Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

“Stay away from Varina Leboeuf,” he said.

“How about taking your own advice? You’re unbelievable.”

He watched her walk out the front door into the brightness of the day, a cute olive-drab cap tilted on her head, her wide-ass jeans stretched tight on her bottom, her tote bag swinging from her shoulder.

THREE HOURS LATER, Alafair’s cell phone rang. “Are you working on your novel right now?” Gretchen asked.

“I’ve finished the galleys on the first one. I’ve started a new one,” Alafair replied.

“What’s it about?”

“I’m not sure. I never am. I make it up each day. I never see more than two scenes ahead.”

“You don’t make an outline?”

“No, I think the story is written in the unconscious. You discover it a day at a time. At least that’s the way it seems to work for me.”

“I’ll buy you dinner if you drive me to a couple of car lots,” Gretchen said. “I took a cab to three but didn’t find anything interesting. I don’t want to waste the rest of the day waiting on more cabs.”

“Dave says you tore up Pierre Dupree and two other guys with a blackjack.”

“Shit like that happens sometimes.”

“Where are you?”

Alafair picked up Gretchen at a car lot out by the four-lane. She was standing on the corner, wearing dull red cowboy boots, her jeans stuffed into the tops, cars whizzing by her. She pulled open the passenger door and got inside. “Do the drivers around here drop acid before they get in their automobiles?” she said.

“What kind of car are you looking for?” Alafair asked.

“Something that’s cheap with a hot engine.” Gretchen gave directions to a car lot on the edge of town.

“You know a lot about cars?” Alafair said.

“A little. But forget about that. Clete told me you were number one in your class at Stanford Law.”

“There’s no official rating of graduates at Stanford, but I had a four-point GPA. My adviser said if I was ranked, I’d probably be first in my class.”

“You were born in a grass hut? You make me feel like a basket case. I’m sending in my application forms to the University of Texas. I think you have to be interviewed to get into the film program. I’m a little nervous about that.”

“Why should you be nervous?”

“Because I’ve always had a tendency of sending certain kinds of signals to men when I wanted something from them. Like maybe they could get into my pants if things went right for me. I pretended to myself that wasn’t what I was doing, but it was. I’d find a middle-aged guy who couldn’t control where his eyes went and home in on him.”

“Stop talking about yourself like that. If you have to go to Austin for an interview, I’ll go with you.”

“You’d do that?”

“Gretchen, talent doesn’t have anything to do with a person’s background or education. Did you ever see Amadeus? It’s the story of Mozart and his rivalry with Antonio Salieri. Salieri hated Mozart because he thought God had given this great talent to an undeserving idiot. Talent isn’t earned, it’s given. It’s like getting hit by lightning in the middle of a wet pasture. People don’t sign up for it.”

“If I could talk like you.”

“I told you to quit demeaning yourself. You’re the kind of person writers steal lines from. What kind of people do you think make movies? Most of them belong in detox or electroshock. The rest are narcissists and nonpathological schizophrenics. That’s why Los Angeles has more twelve-step meetings than any other county in the United States. Can you see your local Kiwanis Club making Pulp Fiction?”

“I’ve got to write that down.”

“No, you don’t. You have better lines in your own head.”

“I’m one of the people you just mentioned?”