{"id":2022,"date":"2026-01-03T22:06:45","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T22:06:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/robicheaux-13-burke-james-lee\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T22:06:45","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T22:06:45","slug":"robicheaux-13-burke-james-lee","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/robicheaux-13-burke-james-lee\/","title":{"rendered":"Robicheaux 13 – Burke, James Lee"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Book Preview<\/h3>\n
\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\n

Last Car to Elysian Fields By James Lee Burke<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Synopsis:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Following his superb historical novel White Doves Morning, America’s<\/span><\/p>\n

most acclaimed crime writer winner of the CWA Gold Dagger and twice<\/span><\/p>\n

winner of the Edgar Award returns to Louisiana and Dave Robicheaux.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

James Lee Burke is in top form in his latest page-turner steeped in the<\/span><\/p>\n

lush, unsettling atmosphere that his readers have come to expect. This<\/span><\/p>\n

time, Burke’s renowned Louisiana cop returns to the Big Easy in a<\/span><\/p>\n

spellbinding tale of conspiracy, passion, and murder. A rainy<\/span><\/p>\n

late-summer night finds Robicheaux in a New Orleans bar, about to<\/span><\/p>\n

confront the man who may have savagely assaulted his friend, Father<\/span><\/p>\n

Jimmie Dolan, a Catholic priest who’s always at the centre of<\/span><\/p>\n

controversy. But things in a Burke novel are rarely what they seem,<\/span><\/p>\n

and soon Robicheaux is back in New Iberia, probing a car crash that<\/span><\/p>\n

killed three teenage girls. A grief-crazed father and a maniacal,<\/span><\/p>\n

complex assassin are just a few of the characters Robicheaux meets as<\/span><\/p>\n

he is drawn deeper into a viper’s nest of sordid secrets and escalating<\/span><\/p>\n

violence that sets him up for a confrontation that echoes down the<\/span><\/p>\n

lonely corridors of his own unresolved past.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A masterful exploration of the troubled side of human nature and the<\/span><\/p>\n

dark corners of the heart, and peopled by familiar characters such as<\/span><\/p>\n

PI. Clete Purcel and Robicheaux’s old flame, the now-married Theodosia<\/span><\/p>\n

Lejeune, Last Car to Elysian Fields is vintage Burke a moody,<\/span><\/p>\n

hard-hitting novel that goes the limit in its provocative blend of<\/span><\/p>\n

human drama and relentless noir suspense.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Also by James Lee Burke<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Half of Paradise<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

To the Bright and Shining Sun<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Lay Down My Sword and Shield<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Two for Texas<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Convict<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Lost Get-Back Boogie<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Neon Rain<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Heaven’s Prisoners<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Black Cherry Blues<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A Morning for Flamingos<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A Stained White Radiance<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Dixie City Jam<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Burning Angel<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Cadillac Jukebox<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Cimarron Rose<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sunset Limited<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Heartwood Purple Cane Road<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Bitterroot<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Jolie Blon’s Bounce<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

White Doves at Morning<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

James Lee Burke<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

LAST CAR TO ELYSIAN FIELDS<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

ORION<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

First published in Great Britain in 2003 by Orion, an imprint of the<\/span><\/p>\n

Orion Publishing Group Ltd.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Copyright 2003 James Lee Burke<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The moral right of James Lee Burke to be identified as the author of<\/span><\/p>\n

this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Designs and Patents Act of 1988.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,<\/span><\/p>\n

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any<\/span><\/p>\n

means, ecSS -chanical, photocopying, recording, permission of both the<\/span><\/p>\n

copyright owner and the above publisher of this book<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British<\/span><\/p>\n

Library.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

ISBN 0 75285 652 9 (hardback) 0 75285 653 7 (trade paperback)<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St. Ives plc<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to<\/span><\/p>\n

actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Orion House<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane London, we2H 9EA<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I would like to thank Leslie Blanchard at the Iberia Parish Library and<\/span><\/p>\n

Vaun Stevens and Don Spritzer at the Missoula Public Library for their<\/span><\/p>\n

friendship and generous help over the years.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Last Car to Elysian Fields<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

By<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

James Lee Burke<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Chapter 1.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The first week after Labor Day, after a summer of hot wind and drought<\/span><\/p>\n

that left the cane fields dust blown and spider webbed with cracks,<\/span><\/p>\n

rain showers once more danced across the wetlands, the temperature<\/span><\/p>\n

dropped twenty degrees, and the sky turned the hard flawless blue of an<\/span><\/p>\n

inverted ceramic bowl. In the evenings I sat on the back steps of a<\/span><\/p>\n

rented shotgun house on Bayou Teche and watched the boats passing in<\/span><\/p>\n

the twilight and listened to the Sunset Limited blowing down the line.<\/span><\/p>\n

Just as the light went out of the sky the moon would rise like an<\/span><\/p>\n

orange planet above the oaks that covered my rented backyard, then I<\/span><\/p>\n

would go inside and fix supper for myself and eat alone at the kitchen<\/span><\/p>\n

table.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But in my heart the autumnal odor of gas on the wind, the gold and dark<\/span><\/p>\n

green of the trees, and the flame-lit edges of the leaves were less a<\/span><\/p>\n

sign of Indian summer than a prelude to winter rains and the short,<\/span><\/p>\n

gray days of December and January, when smoke would plume from stubble<\/span><\/p>\n

fires in the cane fields and the sun would be only a yellow vapor in<\/span><\/p>\n

the west.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Years ago, in both New Orleans and New Iberia, the tannic hint of<\/span><\/p>\n

winter and the amber cast of the shrinking days gave me the raison<\/span><\/p>\n

d’etre I needed to drink in any saloon that would allow me inside its<\/span><\/p>\n

doors. I was not one of those valiant, alcoholic souls who tries to<\/span><\/p>\n

drink with a self-imposed discipline and a modicum of dignity, either.<\/span><\/p>\n

I went at it full-bore, knocking back Beam or Black Jack straight-up in<\/span><\/p>\n

sawdust bars where I didn’t have to make comparisons, with a<\/span><\/p>\n

long-necked Jax or Regal on the side that would take away the after<\/span><\/p>\n

taste and fill my mouth with golden needles. Each time I tilted the<\/span><\/p>\n

shotglass to my lips I saw in my mind’s eye a simian figure feeding a<\/span><\/p>\n

fire inside a primeval cave and I felt no regret that I shared his<\/span><\/p>\n

enterprise.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Now I went to meetings and didn’t drink anymore, but I had a way of<\/span><\/p>\n

putting myself inside bars, usually ones that took me back to the<\/span><\/p>\n

Louisiana in which I had grown up. One of my favorites of years past<\/span><\/p>\n

was Goldie Bierbaum’s place on Magazine in New Orleans. A green<\/span><\/p>\n

colonnade extended over the sidewalk, and the rusted screen doors still<\/span><\/p>\n

had painted on them the vague images and lettering of Depression-era<\/span><\/p>\n

coffee and bread advertisements. The lighting was bad, the wood floor<\/span><\/p>\n

scrubbed colorless with bleach, the railed bar interspersed with jars<\/span><\/p>\n

of pickles and hard-boiled eggs above and cuspidors down below. And<\/span><\/p>\n

Goldie himself was a jewel out of the past, a seventy-year-old<\/span><\/p>\n

flat-chested ex-prizefighter who had fought Cleveland Williams and<\/span><\/p>\n

Eddie Machen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was night and raining hard on the colonnade and tin roof of the<\/span><\/p>\n

building. I sat at the far end of the bar, away from the door, with a<\/span><\/p>\n

demitasse of coffee and a saucer and tiny spoon in front of me. Through<\/span><\/p>\n

the front window I could see Clete Purcel parked in his lavender<\/span><\/p>\n

Cadillac convertible, a fedora shadowing his face in the glow of the<\/span><\/p>\n

streetlight. A man came in and removed his raincoat and sat down on<\/span><\/p>\n

the other end of the bar. He was young, built like a weight-lifter<\/span><\/p>\n

whose physique was earned rather than created with steroids. He wore<\/span><\/p>\n

his brown hair shaved on the sides, with curls hanging down the back of<\/span><\/p>\n

his neck. His eyebrows were half-moons, his face impish, cartoonlike,<\/span><\/p>\n

as though it were drawn with a charcoal pencil.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Goldie poured him a shot and a draft chaser, then set the whiskey<\/span><\/p>\n

bottle back on the counter against the wall and pretended to read the<\/span><\/p>\n

newspaper. The man finished his drink and walked the length of the bar<\/span><\/p>\n

to the men’s room in back. His eyes looked straight ahead and showed<\/span><\/p>\n

no interest in me as he passed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That’s the guy,” Goldie said, leaning close to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’re sure? No mistake?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He comes in three nights a week for a shot and a beer, sometimes a<\/span><\/p>\n

catfish po’boy. I heard him talking about it on the payphone back<\/span><\/p>\n

there. Maybe he’s not the guy who hurt your friend, but how many guys<\/span><\/p>\n

in New Orleans are gonna be talking about breaking the spokes on a<\/span><\/p>\n

Catholic priest?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I heard the men’s room door open again and footsteps walk past me to<\/span><\/p>\n

the opposite end of the bar. Goldie’s eyes became veiled, impossible<\/span><\/p>\n

to read. The top of his head looked like an alabaster bowling ball<\/span><\/p>\n

with blue lines in it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m sorry about your wife. It was last year?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It was lupus?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yeah, that’s right,” I replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You doin’ all right?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sure,” I said, avoiding his eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t get in no trouble, like we used to do in the old days.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Not a chance,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Hey, my po’boy ready?” the man at the end of the bar asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The man made a call on the payphone, then ate his sandwich and bounced<\/span><\/p>\n

pool balls off the rails on the pool table. The mirror behind the bar<\/span><\/p>\n

was oxidized an oily green and yellow, like the color of lubricant<\/span><\/p>\n

floating in water, and between the liquor bottles lined along the<\/span><\/p>\n

mirror I could see the man looking at the back of my head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I turned on the bar stool and grinned at him. He waited for me to<\/span><\/p>\n

speak. But I didn’t.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I know you?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Maybe. I used to live in New Orleans. I don’t anymore,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He spun the cue ball down the rail into the pocket, his eyes lowered.<\/span><\/p>\n

