Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

“You got a mouth on you, you know that?”

“You have some sunblock?” she asked.

“Under the seat.”

She retrieved a bottle of lotion and unscrewed the cap and began rubbing it on her calves and knees and the tops of her thighs. Then she spread it on her face and the back of her neck and her throat and the top of her chest. Clete opened up the throttle, cutting a trough across the bay, heading southeast toward open water. In the distance, he could see a line of black clouds low on the horizon, electricity forking silently into the water. He made a wide arc until he entered a long flat stretch between the swells. Then he cut the engine and let the boat slide forward on its own wake. “There’s a school of white trout right underneath us,” he said.

“That’s not why we’re here, is it?” she said.

“Not really.”

“What are the coffee cans for?”

“You see how calm the water is here? It’s because of the shift in the tides. High tide was two hours ago. The tide is on its way back out.” He opened the garbage bag and lifted out three capped coffee cans and set them one by one in the water. “We’re going to see where these guys drift.”

“Did you ever think about making movies?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“No, I mean it. You’re always thinking. You could be a better movie director than most of the guys around now. I read this article in Vanity Fair on how easy it is to make a successful movie today. You sign on Vin Diesel or any guy with a voice like a rust clot in a sewer pipe, then you blow up shit. You don’t even have to use real explosives. You can create them with a computer. The actors don’t even have to act. They stand around like zombies and imitate Vin Diesel and blow up more shit. I can’t reach my back.”

He couldn’t track her conversation or line of thought. She turned around in the seat and worked her T-shirt up to the strap on her halter and handed him the bottle of lotion. “Smear some on between my love handles.”

“What?”

“I always burn right above my panty line. It hurts for days.”

“I need you to listen to me and keep your mind off movies a minute, as well as other kinds of distractions.”

“Are you gay or something? Is that the problem? Because if it’s not, you’re deeply weird.”

“You need to learn some discretion, G

retchen. You can’t say whatever you feel like to other people.”

“This from you? Have you checked out your rap sheet recently? You have more entries on it than most criminals.”

“What do you know about rap sheets?”

“I watch CSI. Cops in neon shitholes like Las Vegas have billions of dollars to spend on high-tech labs staffed by Amerasian snarfs. In the meantime, hookers and grifters and the casinos are fleecing the suckers all over town.”

“What’s a snarf?”

“A guy who gets off on sniffing girls’ bicycle seats.”

“I can’t take this,” Clete said. He reached into the ice chest and retrieved one of the fried-egg-and-bacon sandwiches, wiped the ice off the bread, and bit into it.

“Can I have one?” she asked.

“By all means,” he replied, chewing with his eyes wide, like a man trying to keep his balance while standing in front of a wind tunnel.

“Tell me the truth—you’re not a closet fudge-packer, are you?” she asked.

He tossed his sandwich over the side. “I’m going to bait our hooks and set up our outriggers. Then we’re going to drift and watch where those cans float. In the meantime, no more movie talk, no more insults, no more invasion of somebody else’s space. Got it?”

“Where the fuck do you get off talking to me like that?”

“This is my boat. I’m the skipper. Out at sea, the skipper’s word is absolute.” He looked at her expression. “Okay, I apologize.”