Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

Checking out,

Bye-bye, love,

D

I ran my hand through my hair and stared numbly at her. Then I saw the tiny scratches and the red discolorations, like pale strawberry bruises, like love bites, on her neck and shoulder. I took a sheet out of the bedroom and draped it over her, then went back into the living room.

Clete was pouring another scotch and milk at the table. The smoke from his Camel curled up over the nicotine stains on his fingers. The skin around his eyes flexed abruptly when he saw my expression.

“Hey, you get that look out of your face, man,” he said.

“What were you doing in Missoula?” I said.

“I pick up cigars for Sal’s old man. There’s only one store in Missoula that carries his brand.”

“Why tonight?”

“He told me to.”

“Why haven’t you called the locals?”

“They’re going to bust me for it.”

“For a suicide?” I watched his face carefully.

“It’s no suicide. You know it’s not.”

“Clete, if you did this—”

“Are you crazy? I was going to ask her to marry me. I’m seeing a therapist now because I’m fucked up, but when I was straightened out I was going to see about taking us back to New Orleans, living a regular life, opening up a bar maybe, getting away from the greaseballs.”

I looked steadily into his eyes. They stared back at me, hard as green marbles, as though they had no lids. The stitched scar that ran from the bridge of his nose through one eyebrow looked as red as a bicycle patch. Then his eyes broke, and he took a hit of the scotch and milk.

“I don’t care what you believe,” he said. “If you think I got jealous over you and her, you’re right. But I didn’t blame her for it. I got a condition I can’t do anything about right now. The therapist says it’s because of all that stuff back in New Orleans and because I’m working for greaseballs and pretending I like it when actually I wouldn’t spit on these guys. But I didn’t blame her. You got that?”

“She told you?”

“What’s to tell? There’s ways a guy knows. Butt out of my personal affairs, Streak.”

“I put a sheet over her. Don’t go back in there till the cops get here.” I picked up the telephone. The moon had broken through a crack in the clouds over the mountains on the far side of the lake, and I could see the froth on the waves blowing in the wind.

“You saw the bruises?” Clete said.

“Yes.”

“Most of the locals aren’t real bright. But when the coroner does the autopsy, they’re going to pick me up.”

“Maybe. What’s the point?”

He drank out of the cup again, then drew in on the cigarette. His breath was ragged coming out.

“You’re not big on sympathy tonight, are you?” he said.

“To be honest, I don’t know what I feel toward you, Clete.”

“It’s Sal. It’s gotta be. I’m going to be on ice, he’s going to be playing rock ’n’ roll with Dixie Lee and the Tahoe cornholers. I’m going to nail that fucker, man. I’m going to blow up his shit. I’m going to do it in pieces, too.”

“What’s his motive?” I set the receiver back down.