendum to my statement. See you around.”

“What does ‘see you around’ mean?”

“Let the dead bury the dead,” I said. “I’m done.”