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"You're the man with the gun," I replied, grinning again.
"It's not loaded."
"I'm not going to find out," I said.
He lifted the cut-down shotgun off the seat and lay it across his
thighs, then worked his boat alongside my engine. He ripped out the gas line
and tossed it like a severed snake into the cattails.
"I wish you hadn't done that," I said.
"I don't lie, sir. Not like some I've met." He pumped open the shotgun
and inserted his thumb in the empty chamber. Then he removed a Ziploc bag with
three shells in it from his back pocket and began fitting them into the
magazine. "I dropped my gun in the water and got my other shells wet. That's
why it was empty."
"You said 'not like some.' You calling me a liar?" I said.
"You spread rumors I was a snitch. I was in the Flat Top at Raiford. I
never gave anybody up."
"Listen, Johnny, you backed out on the Little Face Dautrieve contract.
You're still on this side of the line."
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't pretend you don't understand. Look at me."
"I don't like people talking to me like that, Mr. Robicheaux. Let go of
my boat."
I looked hard into his face. His eyes were dark, his cheeks pooled with
shadow, like a death mask, his mouth compressed into a small flower. I shoved
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his boat out into the current.
"You got it, kid," I said.
He cranked the engine and roared down the bayou, glancing back at me
once, the bow of his boat swerving wildly to avoid hitting a nutria that was
swimming toward the bank.
13
LATER THAT MORNING I called the prison psychologist at Raiford in Florida, a
social worker in Letcher County, Kentucky, and a high school counselor in
Detroit. By quitting time I had received at least three dozen fax sheets
concerning Johnny Remeta.
That afternoon Clete Purcel sat next to me on a wood bench at the end of
the dock and read through the file I had put together on Remeta.
"He's got a 160 I.Q. and he's a button man?" Clete said.
"No early indications of violence, either. Not until he got out of
Raiford."
"You're saying he got spread-eagled in the shower a few times and
decided to get even?"
"I'm just saying he's probably not a sociopath."
Clete closed the manila folder and handed it back to me. The wind
ruffled and popped the canvas awning over our heads.
"Who cares what he is? He was on your turf. I'd put one through his
kneecap if he comes back again," Clete said.
I didn't reply. I felt Clete's eyes on the side of my face. "The guy's
of no value to you. He doesn't know who hired him," Clete said. "Splash this
psychological stuff in the bowl."
"The social worker told me the kid's father was a drunk. She thinks the
old man sold the kid a couple of times for booze."
Clete was already shaking his head with exasperation before I finished
the sentence.
"He looked Zipper Clum in the eyes while he drilled a round through his
forehead. This is the kind of guy the air force trains to launch nuclear
weapons," he said.
He stood up and gripped his hands on the dock railing. The back of his
neck was red, his big arms swollen with energy.
"I'm pissed off at myself. I shouldn't have helped you fire this guy
up," he said.
"How's Passion?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Waiting for me to pick her up." He let out his breath. "I've got baling
wire wrapped around my head. I can't think straight."
"What's wrong?" I said.
"I'm going to drive her to the women's prison tomorrow to visit her
sister."
"You feel like you're involving yourself with the other side?"
"Something like that. I always figured most people on death row had it
coming. You watch Larry King last night? He had some shock-jock on there
laughing about executing a woman in Texas. The same guy who made fun of
Clinton at a banquet. These are America's heroes."
He went inside the bait shop and came back out with a sixteen-ounce can
of beer wrapped in a paper towel. He took two long drinks out of the can,
tilting his head back, swallowing until the can was almost empty. He blew out
his breath and the heat and tension went out of his face.
"Dave, I dreamed about the Death House at Angola. Except it wasn't Letty
Labiche being taken there. It was Passion. Why would I have a dream like
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that?" he said, squeezing his thumb and forefinger on his temples.
But I WAS to hear Letty Labiche's name more than once that day.
Cora Gable had volunteered her chauffeur, Micah, to deliver a
thousand-name petition on behalf of Letty to the governor's mansion. After he
had picked up several friends of Cora's in New Orleans, driven them to the
capitol at Baton Rouge, and dropped them off again in New Orleans, he ate
dinner by himself in a cafe by the river, on the other side of the Huey Long
Bridge, then headed down a dusky two-lane road into Lafourche Parish.
He passed through a small settlement, then entered a long stretch of
empty road surrounded by sugarcane fields. A white car closed behind him; a
man in the passenger's seat glanced back over his shoulder and clapped a
battery-powered flashing red light on the roof.
The cops looked like off-duty narcs or perhaps SWAT members. They were
thick-bodied and vascular, young, unshaved, clad in jeans and sneakers and
dark-colored T-shirts, their arms ridged with hair, handcuffs looped through
the backs of their belts.
They walked up on each side of the limo. Micah's windows were down now,
and he heard the Velcro strap peeling loose on the holster of the man
approaching the passenger door.
"Could I see your driver's license, please?" the man at Micah's window
said. He wore pilot's sunglasses and seemed bored, looking away at the sunset
over the cane fields, his palm extended as he waited for Micah to pull his
license from his wallet.
"What's the problem?"
The man in sunglasses looked at the photo on the license, then at
Micah's face.
"You see what it says over your picture? 'Don't drink and drive . . .
Don't litter Louisiana,'" he said. "Every driver's license in Louisiana has
that on it. We're trying to keep drunks off the road and the highways clean.
You threw a beer can out the window back there."
"No, I didn't."
"Step out of the car, please."
"You guys are from New Orleans. You don't have authority here," Micah
said.
"Walk around the far side of the car, please, and we'll discuss that
with you."
They braced him against the roof, kicked his ankles apart, ran their
hands up and down his legs, and pulled his pockets inside out, spilling his
change and wallet onto the shale. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]