“Ma’am?”
“The boy is an outpatient at a clinic. He had a harsh childhood. He needs care.”
Krauser nodded. “That’s true. That’s why I do what I can for him.”
She stepped closer to him. “I know your kind.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Your kind of man. I’ve seen you on many occasions. The clothes and the rhetoric are different, but the persona isn’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, Miz Broussard.”
“Oh, you certainly do.”
Krauser’s gaze went from my father to me. He looked through the screen door at our yard and the shadows that fell on our two white cats, Snuggs and Bugs, who each slept in a flower box on the front porch. “I think I shouldn’t have come here,” he said.
“It’s been a pleasure,” my father said. “Have a grand time at summer camp, and tell us about it sometime.”
Then Krauser was out the door. His stink hung in the air like a soiled flag.
“YOUR FOLKS EIGHTY-SIXED Krauser?” Saber said early Saturday morning at the filling station in West University where I worked part-time.
“I don’t think he’s figured it out yet.”
Saber had come to the station with a thermos of coffee at seven A.M., full of forgiveness for my going in the house with Valerie and leaving him alone. I promised myself I would never hurt him again.
“What’s Krauser up to?” he asked.
“You got me. He’s scared about something.”
“You’re right,” he said, watching a long-legged girl in shorts pedal past the station. “He probably knows I got the goods on him.”
“What goods?”
“My sources saw him hanging around the Pink Elephant. He may be a closet stool-packer.”
“Come on, Saber.”
“I’m not knocking those guys. They don’t bother anybody. I’m knocking this ass-wipe who’s declared war on us. What did I ever do to Krauser besides drop my johnson through a hole in the ceiling of his classroom? Did you ever notice how he always looks constipated? I bet he has some kind of blockage that’s backed up into his brain. I got to ask you something.”
“About what?”
“Valerie Epstein.” His eyes went away from mine, then came back. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“You know.”
“End of conversation.”
“Am I your best friend or not? Who keeps you out of trouble? Huh? Answer that.”
“I appreciate your efforts.”
“You don’t need that kind of grief. When you get the urge, just flog your rod.”
“Shut up, Saber.”