The Glass Rainbow: A Dave Robicheaux Novel (9 page)

“How does a convict on a brush gang come up with ‘new information’? Isn’t it about time to give this a rest, Mr. Robicheaux?”

“The caller said Elmore Latiolais had seen a newspaper photo of a white man who knew his sister and is connected with a pimp and drug dealer here by the name of Herman Stanga.”

“I don’t know anything about this.”

“Latiolais didn’t tell you about the photo?”

“No.”

“He made no mention of it to you?”

There was a pause. “I usually say things once. I do that because I tell the truth and I’m not used to having my word questioned.”

“Can I talk with Latiolais?”

“You want me to put a nigra inmate on my cell phone?”

“Or you can have him call me collect on a landline.”

“He’s in lockup.”

“There’s no phone in your facility?”

“He doesn’t have phone privileges there. That’s why we call it lockup.”

“Why is he in lockup?”

“He was acting like he had some jackrabbit in him.”

“I need to speak to him, Cap.”

“If you want to believe that boy’s lies, that’s your right. But I got a half-dozen inmates on my gang who would cut your throat for a dollar and lick the cut clean for an extra fifty cents, and I don’t have time to be worrying about that little halfwit. I hope this is the last conversation we have on the subject.”

“We can’t promise that, Cap. We were hoping to get your cooperation.”

“Who is ‘we’?” he said. Then the line went dead.

Through my open door I saw the sheriff, Helen Soileau, pass in the corridor. She came back and propped one arm on the jamb. She was a trim, firm-bodied woman, attractive in an androgynous way, her expressions often enigmatic, as though she were vacillating between two lives even while she was looking into your face. “I was at a function in Lafayette last night,” she said. “Timothy Abelard was there. He said you and Clete had been out to his house yesterday.”

“That’s true.”

“What was Clete doing with you?”

“He came along for the ride.”

She stepped inside the office and closed the door behind her, then sat down on the corner of my desk. She was wearing tan slacks and a pink shirt and her gun belt and half-top brown suede boots. “Clete is in a lot of trouble, Dave. But this time he’s not going to drag his problems into our workday. Got me?” she said.

“My trip to the Abelards was off the clock.”

“That’s not the point.”

“You know anything about this guy Robert Weingart?” I asked.

“He’s a writer. What about him?”

“He and Kermit Abelard are involved with the St. Jude Project. Herman Stanga claims he is, too.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“The fact that Weingart breathes our air is a crime.”

“I like the way you leave your personal feelings at the front door when you come to work in the morning.”

“I interviewed a convict in Mississippi who said Stanga is mixed up with the homicides in Jeff Davis Parish.”

“When did you go to Mississippi?”

“When I took those two days’ vacation time.”

She lifted a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What are we going to do with you, bwana?”

“Weingart is a piece of shit. I think he has Kermit Abelard under his control. I think we’re going to hear a lot more from him.”

She was shaking her head, holding back something she didn’t want to say.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Go ahead, what?”

“Say what’s on your mind.”

“Isn’t Alafair seeing Kermit Abelard?”

“I don’t know what the word ‘seeing’ means. It’s like a lot of words people use today. I can’t relate to their meaning. Does ‘see’ mean look at someone? Or sleep with someone? Alafair thinks both Abelard and Weingart are great writers. I heard Weingart’s female lawyer rewrote most of his manuscript and got it published for him and that Weingart couldn’t write his way out of a wet paper bag. I think Kermit is probably bisexual and in this guy’s thrall.”

“When you figure out how that translates into the commission of a crime, let me know.”

“Why be everybody’s punch?” I said.

“Want to rephrase that?”

“Bloodsuckers of every stripe come here and wipe their feet on us. We’ve turned victimhood into an art form. Weingart is a parasite if not a predator.”

“Go back to that part about Abelard’s bisexuality. I’d like to know how that figures into all this.”

“I wasn’t making a judgment about it.”

