Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“All right, who’s the lady?”

“Just a friend, one of the teachers at the school. She looks after Alafair sometimes.”

“I wonder why she isn’t homely. Probably just a coincidence.”

“What are you up to, Clete?”

“Nothing. Maybe I just want to talk a minute. You got a minute, don’t you?”

I sat down next to him on the steps. Against the lights on the sawmill, I could see the outline of suitcases and a couple of rolled sleeping bags in the back of his jeep. He took his billfold out of his back pocket and began counting through a thick sheaf of twenties in the bill holder.

“How you doing on money?” he said.

“Not bad.”

“I bet.”

“I’ve still got my credit cards.”

“You remember that time I dropped a deuce at Jefferson Downs? You lent it to me so Lois wouldn’t find out.”

“You paid it back. When we took that charter fishing trip out of Gulfport.”

“Not quite. I didn’t pay the guy.”

I looked at him.

“He was a lousy guy. He ran us up on the sandbar, he didn’t bring enough bait, his mate was a smartass. You think I’m going to give a guy like that four hundred dollars?” he said.

“Thanks, Clete. I don’t need it right now.”

He folded a stack of bills between his fingers and

shoved them into my shirt pocket.

“Take it and stop irritating me.”

“It looks like you’re packed up.”

“You can’t ever tell.”

“What are you doing, partner?”

“I think my greatest potential lies in population control and travel. Who’d you tell about Charlie Dodds?”

“The DEA.”

“I knew it.”

“The agent said he was going to the locals with it, too.”

“Big deal. But I knew you’d do it, Streak. You’ll always be a straight cop.”

“There’s worse things.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. I’m just talking about myself. I’ve got to go inside now. You want to come in?”