“So you want to shoot some nine ball?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’d be poor competition.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He didn’t raise his eyes or look at me again. He finished his beer and<\/span><\/p>\n

sandwich at the bar, then put on his coat and stood at the screen door,<\/span><\/p>\n

looking at the mist blowing under the colonnade and at the cars passing<\/span><\/p>\n

in the neon-streaked wetness in front of Goldie’s bar. Clete Purcel<\/span><\/p>\n

fired up his Cadillac and rattled down the street, turning at the end<\/span><\/p>\n

of the block.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The man with the impish face and curls that hung on the back of his<\/span><\/p>\n

neck stepped outside and breathed the air like a man out for a walk,<\/span><\/p>\n

then got into a Honda and drove up Magazine toward the Garden District.<\/span><\/p>\n

A moment later Clete Purcel pulled around the block and picked me up.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Can you catch him?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t have to. That’s Gunner Ardoin. He lives in a dump off<\/span><\/p>\n

Tchoupitoulas,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Gunner? He’s a button man?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, he’s been in two or three of Fat Sammy Figorelli’s porn films. He<\/span><\/p>\n

mules crystal in the projects, too.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Would he bust up a priest?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Clete looked massive behind the steering wheel, his upper arms like<\/span><\/p>\n

big, cured hams inside his tropical shirt. His hair was sandy, cut<\/span><\/p>\n

short like a little boy’s. A diagonal scar ran through his left<\/span><\/p>\n

eyebrow.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Gunner?” he said. “It doesn’t sound like him. But a guy who<\/span><\/p>\n

performs oral sex for a hometown audience? Who knows?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

We caught up with the Honda at Napoleon Avenue, then followed it<\/span><\/p>\n

through a dilapidated neighborhood of narrow streets and shotgun houses<\/span><\/p>\n

to Tchoupitoulas. The driver turned on a side street and parked under<\/span><\/p>\n

a live oak in front of a darkened cottage. He walked up a shell<\/span><\/p>\n

driveway and entered the back door with a key and turned on a light<\/span><\/p>\n

inside.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Clete circled the block, then parked four houses up the street from<\/span><\/p>\n

Gunner Ardoin’s place and cut the engine. He studied my face.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You look a little wired,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Not me,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The rain on the windshield made rippling shadows on his face and arms.<\/span><\/p>\n

“I made my peace with N.O.P.D.,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Really?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Most of the guys who did us dirt are gone. I let it be known I’m not<\/span><\/p>\n

in the O.K. Corral business anymore. It makes life a lot easier,” he<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Through the overhang of the trees I could see the Mississippi levee at<\/span><\/p>\n

the foot of the street and fog billowing up from the other side. Boat<\/span><\/p>\n

lights were shining inside the fog so that the fog looked like<\/span><\/p>\n

electrified steam rising off the water.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Are you coming?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He pulled an unlit cigarette from his mouth and threw it out the<\/span><\/p>\n

window. “Why not?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

We walked up Gunner Ardoin’s driveway, past a garbage can overflowing<\/span><\/p>\n

with shrimp husks. Banana trees grew against the side of the house and<\/span><\/p>\n

the leaves were slick and green and denting in the rainwater that slid<\/span><\/p>\n

off the roof. I jerked the back screen off the latch and went into<\/span><\/p>\n

Gunner Ardoin’s kitchen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You beat up Catholic priests, do you?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What?” he said, turning from the sink with a metal coffeepot in his<\/span><\/p>\n

hand. He wore draw-string, tin-colored workout pants and a ribbed<\/span><\/p>\n

undershirt. His skin was white, clean of jailhouse art, his underarms<\/span><\/p>\n

shaved. A weight set rested on the floor behind him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Lose the innocent monkey face, Gunner. You used a steel pipe on a<\/span><\/p>\n

priest name of Jimmie Dolan,” Clete said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Gunner set the coffeepot down on the counter. He studied both of us<\/span><\/p>\n

briefly, then lowered his eyes and folded his arms on his chest, his<\/span><\/p>\n

back resting against the sink. His nipples looked like small brown<\/span><\/p>\n

dimes through the fabric of his undershirt. “Do what you have to do,”<\/span><\/p>\n

he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Better rethink that statement,” Clete said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But Gunner only stared at the floor, his elbows cupped in his palms.<\/span><\/p>\n

Clete looked at me and raised his eyebrows.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“My name’s Dave Robicheaux. I’m a homicide detective with the Iberia<\/span><\/p>\n

Parish Sheriff’s Department,” I said, opening my badge holder. “But my<\/span><\/p>\n

visit here is personal.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I didn’t beat up a priest. You think I did, then I’m probably in the<\/span><\/p>\n

shitter. I can’t change that.” He began picking at the calluses on<\/span><\/p>\n

his palm.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You get that at a twelve-step session up at Angola?” Clete said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Gunner Ardoin looked at nothing and suppressed a yawn.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You raised Catholic?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He nodded, without lifting his eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’re not bothered by somebody hospitalizing a priest, breaking his<\/span><\/p>\n

bones, a decent man who never harmed anyone?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t know him. You say he’s a good guy, maybe he is. There’s a<\/span><\/p>\n

lot of priests out there are good guys, right?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then, like all career recidivists and fulltime smart-asses, he couldn’t<\/span><\/p>\n

resist the temptation to show his contempt for the world of normal<\/span><\/p>\n

people. He turned his face away from me, but I saw one eye glimmer<\/span><\/p>\n

with mirth, a grin tug slightly at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe<\/span><\/p>\n

they kept the altar boys away from him,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I stepped closer to him, my right hand balling. But Clete pushed me<\/span><\/p>\n

aside. He picked up the metal coffeepot from the counter and smashed<\/span><\/p>\n

it almost flat against the side of Gunner Ardoin’s head, then threw him<\/span><\/p>\n

in a chair. Gunner folded his arms across his chest, a torn grin on<\/span><\/p>\n

his mouth, blood trickling from his scalp.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Have at it, fellows. I made both y’all back on Napoleon. I dialed<\/span><\/p>\n

911 soon as I came in. My lawyer loves guys like you,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Through the front window I saw the emergency flasher on an N.O.P.D.<\/span><\/p>\n

cruiser pull to the curb under the live oak tree that grew in Gunner<\/span><\/p>\n

Ardoin’s front yard. A lone black female officer slipped her baton<\/span><\/p>\n

into the ring on her belt and walked uncertainly toward the gallery,<\/span><\/p>\n

her radio squawking incoherently in the rain.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I slept that night on Clete’s couch in his small apartment above his<\/span><\/p>\n

PI. office on St. Ann. The sky was clear and pink at sunrise, the<\/span><\/p>\n

streets in the Quarter puddled with water, the bougainvillea on Clete’s<\/span><\/p>\n

balcony as bright as drops of blood. I shaved and dressed while Clete<\/span><\/p>\n

was still asleep and walked past St. Louis Cathedral and through<\/span><\/p>\n

Jackson Square to the Cafe du Monde, where I met Father Jimmie Dolan at<\/span><\/p>\n

a table under the pavilion.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Although we had been friends and had bass fished together for two<\/span><\/p>\n

decades, he remained in many ways a mysterious man, at least to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Some said he was a closet drunk who had done time in a juvenile<\/span><\/p>\n

reformatory; others said he was gay and well known among the homosexual<\/span><\/p>\n

community in New Orleans, although women were obviously drawn to him.<\/span><\/p>\n

He had crewcut, blond good looks and the wide shoulders and tall, trim<\/span><\/p>\n

physique of the wide-end receiver he had been at a Winchester,<\/span><\/p>\n

Kentucky, high school. He didn’t talk politics but he got into trouble<\/span><\/p>\n

regularly with authority on almost all levels, including six months in<\/span><\/p>\n

a federal prison for trespassing on the School of the Americas property<\/span><\/p>\n

at Ft. Benning, Georgia.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It had been three months since he had been waylaid in an alley behind<\/span><\/p>\n

his church rectory and methodically beaten from his neck to the soles<\/span><\/p>\n

of his feet by someone wielding a pipe with an iron bonnet screwed down<\/span><\/p>\n

on the business end.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Clete Purcel and I rousted a guy named Gunner Ardoin last night. I<\/span><\/p>\n

think maybe he’s the guy who attacked you,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Father Jimmie had just bitten into a beignet and his mouth was smeared<\/span><\/p>\n

with powdered sugar. He wore a tiny sapphire in his left ear-lobe. His<\/span><\/p>\n

eyes were a deep green, thoughtful, his skin tan. He shook his head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That’s Phil Ardoin. Wrong guy,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He said he didn’t know you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I coached his high school basketball team.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why would he lie?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“With Phil it’s a way of life.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

An N.O.P.D. cruiser pulled to the curb out on Decatur and a black<\/span><\/p>\n

female officer got out and fixed her cap on her head. She looked like<\/span><\/p>\n

she was constructed of twigs, her sky blue shirt too large on her<\/span><\/p>\n

frame, her pursed lips layered with red lipstick. Last night Clete had<\/span><\/p>\n

said she reminded him of a black swizzle stick with a cherry stuck on<\/span><\/p>\n

the end.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She threaded her way through the tables until she was abreast of ours.<\/span><\/p>\n

