Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

Dixon worked his way through the congregants while they folded and stacked their chairs, returning congratulations, shaking hands, even though his eyes never left our faces.

“I declare, it’s Mr. Robicheaux, fresh up from the bayou,” he said. “Or is it a swamp or a cesspool and such as that where you live at?”

“More like an open-air mental asylum. Is that Aramaic you were speaking?” I said.

“Some people say it’s Syriac. Some says Aramaic and Syriac is the same thing. I couldn’t comment, ’cause when it’s over, I don’t have no memory of it.”

“I really dug it,” Clete said. “It put me in mind of one of those Cecil B. DeMille films. You know, Charlton Heston up on the mountain shouting at the people down below in the middle of an electrical storm.”

Dixon was standing six inches from my face, his head tilted to one side; he seemed to take no heed of Clete. “You been bird-dogging me, Mr. Robicheaux? You still think I’m out to hurt your daughter?”

“That’s one reason I came out here. I think you got a bad rap on that.”

“I declare. I’m overwhelmed.”

“We have the same objective. We want to find the man who killed the Indian girl,” I said.

“Who says I’m trying to find anyone?”

“Gretchen Horowitz.”

“She was talking about me?”

“She said she thought you were a decent guy. Does that bother you?” I said, my control starting to slip.

“Nothing bothers me. Not when I’m in the spirit.”

“That brings up an interesting question,” Clete said. “If you’re giving witness in a language no one can understand, and you have no memory of what you said, what’s the point of giving witness?”

“Who says nobody understands it?” Dixon said.

“I got it. These guys are international linguists,” Clete replied.

This time Dixon looked directly at him. “Is that your Cadillac out yonder?”

“It was when I drove it here.”

“Nice ride. I hope the people driving the junkers next to it don’t skin it up. Maybe that’s the price of slumming.”

I saw the crow’s-feet at the corner of Clete’s eyes flatten, the color in his face change. “Maybe you and I should walk over in those trees and talk about it,” he said.

“Mr. Dixon?” I said, edging into his line of vision.

“What?” he replied, his eyes locked on Clete’s.

“Why is Felicity Louviere here?”

“Who?”

“Angel Deer Heart’s mother.”

“How the fuck should I know?” He turned his gaze on me. “Y’all don’t have no business here. This is our place. When we’re here, we do things our way. I don’t like people looking down their noses at my friends.”

“Clete grew up in the Irish Channel, Wyatt,” I said. “I got this white patch in my hair from malnutrition. When I started first grade, I couldn’t speak English. I respect you and your friends, and I think Clete does, too.”

“What you don’t seem to understand, Mr. Robicheaux, is I ain’t bothered y’all or put my nose in your business. I didn’t bother your daughter, and I didn’t bother them cops that drug me out to Albert Hollister’s place. But every time I turn around, one of y’all is in my face. It’s Sunday, and we’re fixing to have a community meal. All we want is to be left alone.”

Clete lit his cigarette and snapped the cap closed on his Zippo. “Why don’t you peddle your douche rinse somewhere else and let these poor bastards alone?” he said.