Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

“That’s not exceptional,” he said. “Most of the guys who do that stuff are either crop dusters or helicopter pilots who get tired of landing on rigs in fifty-knot gales. For fuck’s sake, let’s listen to the band, okay?”

“Think about it, Cletus. When we landed in that harbor off the island, she came in like a leaf gliding onto a pond.”

“Yeah, because she’s a good pilot. You want somebody from the Japanese air force flying us around?”

“You’re not going to listen to anything I say, are you?”

“Because nothing you say makes sense,” he replied. “You’ve got me worried, Dave. I think you’re losing it.”

“I’ve got you worried? That’s just great,” I said, and punched him in the top of the chest with my finger.

I saw the pain flicker in his face and wanted to shoot myself. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” I said.

“Forget it, big mon. I’m right as rain. Now let’s listen to the music.”

I propped my hands on my knees, then squeezed my temples and closed my eyes and reopened them and stared at a spot between my shoes. I felt as though I were drowning. I felt exactly as I had when a black medic straddled my thighs and tore a cellophane wrapper from a package of cigarettes with his teeth and pressed it over the red bubble escaping from the hole in my chest, my lung filling with blood, my body dropping from beneath his knees into a black well. When I raised my head, the audience and the western band were spinning around me.

“Speak of the devil,” Clete said, “here she comes.”

“Who?”

“Who else? Every time I think of that woman, I want to unscrew my big boy and mail it to the South Pole in hopes the penguins will bury it under a glacier.”

Varina Leboeuf was not merely passing by. She was headed right toward us. “I’m glad I found you,” she said.

“Yeah, what’s the haps? I thought Halloween was over,” Clete said.

“You asshole,” Varina said.

“I hear that a lot—mostly from skells and crack whores. I’m sorry for whatever harm I caused you, Varina, but how about giving us a break here?”

“You don’t know who your friends are,” she said.

“You had my office creeped,” he said.

She clenched her jaw, her mouth tightening. “Is everything all right?” she said.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Clete said.

“Because I saw Alafair and Gretchen outside,” she said. “I think they were with Julie Ardoin.”

“They went to the restroom,” Clete said.

“No, they didn’t. They were outside.”

“Why would they be outside? So what if they were?” Clete said.

“You’re not listening to me. Two men were out there. I know them. They work for Pierre. I think they’re involved with stolen paintings or something. They’re the ones Gretchen beat up.”

“Sit down and say all that again,” I said.

“I’m trying to help out here. Don’t be angry at me,” she said.

“I’m not angry at you. I can’t hear you. There’s too much noise. Sit down,” I said.

“Did Julie Ardoin ever work for you?” Clete said.

“Of course not. Why would she work for me? I hardly know her. Her husband used to fly Pierre around, but I never spent any time with Julie. I have to go.”