The brass name tag on her shirt said C. ARCENEAUX.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I thought I should give you a heads-up,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How’s that?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She looked off abstractly at the traffic on the street and at the<\/span><\/p>\n

artists setting up their easels under the trees in Jackson Square.<\/span><\/p>\n

“Take a walk with me,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I followed her down to a shady spot at the foot of the Mississippi<\/span><\/p>\n

levee. “I tried to talk to the other man, what’s his name, Purcel, but<\/span><\/p>\n

he seemed more interested in riding his exercise bike,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He has blood pressure problems,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Maybe more like a thinking problem,” she replied, looking idly down<\/span><\/p>\n

the street.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Can I help you with something?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Gunner Ardoin is filing an assault charge against you and your friend.<\/span><\/p>\n

I think maybe he’s got a civil suit in mind. If I was you, I’d take<\/span><\/p>\n

care of it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Take care of it?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her eyes squinted into the distance, as though the subject at hand had<\/span><\/p>\n

already slipped out of her frame of reference. Her hair was black and<\/span><\/p>\n

thick and cut short on her neck, her eyes a liquid brown.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t like people who mule crystal into the projects.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You work both the night and the morning watch?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m just up from meter maid. Low in standing, know what I mean, but<\/span><\/p>\n

somebody got to do it. Tell the priest to spend more time with his<\/span><\/p>\n

prayers,” she said, and started to walk back to her cruiser.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What’s your first name?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Clotile,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Back at the table I watched her drive away into the traffic, the<\/span><\/p>\n

lacquered brim of her cap low on her forehead. Meter maid, my ass, I<\/span><\/p>\n

thought.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Ever hear of Junior Crudup?” Father Jimmie asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The blues man? Sure,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What do you know about him?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He died in Angola,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, he disappeared in Angola. Went in and never came out. No record<\/span><\/p>\n

at all of what happened to him,” Father Jimmie said. “I’d like for you<\/span><\/p>\n

to meet his family.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Got to get back to New Iberia.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It’s Saturday,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Nope,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Junior’s granddaughter owns a twelve-string guitar she thinks might<\/span><\/p>\n

have belonged to Leadbelly. Maybe you could take a look at it. Unless<\/span><\/p>\n

you just really don’t have the time?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I followed Father Jimmie in my pickup truck into St. James Parish,<\/span><\/p>\n

which lies on a ninety-mile corridor between Baton Rouge and New<\/span><\/p>\n

Orleans that environmentalists have named Toxic Alley. We drove down a<\/span><\/p>\n

state road south of the Mississippi levee through miles of sugarcane<\/span><\/p>\n

and on through a community of narrow, elongated shacks that had been<\/span><\/p>\n

built in the late nineteenth century. At the crossroads, or what in<\/span><\/p>\n

south Louisiana is called a four-corners, was a ramshackle nightclub,<\/span><\/p>\n

an abandoned company store with a high, tin-roofed gallery, a drive-by<\/span><\/p>\n

daiquiri stand, and a solitary oil storage tank that was streaked with<\/span><\/p>\n

corrosion at the seams, next to which someone had planted a tomato<\/span><\/p>\n

garden.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Most of the people who lived at the four-corners were black. The rain<\/span><\/p>\n

ditches and the weeds along the roadside were layered with bottles of<\/span><\/p>\n

beer and pop cans and trash from fast-food restaurants. The people who<\/span><\/p>\n

sat on the galleries of the shacks were either old or infirm or<\/span><\/p>\n

children. I watched a car filled with teenagers run a stop sign and<\/span><\/p>\n

fling a quart beer bottle on the side of the road, ten feet from where<\/span><\/p>\n

an elderly woman was picking up litter from her lawn and placing it in<\/span><\/p>\n

a vinyl bag.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then we were out in the countryside again and the sky was as blue as a<\/span><\/p>\n

robin’s egg, the sugarcane bending in the wind as far as the eye could<\/span><\/p>\n

see, egrets perched like white sculptures on the backs of cattle in a<\/span><\/p>\n

roadside pasture. But inside the loveliness of the day was another<\/span><\/p>\n

element, discordant and invasive, the metallic reek of natural gas,<\/span><\/p>\n

perhaps from a wellhead or a leaking connection at a pump station. Then<\/span><\/p>\n

the wind shifted and it was gone and the sky was speckled with birds<\/span><\/p>\n

rising from a pecan orchard and from the south I could smell the brassy<\/span><\/p>\n

odor of a storm that was building over the Gulf.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I looked at my watch. No more than one hour with Father Jimmie<\/span><\/p>\n

friends, I told myself. I wanted to get back to New Iberia and forget<\/span><\/p>\n

about the previous night and the trouble with Gunner Ardoin.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Maybe it was time to let Father Jimmie take care of his own problems, I<\/span><\/p>\n

thought. Some people loved adversity, got high on it daily, and<\/span><\/p>\n

secretly despised those who would take it from them. That trait didn’t<\/span><\/p>\n

necessarily go away because of a Roman collar.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The state road made a bend and suddenly the endless rows of sugarcane<\/span><\/p>\n

ended. The fields were uncultivated now, empty of livestock, dotted<\/span><\/p>\n

with what looked like settling ponds. The Crudup family lived down a<\/span><\/p>\n

dirt lane in a white frame house with a wraparound veranda hung with<\/span><\/p>\n

baskets of flowers. Three hundred yards behind the house was a woods<\/span><\/p>\n

bordered with trees that were gray with dead leaves and the scales of<\/span><\/p>\n

air vines, as though the treeline had been matted with premature<\/span><\/p>\n

winterkill.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Father Jimmie had set the hook when he had mentioned Lead-belly’s name,<\/span><\/p>\n

but I knew as we drove down the road toward the neat white house back<\/span><\/p>\n

dropped by a poisoned woods that this trip was not about the recidivist<\/span><\/p>\n

convict who wrote “Goodnight Irene” and “The Midnight Special” and who<\/span><\/p>\n

today is almost forgotten.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In fact, I wondered if I, like Father Jimmie, could not wait to fill my<\/span><\/p>\n

day with adversity in the way I had once filled it with Jim Beam and a<\/span><\/p>\n

glass of Jax with strings of foam running down the sides.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

When I cut my engine in front of the house, I took a Dr. Pepper from<\/span><\/p>\n

the cooler on the seat and raked the ice off the can and drank it empty<\/span><\/p>\n

before stepping out onto the yard.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Chapter 2.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Junior Crudup’s granddaughter had a face like a goldfish, light skin<\/span><\/p>\n

that was dusted with freckles, and glasses that turned her eyes into<\/span><\/p>\n

watery brown orbs. She sat in a stuffed chair, fanning herself with a<\/span><\/p>\n

magazine, her rings of fat bulging against her dress, waiting for me to<\/span><\/p>\n

finish examining the Stella guitar that had lain propped in a corner of<\/span><\/p>\n

her attic for thirty years. The strings were gone, the tuning keys<\/span><\/p>\n

stiff with rust, the sound hole coated with cobweb. I turned the<\/span><\/p>\n

guitar on its belly and looked at three words that were scratched into<\/span><\/p>\n

the back of the neck: Huddle Love Sarie.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Leadbelly’s real name was Huddie Ledbetter. His wife was named<\/span><\/p>\n

Sarie,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Junior Crudup’s granddaughter looked through a side window at two<\/span><\/p>\n

children playing on a rope swing that was suspended from a pecan tree.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her name was Doris. She kept straightening her shoulders, as though a<\/span><\/p>\n

great weight were pressing on her lungs. “How much it wort’?” she<\/span><\/p>\n

asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I couldn’t say,” I replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Four or five songs were in the bottom of the guitar case, each with<\/span><\/p>\n

Junior’s signature,” Father Jimmie said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yeah, what they wort’?” Doris Crudup asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’d have to ask somebody else,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She gave Father Jimmie a look, then got up from her chair and took my<\/span><\/p>\n

coffee cup into the kitchen, although I had not finished drinking the<\/span><\/p>\n

coffee in it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Her husband died three years ago. Last month the social worker cut<\/span><\/p>\n

off her welfare,” Father Jimmie said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The social worker felt like it. That’s the way it works. Take a walk<\/span><\/p>\n

with me,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I need to get back home.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You have time for this,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

We went outside, into the sunlit, rain-washed loveliness of the fall<\/span><\/p>\n

afternoon. The pecan tree in the side yard puffed with wind and a<\/span><\/p>\n

yellow dog rolled on its back in the dirt while the children swung back<\/span><\/p>\n

and forth above it on their rope swing. But as I followed Father<\/span><\/p>\n

Jimmie down an incline toward the woods in back I could feel the<\/span><\/p>\n

topography changing under my feet, as though I were walking on a<\/span><\/p>\n

sponge.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What’s that smell?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You tell me.” He tore a handful of grass from the soil and held the<\/span><\/p>\n

roots up to my nose. “They truck it in from all over the South.<\/span><\/p>\n

Doris’s lungs are as much good to her as rotted cork. People around<\/span><\/p>\n

here carry buckets in their cars because of their children’s constant<\/span><\/p>\n

diarrhea.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I held onto the trunk of a withered persimmon tree and looked at the<\/span><\/p>\n

soles of my shoes. They were slick with a black-green substance, as<\/span><\/p>\n

though I had walked across a factory floor. We crossed a board plank<\/span><\/p>\n

spanning a rain ditch. The water was covered with an iridescent sheen<\/span><\/p>\n

that seemed to be rising in chains of bubbles from the bottom of the<\/span><\/p>\n

ditch. Perhaps twenty settling ponds, layered over with loose dirt,<\/span><\/p>\n

were strung along the edge of the woods, each of them crusted with a<\/span><\/p>\n

dried viscous material that looked like an orange scab.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Is this Doris’s property?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It belonged to her grandfather. But twenty years ago Doris’s cousin<\/span><\/p>\n

made his “X’ on a bill of sale that had Junior’s name typed on it. The<\/span><\/p>\n

cousin and the waste management company that bought the land both claim<\/span><\/p>\n

he’s the Junior Crudup of record and Doris is out of luck.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m not following you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No one knows what happened to the real Junior Crudup. He went into<\/span><\/p>\n