Her eyes roamed over my face. “Tell Clete he’s on a short tether. I always love chatting with you, Dave,” she said. She winked at me and went out the door, closing it carefully behind her, like someone who does not want to be in the emotional debt of another.

T
WO DAYS PASSED
and I began to think less and less about the deaths of the women in Jefferson Davis Parish. The absence of news coverage about their deaths and the general lack of fear or outrage that their deaths should have provoked may seem bizarre or symptomatic of inhumanity among our citizenry. But serial killers abound in this country, and they often kill scores of people for a span of several decades before they are caught, if they ever are. Most of their victims come from the great uprooted, faceless population that drifts via Greyhound or gas-guzzler or motorcycle or thumb through trailer slums, battered women’s shelters, Salvation Army missions, migrant worker camps, and inner-city areas that have the impersonality of war zones. The vagueness of the term “homeless” is unintentionally appropriate for many of the people inside this group. We have no idea who they are, how many of them are mentally ill or just poor, or how many of them are fugitives. In the 1980s, hundreds of thousands of them were dumped on the streets or refused admission by federal hospitals. The mendicant culture they established is still with us, although our problem of conscience regarding their welfare seems to have faded.

A local bluesman by the name of Lazy Lester once said, “Don’t ever write your name on the jailhouse wall.” Today it might not be a bad idea.

On Wednesday, just before quitting time, Helen came into my office with a back section of the Baton Rouge
Advocate
folded in her hand. “What was the name of the convict you interviewed in Mississippi?”

“Elmore Latiolais.”

“I shouldn’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Help you drag somebody else’s problem into our workload.” She dropped the newspaper on my desk pad.

I picked up the paper and read the story. It was four paragraphs in length. It was the kind of news story that any journalist or educated cop instantly recognizes as one that replicated a press handout or a statement made by a public information officer rather than an account based on an eyewitness interview. It was written in the passive voice and avoided specifics other than the fact that Elmore Latiolais, a man with a long criminal history, had been shot to death when he stole a pistol from a prison vehicle and threatened to kill a prison guard.

“Latiolais was a check writer and a bigamist and a thief. I don’t see this guy threatening prison personnel with a stolen firearm.”

“Pops, let the state of Mississippi deal with it.”

“So why bring me the news story?”

“Because you have a right to see it. That doesn’t mean you have a right to act on it.”

“You brought it to me because you know this story sucks.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Listen, Helen—”

She walked out the door, shaking her head, probably more at herself than at me.

I called Jimmy Darl Thigpin on his cell phone, expecting my call to go immediately to voice mail. But it didn’t.

“Thigpin,” a voice said.

“It’s Dave Robicheaux.”

“I figured.”

“I just read the story on Latiolais’s death. What happened?”

“I killed him. Somebody should have done it to that sonofabitch a long time ago.”

“He had a gun?”

“That’s right. He was getting it out of my cab.”

The image his words conjured up didn’t fit. “But he didn’t actually have the gun in hand?”

“What did the newspaper say?”

“It stated he threatened you.”

“’Cause that’s what he did.”

“How did Latiolais get access to the cab of your truck? What was an unsecured weapon doing in it?”

“A new man screwed up.”

“Tell me straight-out, Cap, this man verbally threatened you while holding a loaded weapon in his hand. That’s what happened? You were at mortal risk?”

“You’re over the line, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“The question stands. Will you answer it?”

“It
what
?”

“You put him in lockup because you said he had some jackrabbit in him. Then you took him out of lockup and left him unattended around a firearm. A man of your experience did that?”

“This conversation is over.”

“Latiolais wasn’t a violent offender.”

“Did you hear me?”

“No, I didn’t, not at all. Why didn’t you call and tell me Latiolais had more information for me? I think you just killed a man who could have helped solve several homicides in our area.”

“I’ve had about all this I can take. You stay the hell away from me.”

He broke the connection. And I was glad he did. There were times in my job when I wanted to dig a hole in the earth and bury my shield and scrub my skin with peroxide.

