Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

“I think bad things are going to happen to both of us, Clete.”

“In what way?”

“What’s the expression? ‘Our fate lies not in the stars but in ourselves.’ No matter what happens, I’ll always love and respect you. I wish we had met years ago.” Then she walked away.

He felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of his chest. He stared at her back as she walked to the end of the block, her dress swishing on her hips, her beret tilted on the side of her head. In seconds she was gone, like an apparition that had never been part of his life. He looked emptily at the street and took out his wallet to leave a tip on the table. That was when he saw Caspian Younger stepping into the intersection, after the traffic signal had turned red, crossing the street without looking at the cars, his face knotted with the rage of the cuckold or that of a dangerous drunk who had decided to sail across the Abyss.

As Caspian threaded his way through the people on the sidewalk, Clete could see the weakness in his chin, the petty and childlike look of injury around the mouth, the flaccid and tubular arms that had probably never picked up heavy weights or split wood with an ax, the hands that were incapable of becoming fists that could deliver a blow stronger than a mosquito bite. Caspian Younger had been one who was always shoved down in line, or stuffed headfirst into a toilet bowl in the boys’ room, or bailed out of trouble by his father and treated as an infant by his mother; he was one of those whose dreams were filled with bullies at whom he flailed his fists while they laughed in his face. He was also the kind who would pull a .25 auto from his pocket and park one between your eyes before you ever saw it coming.

Clete remained seated, raising one hand gently, avoiding eye contact. “Whoa,” he said.

“I warned you before,” Caspian said.

“You got a right to be mad, Mr. Younger. But not here. We can talk about it somewhere else.”

“I’ll decide that.”

“Yes, sir. That’s your right. But no good will come out of this. I say let it slide for now. I’ll stay out of your way.”

“You’re balling my wife and you dare lecture me? Where did she go?”

“Sorry, I don’t know.”

“She’s meeting you at a motel? Don’t tell me she isn’t. I know her pattern.”

“Time to turn the volume down, Mr. Younger.”

“Really? How’s this?” He picked up Clete’s iced tea and threw it in his face.

“I might do the same thing if I was in your shoes,” Clete said. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “Maybe I’d do worse. None of this is on your wife. If there’s one person responsible, you’re looking at him. But I’m asking you to call it quits.”

“Stand up.”

“No, I won’t do that. I’ll get up and leave after you’re gone. In the meantime, I’m sorry for the harm I’ve caused you.”

“I’m overwhelmed at your humility. Is this hers? Must be. Her whorehouse-purple lipstick is on it,” Caspian said. He picked up Felicity’s plastic cup of Coca-Cola and poured it slowly on top of Clete’s head, the crushed ice sliding down his forehead and face onto his shirt and shoulders.

Clete wiped his hair and face again. “She’s a good woman,” he said. “I think you’re a lucky man.”

“You’re just going to sit there, in front of all these people, and not defend yourself? Stand up. I’m not afraid of you.”

“You don’t have any reason to be,” Clete said. “I’m leaving now. Stay away from me. Don’t take your anger out on your wife. If you do, you’ll be walking around on stumps.”

He put on his porkpie hat and walked down the street toward his Caddy, his pale blue sport coat striped with tea and Coca-Cola and grains of melting ice, everyone at the other tables too embarrassed to look directly at him.

TWO HOURS LATER, he called me from the only saloon in Lolo, a biker hangout, one often crowded during the summer, particularly in the run-up to Sturgis. “Come on down. I’ll buy you a lime and soda,” he said.

I could hear music and a clatter of pool balls in the background. “You sound like you’re half in the bag.”

“My mind is crystal-clear. That’s my problem. When my mind is clear, I go into clinical depression.”

“Come back to the cabin, Clete.”

“No, I dig it here, big mon. Right now I’m watching this fat slob with an earring through his eyebrow shoot nine ball.” He took the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, I’m talking about you. That last shot was a rocket. You’re beautiful, man. I’ve never doubted the genetic superiority of the white race.”

“Are you crazy?” I said.

“When did I ever claim to be normal? Are you coming down here or not?”