Angola and never came out. There’s no documentation on his death or of<\/span><\/p>\n

his release. Figure that one out.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t want to.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Father Jimmie studied my face. “These people here don’t have many<\/span><\/p>\n

friends,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I slipped the flats of my hands in my back pockets and scuffed at the<\/span><\/p>\n

ground with one shoe, like a third-base coach who had run out of<\/span><\/p>\n

signals.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Think I’ll pass,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Suit yourself.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Father Jimmie picked up a small stone and side-armed it into the woods.<\/span><\/p>\n

I heard it clatter among the tree trunks. Birds should have risen from<\/span><\/p>\n

the canopy into the sky, but there was no movement inside the tree<\/span><\/p>\n

limbs.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who owns this waste management company?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“A guy named Merchie Flannigan.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Jumpin’ Merchie Flannigan? From New Iberia?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“One and the same. How’d he get that name, anyway?” Father Jimmie<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Think of rooftops,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

As I drove back to New Iberia, through Morgan City, and down East Main<\/span><\/p>\n

to my rented house on Bayou Teche, I tried not to think anymore of<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Jimmie and the black people in St. James Parish whose community<\/span><\/p>\n

had become a petro-chemical dumping ground. As sad as their story was,<\/span><\/p>\n

in the state of Louisiana it wasn’t exceptional. In fact, on<\/span><\/p>\n

television, the current governor had threatened to investigate the tax<\/span><\/p>\n

status of some young Tulane lawyers who had filed suit against several<\/span><\/p>\n

waste management companies on the basis of environmental racism. The<\/span><\/p>\n

old plantation oligarchy was gone. But its successors did business in<\/span><\/p>\n

the same fashion with baseball bats.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I fixed an early supper and ate it on an ancient green picnic table in<\/span><\/p>\n

the backyard. Across the bayou kids were playing tag football in City<\/span><\/p>\n

Park and smoke from meat fires hung in the trees. In the deepening<\/span><\/p>\n

shadows I thought I could hear voices inside my head: my adopted<\/span><\/p>\n

daughter, Alafair, away at Reed College; my deceased wife Bootsie; and<\/span><\/p>\n

a black man named Batist, to whom I had sold my bait and boat rental<\/span><\/p>\n

business south of town. I didn’t do well on Saturday afternoons. In<\/span><\/p>\n

fact, I wasn’t doing well on any afternoon.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

On some weekends I drove out to the dock and bait shop to see him. We’d<\/span><\/p>\n

fish the swamp for bass and sac-a-lait, then head home at sunset, the<\/span><\/p>\n

cypress trees riffling like green lace in the wind, the water back in<\/span><\/p>\n

the coves bloodred in the sun’s afterglow. But across the road and up<\/span><\/p>\n

the incline from the dock were the burned remains of the house my<\/span><\/p>\n

father had built out of notched and pegged timbers during the<\/span><\/p>\n

Depression, the home where I had lived with my wife and daughter, and I<\/span><\/p>\n

had a hard time looking at it without feeling an indescribable sense of<\/span><\/p>\n

loss and anger.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The inspector from the fire department called it “electrical failure.”<\/span><\/p>\n

I wished I could accept the loss in terms as clinical as those. But<\/span><\/p>\n

the truth was I had trusted the electrical rewiring on my home to a<\/span><\/p>\n

fellow AA. member, one who had stopped attending meetings. He filled<\/span><\/p>\n

the walls with cheap switches that he did not screw-wrap and inserted<\/span><\/p>\n

fourteen-gauge wire into twelve-gauge receptacles. The fire started<\/span><\/p>\n

inside the bedroom wall and burned the house to the ground in less than<\/span><\/p>\n

an hour.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I went into the house and looked up Merchie Flannigan’s name in the<\/span><\/p>\n

directory. I had known his parents in both New Orleans and New Iberia,<\/span><\/p>\n

but I’d never had reason to take official notice of Merchie until I was<\/span><\/p>\n

a patrolman near the Iberville Welfare Project off Basin Street, back<\/span><\/p>\n

in the days when cops still rang their batons off street curbs to<\/span><\/p>\n

signal one another and white kids would take your head off with<\/span><\/p>\n

water-filled garbage cans dropped from a five-story rooftop.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Long before Hispanic and black caricatures acted out self-created roles<\/span><\/p>\n

as gangsters on MTVj white street gangs in New Orleans fought with<\/span><\/p>\n

chains, steel pipes, and zip guns over urban territory that a<\/span><\/p>\n

self-respecting Bedouin wouldn’t live in. During the 1950s, the<\/span><\/p>\n

territorial war was between the Cats and the Frats. Frats lived<\/span><\/p>\n

uptown, in the Garden District and along St. Charles Avenue. Cats<\/span><\/p>\n

lived in the Irish Channel, or downtown or in the projects or out by<\/span><\/p>\n

the Industrial Canal. Cats were usually Irish or Italian or a mixture<\/span><\/p>\n

of both, parochial school bust-outs who rolled drunks and homosexuals<\/span><\/p>\n

and group-stomped their adversaries, giving no quarter and asking for<\/span><\/p>\n

none in return.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In a back-alley, chain-swinging rumble, their ferocity and raw physical<\/span><\/p>\n

courage could probably be compared only to that of their historical<\/span><\/p>\n

cousins in Southie, the Five Points, and Hell’s Kitchen. Along Bourbon<\/span><\/p>\n

Street, after twelve on Saturday nights, the Dixieland bands would pack<\/span><\/p>\n

up their instruments and be replaced by rock ‘n’ roll groups that<\/span><\/p>\n

played until sunrise. The kids spilling out the front doors of Sharkey<\/span><\/p>\n

Bonnano’s Dream Room, drinking paper cup beer and smoking cigarettes on<\/span><\/p>\n

the sidewalks, their motorcycle caps and leather jackets rippling with<\/span><\/p>\n

neon, made most tourists wet their pants.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But Jumpin’ Merchie Flannigan could not be easily categorized as a<\/span><\/p>\n

blue-collar street kid who had made good in the larger world. In fact,<\/span><\/p>\n

I always had suspicions that Jumpin’ Merchie joined a gang for reasons<\/span><\/p>\n

very different from his friends in the Iberville. Unlike most of them,<\/span><\/p>\n

he was not only streetwise but good in school and naturally<\/span><\/p>\n

intelligent. Merchie’s problem really wasn’t Merchie. It was his<\/span><\/p>\n

parents.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In New Iberia Merchie’s father was thought of as a decent but weak and<\/span><\/p>\n

ineffectual man whose rundown religious store was almost an extension<\/span><\/p>\n

of its owner’s personality. Many nights a sympathetic police officer<\/span><\/p>\n

would take Mr. Flannigan out the back door of the Frederic Hotel bar<\/span><\/p>\n

and drive him to his house by the railroad tracks. Merchie’s mother<\/span><\/p>\n

tried to compensate for the father’s failure by constantly treating<\/span><\/p>\n

Merchie as a vulnerable child, protecting him, making him wear short<\/span><\/p>\n

pants at school until he was in the fifth grade, denying him entry into<\/span><\/p>\n

a world that to her was as unloving as her marriage. But I always felt<\/span><\/p>\n

her protectiveness was of a selfish kind, and in reality she was not<\/span><\/p>\n

only sentimental rather than loving, she could also be terribly<\/span><\/p>\n

cruel.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

After the family moved to New Orleans and took up life in the<\/span><\/p>\n

Iberville, Merchie became known as a mama’s boy who was anybody’s<\/span><\/p>\n

punching bag or hard-up pump. But at age fifteen, he threw a black kid<\/span><\/p>\n

from the Gird Town Deuces off a fire escape onto the cab of a passing<\/span><\/p>\n

produce truck, then outraced a half dozen cops across a series of<\/span><\/p>\n

rooftops, finally leaping out into space, plummeting two stories<\/span><\/p>\n

through the ceiling of a massage parlor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His newly acquired nickname cost him a broken leg and a one-bit in the<\/span><\/p>\n

Louisiana reformatory, but Jumpin’ Merchie Flannigan came back to Canal<\/span><\/p>\n

Street and the Iberville Project with magic painted on him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

When I called him at home he was gregarious and ingratiating, and said<\/span><\/p>\n

he wanted to see me. In fact, he said it with such sincerity that I<\/span><\/p>\n

believed him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His home, of which he was very proud, was a gray architectural<\/span><\/p>\n

monstrosity designed to look like a medieval castle, inside acres of<\/span><\/p>\n

pecan and live oak trees, all of it in an unzoned area that mixed pipe<\/span><\/p>\n

yards and welding shops with thoroughbred horse barns and red-clay<\/span><\/p>\n

tennis courts.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He greeted me in the front yard, athletic, trim, wearing pleated tan<\/span><\/p>\n

slacks, half-top, slip-on boots, and a polo shirt, his long hair so<\/span><\/p>\n

blond it was almost white, a V-shaped receded area at the part the only<\/span><\/p>\n

sign of age I could see in him. The yard was covered in shadow now,<\/span><\/p>\n

the chrysanthemums denting in the wind, the sky veined with<\/span><\/p>\n

electricity. In the midst of it all Merchie seemed to glow not so much<\/span><\/p>\n

with health and prosperity as confidence that God was truly in His<\/span><\/p>\n

heaven and there was justice in the world for a kid from the<\/span><\/p>\n

Iberville.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He meshed his fingers, as though making a tent, then pointed the tips<\/span><\/p>\n

at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You were out at the Crudup farm in St. James Parish today,” he<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who told you?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m trying to clean up the place,” he replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Think it might take a hydrogen bomb?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“So give me the gen on it,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The Crudup woman says she was cheated out of the title.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Look, Dave, I bought the property three years ago at a bankruptcy<\/span><\/p>\n

sale. I’ll check into it. How about some trust here?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was hard to stay mad at Merchie. I knew people in the oil business<\/span><\/p>\n

who were openly ecstatic at the prospect of Mideastern wars or subzero<\/span><\/p>\n

winters in the northern United States, but Merchie had never been one<\/span><\/p>\n

of them.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Been out of town?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yeah, Afghanistan. You believe it?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Shooting at the Taliban?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He smiled with his eyes but didn’t reply.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The woman in St. James Parish? Her grandfather was Junior Crudup,” I<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“AnR&Bguy?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yeah, one of the early ones. He did time with Leadbelly. He played<\/span><\/p>\n

with Jackie Brenston and Ike Turner,” I said. But I could see him<\/span><\/p>\n

losing interest in the subject. “I’d better go. Your place looks<\/span><\/p>\n

nice. Give me some feedback later on the Crudup situation, will you?”<\/span><\/p>\n