I
T’S THE CONTENTION
of Alcoholics Anonymous that drinking is but the symptom of the illness. Those afflicted souls who quit drinking but do nothing else to change their way of life become what are called “dry drunks.” Often they channel their bitterness and anger into the lives of others. They also seek to control everyone around them, and they accomplish this end by the most insidious means possible: the inculcation of guilt and fear and low self-esteem in those who are unfortunate enough to be in their sway.

A person who practices the steps and principles of A.A. has little latitude in certain situations. When we are wrong about something, we have to admit it promptly. Then we have to make amends and restitution. In moments like these, a person may yearn for an easier way—say, a tall glass packed with shaved ice, stained with four jiggers of Black Jack Daniel’s, wrapped with a napkin to keep the coldness inside the glass, a sprig of mint inserted in the ice.

After supper, I watched Alafair feed Tripod and Snuggs in the backyard. She walked past me into the kitchen without speaking. I followed her inside and asked her to take a walk with me.

“I’m going out,” she said.

“It won’t take long.”

“I have to dress.”

“You going out with Kermit?”

“What about it? Should I arrange for him to pick me up somewhere else?”

“No.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

Molly was watching CNN in the living room. I heard her turn off the television and walk into the hallway that gave onto the kitchen.

“Nothing. It’s a nice evening. I just thought you might want to take a walk,” I said.

I left the house and went down the street to Clementine’s, where I knew I would find Clete Purcel at the bar. He was wearing cream-colored pleated slacks and oxblood loafers and a starched short-sleeved shirt printed with big gray and white flowers, his porkpie hat tilted forward on his head. He was sipping from a frosted mug of draft beer while the bartender poured his shot glass to the brim with Johnnie Walker. Clete looked at my reflection in the yellowed mahogany-framed mirror behind the bar. His eyes were lit with an alcoholic shine.

“You see the story about Elmore Latiolais?” he asked.

“Helen showed it to me.”

“That gunbull friend of yours capped him?”

“Jimmy Darl Thigpin is not my friend.”

“But he’s the guy who capped Latiolais, right?”

“He’s the one.”

“How do you read it?”

“I’m not sure. Why are you drinking boilermakers?”

“I only do it when I’m alone or with people. It’s not a problem.”

“It’s not funny, either.”

“Give Dave a soda and lime, will you?” Clete said to the bartender.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Chasing dead ends in Jeff Davis Parish.” He squeezed his temples. “My lawyer talked to the DA in St. Martinville today. A half-dozen witnesses from the Gate Mouth club are prepared to testify against me. They photographed me with their cell phones while I was smashing Herman Stanga’s face into a tree trunk. My lawyer says if I plea out, I’ll have to do at least a year.”

“We’re not going to let that happen, Cletus.”

“You know what the DA said? ‘We’re tired of this guy wiping his ass on us.’”

The bartender set a glass of ice and carbonated water, with a lime slice floating in it, on a paper napkin by my hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order that,” I said.

“You want coffee?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Let me know when you need something,” the bartender said. He threw the carbonated drink into the sink and walked away. I had a hard time taking my eyes away from the back of his neck.

“Trouble on the home front?” Clete said.

“No, none.”

Clete looked at me for a long time. “You dream about it very much?”

“About what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Don’t enter into it,
I heard a voice say. But I seldom take my best advice. “From time to time.”

“What’s in the dream?”

“Why be morbid? Nobody gets a pass on it. We have today. That’s all any of us gets.”

“Tell me what’s in the dream.”

“A square hole in the ground, deep in the forest. The wind is blowing, shredding leaves off the trees, but there’s no sound or color in the woods. It’s like the sun went over the edge of the horizon and died, and this time you know with absolute certainty it’s never coming up again. When I wake up, I can’t go back to sleep. I feel like weevil worms are eating their way through my heart.”

Clete let out his breath, then drank the shot glass of Johnnie Walker all the way to the bottom, never blinking. He chased it with beer from his mug, his cheeks turning as red as apples. “Fuck it,” he said.

A man on the next stool who had been talking with a woman turned and stared at Clete.

“Help you with something?” Clete said.