I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“My favorite police officer,” I heard a woman say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The voice of Theodosha Flannigan was like a melancholy recording out of<\/span><\/p>\n

the past, the kind that carries fond memories but also some that are<\/span><\/p>\n

better forgotten. She was a member of the Lejeune family in Franklin,<\/span><\/p>\n

down the Teche, people whose wealth and lawn parties were legendary in<\/span><\/p>\n

southwest Louisiana, and she still used their name rather than<\/span><\/p>\n

Merchie’s. She was tall, darkly beautiful, with hollow cheeks and long<\/span><\/p>\n

legs like a model’s, her southern accent exaggerated, her jeans and<\/span><\/p>\n

tied-up black hair and convertible automobiles an affectation that<\/span><\/p>\n

belied the conservative and oligarchical roots she came from.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But in spite of her corn bread accent and the pleasure she seemed to<\/span><\/p>\n

take in portraying herself as an irreverent and neurotic southern<\/span><\/p>\n

woman, she had another side, one she never engaged in conversation<\/span><\/p>\n

about. She had written two successful screenplays and a trilogy of<\/span><\/p>\n

crime novels containing elements that were undeniably lyrical. Although<\/span><\/p>\n

her novels had never won an Edgar award, her talent was arguably<\/span><\/p>\n

enormous.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How you doin’, Theo?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Stay for coffee or a cold drink?” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You know me, always on the run,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She curled her fingers around the limb of a mimosa tree and propped one<\/span><\/p>\n

moccasin-clad foot against the trunk. Her breasts rose and fell<\/span><\/p>\n

against her blouse.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How about diet Dr. Pepper on the rocks, with cherries in it?” she<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Don’t hang around. Get away now, I heard a voice inside me say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m just about to fix some sherbet with strawberries. We’d love to<\/span><\/p>\n

have you join us, Dave,” Merchie said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sounds swell,” I said, and dropped my eyes, wondering at the price I<\/span><\/p>\n

was willing to pay in order not to be alone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

On the way into the backyard Theodosha touched my arm. “I’m sorry<\/span><\/p>\n

about your loss. I hope you’re doing all right these days,” she<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But I had no memory of her sending a sympathy card when Boot-she<\/span><\/p>\n

died.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I went to an early Mass the next morning, then bought a copy of the<\/span><\/p>\n

Times-Picayune and drank coffee at the picnic table in the backyard and<\/span><\/p>\n

read the newspaper. I read three paragraphs into an article about an<\/span><\/p>\n

errant bomb falling into a community of mud brick huts in Afghanistan,<\/span><\/p>\n

then closed the paper and watched a group of children throwing a red<\/span><\/p>\n

Frisbee back and forth under the oak trees in the park. A speedboat<\/span><\/p>\n

full of teenagers roared down the bayou, swirling a trough back and<\/span><\/p>\n

forth between both banks, splintering the air with a deafening sound. I<\/span><\/p>\n

heard my portable phone tinkle softly by my thigh.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The operator asked if I would accept a collect call from Clete<\/span><\/p>\n

Purcel.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Streak, I’m in the zoo,” Clete shouted.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In the background I could hear voices echoing down stone corridors or<\/span><\/p>\n

inside cavernous rooms.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What did you say?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m in Central Lock-Up. They busted me for assaulting Gunner<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Ardoin. I feel like I’ve been arrested for spraying Lysol on a toilet<\/span><\/p>\n

bowl.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why haven’t you bonded out?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Nig and Willie aren’t answering my calls.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I tried to make sense out of what he was saying. For years Clete had<\/span><\/p>\n

chased down bail skips for Nig Rosewater and Wee Willie Bimstine. He<\/span><\/p>\n

should have been out of jail with a signature.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I started to speak, but he cut me off. “Gunner is a grunt for Fat<\/span><\/p>\n

Sammy Fig, and Fat Sammy is connected up with every major league piece<\/span><\/p>\n

of shit in Louisiana. I think Nig and Willie don’t want trouble with<\/span><\/p>\n

the wrong people. Arraignment isn’t until Tuesday morning. Been down<\/span><\/p>\n

to Central Lock-Up lately?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I took the four-lane through Morgan City into New Orleans. But I<\/span><\/p>\n

didn’t go directly to the jail. Instead, I drove up St. Charles<\/span><\/p>\n

Avenue, then over toward Tchoupitoulas and parked in front of Gunner<\/span><\/p>\n

Ardoin’s cottage. His Honda was in the driveway. I walked down to a<\/span><\/p>\n

corner store and bought a quart of chocolate milk and a prepackaged ham<\/span><\/p>\n

sandwich and sat down on Gunner’s front steps and began eating the<\/span><\/p>\n

sandwich while children roller-skated past me under the trees.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I heard someone open the door behind me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What the fuck you think you’re doin’?” Gunner’s voice said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh, hi. I was about to ask you the same thing,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What?” he said. He was bare chested and barefoot, and wore only a<\/span><\/p>\n

pair of pajama bottoms string-tied under his navel. The breeze blew<\/span><\/p>\n

from the back of the cottage through the open door. “What?” he<\/span><\/p>\n

repeated.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Toking up kind of early today?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“So call the DEA.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Father Jimmie Dolan was your basketball coach. Why did you say you<\/span><\/p>\n

didn’t know him?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

‘”Cause I can’t remember every guy I knew in high school with a whistle<\/span><\/p>\n

hanging out of his mouth.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Father Jimmie says it wasn’t you who attacked him, Gunner. But I<\/span><\/p>\n

think somebody told you to bust him up, and you pieced off the job to<\/span><\/p>\n

somebody else. Probably because you still have qualms.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Is this because I filed on your friend?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, it’s because you’re a shit bag and you’re going to drop those<\/span><\/p>\n

charges or I’ll be back here tonight and jam a chainsaw up your ass.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Look, man ” he began.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, you look,” I said, rising to my feet, shoving him backward through<\/span><\/p>\n

the door into the living room. “Fat Sammy is behind the job on Father<\/span><\/p>\n

Jimmie ?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I shoved him again. He tripped over a footstool and fell backward on<\/span><\/p>\n

the floor. I pulled back my sports coat and removed my .45 from its<\/span><\/p>\n

clip-on holster and squatted next to him. I pulled back the slide and<\/span><\/p>\n

chambered a round, then pointed the muzzle at his face.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Look at my eyes and tell me I won’t do it,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I saw the breath seize in his throat and the blood go out of his<\/span><\/p>\n

cheeks. He stretched his head back, turning his face sideways, away<\/span><\/p>\n

from the .45.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I waited a long time, then touched his forehead with the gun’s muzzle<\/span><\/p>\n

and winked at him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I won’t. I’d think about my request on those charges, though,” I<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Just as I eased the hammer back down, his bladder gave way and he shut<\/span><\/p>\n

his eyes in shame and embarrassment. When I looked up I saw a little<\/span><\/p>\n

girl, no older than six or seven, staring at us, horrified, from the<\/span><\/p>\n

kitchen doorway.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That’s my daughter. I get her one day a week. I’ve known some cruel<\/span><\/p>\n

guys with a badge, but you take the cake,” Gunner said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The charges against Clete were dropped by three that afternoon. I<\/span><\/p>\n

drove him from Central Lock-Up to his apartment on St. Ann, where he<\/span><\/p>\n

fell asleep on the couch in front of a televised football game. Fat<\/span><\/p>\n

Sammy Figorelli’s home was only three blocks away, over on Ursulines.<\/span><\/p>\n

The temptation was too much.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Fat Sammy had grown up in the French Quarter, and although he owned<\/span><\/p>\n

homes in Florida and on Lake Pontchartrain, he spent most of his time<\/span><\/p>\n

inside the half city block where the Figorelli family had lived since<\/span><\/p>\n

the 1890s. It seemed Sammy had been elephantine all his life. As a<\/span><\/p>\n

child the balloon tires of his bicycle burst under his weight. His<\/span><\/p>\n

rump wouldn’t fit in the desk at the school run by the Ursuline nuns.<\/span><\/p>\n

In high school he got stuck inside his tuba while performing with the<\/span><\/p>\n

marching band at an LSU football game. The paramedics had to scissor<\/span><\/p>\n

off his jacket, smear him with Vaseline, and pry him loose in front of<\/span><\/p>\n

ninety thousand people. In his senior year he mustered up the courage<\/span><\/p>\n

to invite a girl to the Prytania Theater. A gang of Irish kids in the<\/span><\/p>\n

balcony rained down a barrage of water-filled condoms on their heads.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

As an adult he filled his body with laxatives, tried every diet program<\/span><\/p>\n

imaginable, trained at fat farms, sweated to the oldies with Richard<\/span><\/p>\n

Simmons, attended a fire-walker’s school run by a celebrity con man in<\/span><\/p>\n

California, almost died from liposuction, and finally had a gastric<\/span><\/p>\n

bypass. The consequence of the latter was a weight loss of 170 pounds<\/span><\/p>\n

in a year’s time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

All of the wrong kind.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He lost the blubber, but under the blubber was a support system of<\/span><\/p>\n

sinew that hung on his frame like curtains of partially hardened<\/span><\/p>\n

cement. If this was not enough of a problem, Fat Sammy had another one<\/span><\/p>\n

that was equally egregious and beyond the scope of medicine. His head<\/span><\/p>\n

was shaped like a football, his few strands of gold hair brushed like<\/span><\/p>\n

oily wire into his scalp.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I twisted an iron bell on the grilled door that gave onto a domed<\/span><\/p>\n

archway leading into Fat Sammy’s courtyard.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who is it?” a voice said from a speaker inside the gate.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It’s Dave Robicheaux. I’ve got a problem,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Not with me, you don’t.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It’s about Gunner Ardoin. Open the door.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Never heard of him. Come back another time. I’m taking a nap.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“There’re some movie people in New Iberia. They want to work with some<\/span><\/p>\n

local guys who know their way around,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The speaker box went dead and the gate buzzed open.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The courtyard was surfaced with soft brick, the flower beds blooming<\/span><\/p>\n

with yellow and purple roses, irises and hibiscus and Hong Kong<\/span><\/p>\n

orchids. Banana and umbrella trees and windmill palms grew along the<\/span><\/p>\n

walls, and the balconies dripped with bougainvillea and passion vine.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fat Sammy lay in a hammock like a beached whale, a Hawaiian shirt<\/span><\/p>\n

unbuttoned on his chest, his skin glazed with suntan lotion. A<\/span><\/p>\n

portable stereo and a mirror and a hairbrush sat on a glass-topped<\/span><\/p>\n

table next to him. The stereo was playing “Clair de Lune.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who are these movie people?” he asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Germans. They’re making a documentary. I think you’re the man to<\/span><\/p>\n

show them around,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I pulled up a deep-backed wicker chair and sat down without being<\/span><\/p>\n

asked. He sat up in the hammock and turned down the volume on the<\/span><\/p>\n

stereo, his scalp glistening in the sunshine. He wiped his head with a<\/span><\/p>\n

towel, his eyes neutral, his mouth down-turned at the corners.<\/span><\/p>\n

“Documentary on what?” he asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Let me clear the decks about something else first. Somebody beat up a<\/span><\/p>\n

priest named Father Jimmie Dolan. It’s a lousy thing to happen, Sammy,<\/span><\/p>\n

something no respectable man would be involved in. I thought you’d<\/span><\/p>\n

want to know about it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, I don’t.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“In the old days elderly people in New Orleans didn’t get jack-rolled<\/span><\/p>\n

and their houses didn’t get creeped and nobody murdered a child or<\/span><\/p>\n

abused Catholic clergy. If N.O.P.D. couldn’t take care of it, we let<\/span><\/p>\n

you guys do it for us.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His eyes were hooded, like a frog’s. “You were kicked off the force,<\/span><\/p>\n

Robicheaux. You don’t speak for nobody, at least not around here.” He<\/span><\/p>\n

paused, as though reconsidering the tenor of his rhetoric. “Look, this<\/span><\/p>\n

used to be a good city. It ain’t no more.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

When I didn’t speak he took a breath and started over. “This is the<\/span><\/p>\n

way it is. I make movies. I build houses. I’m developing shopping<\/span><\/p>\n

centers in Mississippi and Texas. You want to know who’s running New<\/span><\/p>\n

Orleans? Flip over a rock. Welfare pukes hustling bazooka and blacks<\/span><\/p>\n

and South American spies and bikers muleing brown skag out of Florida.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nothing against the blacks or the spies. They’re making it just like<\/span><\/p>\n

we did. But I wouldn’t be in a room with none of them people unless I<\/span><\/p>\n

was encased in a full-body condom.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who did the job on Father Dolan?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His eyes were pale blue, almost without color, his expression like that<\/span><\/p>\n

of a man who had never learned to smile. “Somebody saying it’s on me?<\/span><\/p>\n

This guy Ardoin you mentioned?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I looked at a strip of pink cloud above the courtyard. “You’re the man<\/span><\/p>\n

in New Orleans,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yeah, every whore in the city tells me the same thing. I wonder why.<\/span><\/p>\n

I ever jerk you around, Robicheaux?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Not to my knowledge.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then I ain’t going to now. That means I didn’t have nothing to do<\/span><\/p>\n

with hurting a priest, and what I might know about it is my own<\/span><\/p>\n

business.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m a little disappointed, Sammy. Within certain parameters you were<\/span><\/p>\n

always straight up,” I said. I got up to go.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He brushed at his nose, his pale blue eyes burrowing into my face. “You<\/span><\/p>\n

lied your way in here? About them movie people?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That was on the square.” I handed him a business card that had been<\/span><\/p>\n

given to me by a member of a visiting German television crew the<\/span><\/p>\n

previous week. “These guys are doing a story on the New Orleans<\/span><\/p>\n

connection to the assassination of President Kennedy. They believe it<\/span><\/p>\n

got set up here and in Miami.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You saying I ” His voice broke in his throat. “I voted for John<\/span><\/p>\n

Kennedy.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m saying nothing had better happen to Father Dolan again.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Fat Sammy rose from the hammock, wheezing in his chest, like an angry<\/span><\/p>\n

behemoth that couldn’t find its legs. I had forgotten how tall he was.<\/span><\/p>\n

He picked up a glass of iced tea from the table gargled with it, and<\/span><\/p>\n

spit it in the flower bed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You own your soul?” he asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“If so, count yourself a lucky man. Now get the fuck out of here,” he<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I ate dinner with Clete at a small restaurant up the street from the<\/span><\/p>\n

French Market, then shook hands with him and told him I had better head<\/span><\/p>\n

back for New Iberia. I watched him walk across Jackson Square and pass<\/span><\/p>\n

the cathedral, pigeons napping in the shadows around his feet, and<\/span><\/p>\n

disappear down Pirates Alley. I started to get into my truck, but<\/span><\/p>\n

instead, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I sat down on one of the iron<\/span><\/p>\n

benches by Andrew Jackson’s equestrian statue, and listened to a black<\/span><\/p>\n

man playing a bottleneck guitar.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was the burnt-out end of a long day and a longer weekend. The wind<\/span><\/p>\n

was cold off the river, the light cold and mauve colored between the<\/span><\/p>\n

buildings that framed the square, the air tinged with the smell of gas<\/span><\/p>\n

from the trees and flower beds. The black man worked the glass<\/span><\/p>\n

bottleneck up and down the frets of his guitar and sang, “Oh Lord, my<\/span><\/p>\n

time ain’t long. Rubber-tired hack coming down the road, burial-ground<\/span><\/p>\n

bound.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

An N.O.P.D. cruiser pulled to the curb on Decatur. A black woman in<\/span><\/p>\n

uniform got out and fixed her cap, adjusted the baton on her belt, and<\/span><\/p>\n

walked toward me. She positioned herself between me and the sun, like<\/span><\/p>\n

an exclamation point against a fiery crack in the sky. I picked at my<\/span><\/p>\n

nails and didn’t return her stare.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Can’t stay out of town?” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I have an addictive personality,” I replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She sat down on the corner of the bench. “You got a bad jacket for a<\/span><\/p>\n

cop, Robicheaux.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who the hell are you?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Clotile Arceneaux. See,” she said, lifting her brass name tag with<\/span><\/p>\n

her thumb. “Your friend, Father Dolan? He’s an amateur, and they’re<\/span><\/p>\n

going to take his legs off yours, too, you keep messing in what you’re<\/span><\/p>\n

not supposed to be messing in.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m not big on telling other people what to do. I ask they show me<\/span><\/p>\n

the same courtesy,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The baton on her hip kept banging against the bench. She slid it out<\/span><\/p>\n

of the ring that held it and bounced it between her legs on the cement.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her pursed lips looked like a tiny red rose in the gloom. <\/span>I<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

thought she would speak again, but she didn’t. The sun went down<\/span><\/p>\n

behind the buildings in the square and the wind gusted off the levee,<\/span><\/p>\n

smelling of rain and fish-kill in the swamps.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Can I buy you coffee, officer?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Your friend is off the hook on the assault beef. Time for you to go<\/span><\/p>\n

home, Robicheaux,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Home, I thought, and looked at her curiously, as though the word would<\/span><\/p>\n

not register in my mind.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Chapter 3.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

On Monday I left the department at mid-morning and checked out a<\/span><\/p>\n

history of Louisiana blues music and swamp pop from the city library<\/span><\/p>\n

and began reading it in my office. It was raining outside, and through<\/span><\/p>\n

my window I could see a freight train, the boxcars shiny with water,<\/span><\/p>\n

wobbling down the old Southern Pacific tracks through the black section<\/span><\/p>\n

of town. The longtime sheriff”, an ex-marine who had marched out of<\/span><\/p>\n

the Chosin Reservoir, had retired and been replaced by my old partner,<\/span><\/p>\n

Helen Soileau.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I saw her stop in the corridor outside my office and bite her lip, her<\/span><\/p>\n

hands on her hips. She tapped on the door, then opened it without<\/span><\/p>\n

waiting for me to tell her to come in.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Got a minute?” she asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sure.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“A couple of N.O.P.D. plainclothes picked up a prisoner this morning.<\/span><\/p>\n

They said you and Clete bent a pornographic actor out of shape. They<\/span><\/p>\n

thought it was funny.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Pornographic actor?” I said vaguely.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Ardoin was his name.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Clete flattened a coffeepot against the side of the guy’s head, but it<\/span><\/p>\n

wasn’t a big deal,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She had the muscular build of a man and blond hair that she cut short,<\/span><\/p>\n

tapering it on the sides and neck so that it looked like the freshly<\/span><\/p>\n

cropped mane on a pony. She wore slacks and a white, short-sleeve<\/span><\/p>\n

shirt, a badge holder hooked on her belt. She sucked in her cheeks and<\/span><\/p>\n

watched a raindrop run down the window glass above my head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Not a big deal? Interrogating people outside your jurisdiction,<\/span><\/p>\n

banging them in the head with a coffeepot? Dave, I never thought I’d<\/span><\/p>\n

be in this situation,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Which one is that?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She leaned on the windowsill and looked at the lights of the freight<\/span><\/p>\n

caboose disappearing between a green jungle on each side of the<\/span><\/p>\n

tracks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You and Cletus work it out, but I don’t want anybody, that means<\/span><\/p>\n

anybody, dragging N.O.P.D.”s dogshit into this department. I don’t<\/span><\/p>\n

want to be the dartboard for those wise-asses, either. We straight on<\/span><\/p>\n

this?” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I hear you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Good.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Remember an R&B guitarist named Junior Crudup?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He went into Angola and never came out. I think his granddaughter got<\/span><\/p>\n

swindled out of her land over in St. James Parish. I think Merchie<\/span><\/p>\n

Flannigan is mixed up in it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She straightened her back, then looked at me for a long moment. But<\/span><\/p>\n

whatever she had planned to say seemed to go out of her eyes. She<\/span><\/p>\n

grinned, shaking her head, and walked out into the corridor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I followed her outside.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What was that about?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” she said. “Streak, you’re just too<\/span><\/p>\n

much. God protect me from my own sins.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then she laughed out loud and walked away.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Monday night I listened to two ancient .78 recordings made by Junior<\/span><\/p>\n

Crudup in the 1940s. As with Leadbelly, the double-strung bass strings<\/span><\/p>\n

on his guitar were tuned an octave apart, but you could hear Blind<\/span><\/p>\n

Lemon and Robert Johnson in his style as well. His voice was haunting.<\/span><\/p>\n

No, that’s not the right word. It drifted above the notes like a<\/span><\/p>\n

moan.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There are some stories that are just too awful to hear, the kind that<\/span><\/p>\n

people press on you after AA. meetings or in late-hour bars, and later<\/span><\/p>\n

you cannot rid yourself of. This is one of them.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Oldtime recidivists always maintained that the worst joints in the<\/span><\/p>\n

country were in Arkansas. Places like Huntsville and Eastham in the<\/span><\/p>\n

Texas penal system came in a close second, primarily because of the<\/span><\/p>\n

furious pace at which the convicts were worked and the punishment<\/span><\/p>\n

barrels they were forced to stand on throughout the night, dirty and<\/span><\/p>\n

unfed, if a gun hack decided they were dogging it in the cotton<\/span><\/p>\n

field.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But Angola Pen could lay claims that few other penitentiaries could<\/span><\/p>\n

match. During Reconstruction Angola became the model for the rental<\/span><\/p>\n

convict system, one emulated throughout the postbellum South, not only<\/span><\/p>\n

as a replacement for slave labor but as a far more cost-efficient and<\/span><\/p>\n

profitable successor to it. Literally thousands of Louisiana convicts<\/span><\/p>\n

died of exposure, malnutrition, and beatings with the black Betty. Each<\/span><\/p>\n

of the camps made use of wood stocks that were right out of medieval<\/span><\/p>\n

Europe. The scandals at Angola received national notoriety in the<\/span><\/p>\n

1950s when convicts began slashing the tendons in their ankles rather<\/span><\/p>\n

than stack time on what was called the Red Hat Gang.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I drove up Bayou Teche to Loreauville, where the black man to whom I<\/span><\/p>\n

had sold my boat and bait business now lived with his daughter on a<\/span><\/p>\n

small plot of land not far from town. His house was set back in the<\/span><\/p>\n

shadows, on the bayou’s edge, the tin roof almost entirely covered by<\/span><\/p>\n

the overhang of pecan and oak trees. I parked my pickup truck in the<\/span><\/p>\n

trees and walked up to the gallery, where he sat in a wood rocker, a<\/span><\/p>\n

jelly glass filled with iced coffee in his massive hand.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His name was Batist, and he was both older than he would concede and<\/span><\/p>\n

yet indifferent to what the world thought of him. He had worked most<\/span><\/p>\n

of his life as a farmer, a muskrat trapper and commercial fisherman<\/span><\/p>\n

with my father, and as a packer in several canneries. He could not<\/span><\/p>\n

read or write, but he was nonetheless one of the most insightful people<\/span><\/p>\n

I had ever known.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A fat, three-footed raccoon named Tripod was eating out of a pet bowl<\/span><\/p>\n

on the steps.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What’s the haps, “Pod?” I said to the raccoon, scooping him up in my<\/span><\/p>\n

arms.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Batist’s whiskers were white against his cheeks. He removed a cigar<\/span><\/p>\n

from the pocket of his denim shirt and slipped it into his jaw but<\/span><\/p>\n

didn’t light it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You ain’t come to see me this weekend,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I had to take care of some business in New Orleans,” I said. “Years<\/span><\/p>\n

ago, you knew Junior Crudup, didn’t you?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, ain’t no doubt about that,” he<\/span><\/p>\n

replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What happened to him?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What always happened to his kind back then. Trouble wherever he<\/span><\/p>\n

went.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Want to be a little more specific?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Back in them days there was fo’ kinds of black folks. There was<\/span><\/p>\n

people of color, there was Negroes, and there was colored people. Under<\/span><\/p>\n

all them others was niggers.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Crudup was in the last category?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Wrong about that. Junior Crudup was a man of color. Called his-self<\/span><\/p>\n

a Creole. He wore an ox-blood Stetson, two-tone shoes, and a shirt and<\/span><\/p>\n

suit that was always pressed. Used to have a cherry red electric<\/span><\/p>\n

guitar he’d carry to all the dances. If a man could be pretty, that<\/span><\/p>\n

was Junior.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How’d he end up in Angola?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Didn’t fit. Not in white people’s world, not in black people’s world.<\/span><\/p>\n

Junior had his own way. Didn’t take his hat off to nobody. He’d walk<\/span><\/p>\n

five miles befo’ he’d sit in the back of the bus. Back in them days, a<\/span><\/p>\n

black man like that wasn’t gonna have a long run.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Tripod was struggling in my arms and kicking at me with his feet. I<\/span><\/p>\n

set him down and looked at the fireflies lighting in the trees. The<\/span><\/p>\n

air was cool and breathless, the surface of the bayou layered with<\/span><\/p>\n

steam. An electrically powered boat hung with lanterns was passing<\/span><\/p>\n

through the corridor of oaks that lined the banks. Batist’s attitudes<\/span><\/p>\n

on race were not conventional ones. He never saw himself as a victim,<\/span><\/p>\n

nor did he ever act as the apologist for black men who were forced into<\/span><\/p>\n

lives of crime, but by the same token he never told less than the truth<\/span><\/p>\n

about the world in which he’d grown up. So far I could not determine<\/span><\/p>\n

where he stood on Junior Crudup.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It started at a dance at the beginning of the Depression,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Junior was about t’irteen or fo’teen years old, working in a band for<\/span><\/p>\n

a black man had the most beautiful voice you ever heard. They was<\/span><\/p>\n

playing in a white juke by Ville Platte, on a real hot night, the place<\/span><\/p>\n

burning up inside. The singer, the man wit’ the beautiful voice, he<\/span><\/p>\n

was playing the piano and singing at the same time, sweat pouring down<\/span><\/p>\n

his face. A white woman come off the dance flo’ and patted her<\/span><\/p>\n

handkerchief on his brow. That’s all she done. That’s all she had to<\/span><\/p>\n

do.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“After the juke closed up, five white men drunk on moonshine caught the<\/span><\/p>\n

singer out on the road and beat him till he couldn’t get off the<\/span><\/p>\n

ground. But that wasn’t enough for them, no. They was in an old Ford,<\/span><\/p>\n

one wit’ them narrow tires, and they run the tire right acrost his<\/span><\/p>\n

t’roat and busted his windpipe. Man never sung again and died in the<\/span><\/p>\n

asylum. Junior seen it all, right there on the side of the road, and<\/span><\/p>\n

couldn’t do nothing about it. I don’t t’ink there was a person in the<\/span><\/p>\n

whole round world he trusted after that.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why’d he go to the joint, Batist?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Got caught sleeping wit’ a white man’s wife. That was 1934 or ’35.<\/span><\/p>\n

But you want to know what happened in there, we got to talk to<\/span><\/p>\n

Hogman.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Batist, I’d really like to keep this simple.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“They put Junior Crudup on the Red Hat Gang. Every nigger in Lou’sana<\/span><\/p>\n

feared that name, Dave. The ones come off it wasn’t never the same.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Hogman Patin was a big, powerful man, an ex-con musician who had done<\/span><\/p>\n

time at the old camps in Angola with Robert Pete Williams, Matthew<\/span><\/p>\n

Maxey, and Guitar Git-and-Go Welch. His arms were coal black and laced<\/span><\/p>\n

with pink scars from a half dozen knife beefs inside the prison system.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now he ran a cafe in St. Martinville, appeared once a year at the<\/span><\/p>\n

International Music Festival in Lafayette, and sold scenic postcards<\/span><\/p>\n

with his signature on them for a dollar a piece. Batist and I sat with<\/span><\/p>\n

him in his side yard, a mile up the bayou, while he threw scrap wood on<\/span><\/p>\n

a fire and told us about Junior Crudup and the Red Hat Gang.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“See, Junior run the first year he was on the farm. Gunbull put a half<\/span><\/p>\n

cup of birdshot in his back, but he whipped a mule into the water and<\/span><\/p>\n

held onto its tail till it swum him all the way acrost the Miss’sippi,”<\/span><\/p>\n

Hogman said, flinging a board into the fire, the sparks fanning across<\/span><\/p>\n

the bayou’s surface. “A young white doctor on the other side picked<\/span><\/p>\n

the shot out of his back and tole Junior he had a choice he’d give<\/span><\/p>\n

Junior ten dollars and forget he was there or the doctor would carry<\/span><\/p>\n

him on back to the penitentiary.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Junior said, “They’ll whup me with the black Betty if I go back.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The doctor say, “No, they ain’t. I’m gonna make sure they ain’t.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The doctor carried him on back to the farm and tole the warden he was<\/span><\/p>\n

gonna come see Junior every mont’, and if Junior was whupped, the<\/span><\/p>\n

doctor was gonna have the warden’s job.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“When Junior come out of the infirmary, they sent him to the Red Hat<\/span><\/p>\n

Gang. There was two captains running the Red Hat Gang then, the<\/span><\/p>\n

Latiolais brothers. First day they tole Junior they knowed they<\/span><\/p>\n

couldn’t whup him, but by God they was gonna kill him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“See, there was several tings special about the Red Hat Gang. Everybody<\/span><\/p>\n

wore black-and-white stripes and straw hats that was painted red. But<\/span><\/p>\n

didn’t nobody walk. From cain’t-see to cain’t-see, it was double-time,<\/span><\/p>\n

hit-it-and-git-it, roll, nigger, roll.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The Latiolais brothers was both drunkards. One of them might drink<\/span><\/p>\n

corn liquor under a tree and take a nap, then wake up and point his<\/span><\/p>\n

finger at a man and say, “Take off, boy.” The next ting you’d hear was<\/span><\/p>\n

that shotgun popping.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“If a man fell out under the sun, he’d get put on an anthill. If a man<\/span><\/p>\n

was dogging it on the wheelbarrow, the captain would say, “I need me a<\/span><\/p>\n

big wet rock.” There was a mess of rocks piled up down in the<\/span><\/p>\n

shallows, see. A convict would have to find a big one, a twenty-five<\/span><\/p>\n

pounder maybe, wet it down, and run it back up the slope to the captain<\/span><\/p>\n

befo’ it was dry. Course, the faster the convict run, the quicker the<\/span><\/p>\n

rock got dried.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“So one day the captain tole Junior he was dogging it and he better get<\/span><\/p>\n

his ass down on the river and bring the captain the biggest wet rock he<\/span><\/p>\n

could find. Now, them rocks was a good half mile away and the captain<\/span><\/p>\n

knowed Junior was gonna be one wore-out nigger by the end of the day.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Except Junior toted the rock on up the slope, then when the captain<\/span><\/p>\n

wasn’t looking, he ducked behind some gum trees and pissed all over it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then he holds up the rock to the captain and says, “This wet enough for<\/span><\/p>\n

you, boss?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The captain touches the rock and looks at his hand and smells it. He<\/span><\/p>\n

cain’t believe what Junior just done. Everybody on the Red Hat Gang<\/span><\/p>\n

started laughing. They was trying to hide it, looking at the ground<\/span><\/p>\n

and each other, but they just couldn’t hold it inside. It was so funny<\/span><\/p>\n

they thought for a minute even the captain would laugh. They was sure<\/span><\/p>\n

wrong about that.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What happened?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Hogman wore a strap undershirt that hung like rags on his body. His<\/span><\/p>\n

eyes took on a melancholy cast.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The captain took Junior to the sweatbox on Camp A. It was an iron box<\/span><\/p>\n

no bigger than a coffin, standing straight up on a concrete pad. They<\/span><\/p>\n

kept that boy in there seven days, in the middle of summer, no way to<\/span><\/p>\n

go to the bat’ room except a bucket between his legs,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What became of Junior?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t know. He was in and out of “Gola a couple of times. Maybe they<\/span><\/p>\n

buried him in the levee. I reckon there’s hundreds in that levee. I<\/span><\/p>\n

don’t study on it no mo’,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His eyes seemed to focus on nothing, his forehead glistening in the<\/span><\/p>\n

firelight.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Early the next morning I picked up my mail in my pigeon hole at the<\/span><\/p>\n

department and sorted through it at my desk. In it was an invitation,<\/span><\/p>\n

written in a beautiful hand on silver-embossed stationery.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Dear Dave,<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Can you come to Fox Run Saturday afternoon? It’s lawn tennis and<\/span><\/p>\n

drinks and probably a few self-satisfied people talking about their<\/span><\/p>\n

money. In fact, it’s probably going to be a drag. But that’s life on<\/span><\/p>\n

the bayou, right? Merchie and I do want to see you. Call me. Please.<\/span><\/p>\n

It’s been a long time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Until then, Theodosha<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A long time since what? I thought.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But I knew the answer, and the memory was one I tried to push out of my<\/span><\/p>\n

mind. I dropped the invitation into a drawer and glanced out the<\/span><\/p>\n

window at a car with two men in it, pulling to the curb in front of the<\/span><\/p>\n

courthouse. The driver wore a black suit and a Roman collar. His<\/span><\/p>\n

passenger twisted his head about, his face bloodless, like someone on<\/span><\/p>\n

his way to the scaffold.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Two minutes later the pair of them were at my door.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Phil came to the church and made his reconciliation,” Father Jimmie<\/span><\/p>\n

said, closing the door behind him. “If you don’t mind, he’d like to<\/span><\/p>\n

talk over some things with you. Maybe in private.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Gunner Ardoin, whom Father Jimmie referred to as Phil, looked at me<\/span><\/p>\n

briefly, then out the window at a trusty mowing the grass.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You want to tell me something, Gunner?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yeah, sure,” he replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Father Jimmie nodded and left the room. I told Gunner to take a seat<\/span><\/p>\n

in front of my desk. He breathed through his mouth, as though he were<\/span><\/p>\n

inside a walk-in freezer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m doing this for Father Dolan,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’re doing it to save your ass,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His eyes didn’t look at me but his face hardened.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You went to confession?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“They call it reconciliation now. But, yeah, I went,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“So who put the contract on Father Jimmie?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I got a phone call. From a guy named Ray. He don’t have another<\/span><\/p>\n

name. He just said I was supposed to take care of Father Dolan. When<\/span><\/p>\n

I got a delivery to make, Ray is the guy who calls me. I told Ray I<\/span><\/p>\n

didn’t do stuff like that. He says I do it or I find a new source of<\/span><\/p>\n

income. So .I called up a guy. He rolls queers in the Quarter and at<\/span><\/p>\n

some sleaze joints on Airline. For a hundred bucks he does other kinds<\/span><\/p>\n

of work, too.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Do you have any idea what you did to a decent and fine man?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You want the guy’s name?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, I want Ray’s last name and I want the guy Ray works for.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Man, you don’t understand. Father Dolan’s got enemies all over New<\/span><\/p>\n

Orleans. He’s trying to shut down drive-by daiquiri windows and trash<\/span><\/p>\n

incinerators and these guys who been dumping sludge out in the river<\/span><\/p>\n

parishes. He told the Times-Picayune these right-to-life people were<\/span><\/p>\n

committing a sin by putting these women’s pictures and names on the<\/span><\/p>\n

Internet.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What are you talking about?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“These anti-abortion nutcases. They take pictures of women going into<\/span><\/p>\n

abortion clinics, then put the pictures and the women’s names and<\/span><\/p>\n

addresses on the Internet. Father Dolan spoke up about it, a Catholic<\/span><\/p>\n

priest. How many enemies does one guy need?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Our time is about up, Gunner,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The queer-bait from the Quarter was supposed to scare Father Dolan,<\/span><\/p>\n

not go ape shit with a pipe. Hey, are you listening? It’s on the<\/span><\/p>\n

street I snitched off Sammy Fig. You must have given up my name to Fat<\/span><\/p>\n

Sammy.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sammy says he never heard of you. You shouldn’t have anything to<\/span><\/p>\n

worry about.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I knew it.” His face turned gray. He wiped his mouth and looked at<\/span><\/p>\n

the trusty gardener clipping a hedge outside the window. “Why you<\/span><\/p>\n

staring at me like that?” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I think you’re using the seal of the confessional to keep Father Dolan<\/span><\/p>\n

from testifying against you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Maybe that was true at first. But I’m still sorry for what I done.<\/span><\/p>\n

He’s a good guy. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I glanced at my watch. “We’re done here. So long, Gunner,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He rose from his chair and walked to the door, then stopped, his<\/span><\/p>\n

shoulders slightly stooped, his impish features waiting in<\/span><\/p>\n

anticipation, as though an act of mercy might still be extended to<\/span><\/p>\n

him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What is it?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Call Sammy Fig. Tell him I didn’t rat him out.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What’s Ray’s last name?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t know.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Adios,”I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I went back to reading my morning mail. When I looked up again, he was<\/span><\/p>\n

gone. A moment later Father Jimmie stuck his head in the door, his<\/span><\/p>\n

disappointment obvious.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You couldn’t help Phil out?” he asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The next day I called the warden’s office at Angola Penitentiary and<\/span><\/p>\n

asked an administrative assistant to do a records search under the name<\/span><\/p>\n

of Clarence “Junior” Crudup.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“When was he here?” the assistant asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“In the forties or fifties.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Our records don’t go back that far. You’ll have to go through Baton<\/span><\/p>\n

Rouge for that.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“This guy went in but didn’t come out.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Say again?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He was never released. No one knows what happened to him.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Try Point Lookout.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The cemetery?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Nobody gets lost in here. They either go out through the front gate<\/span><\/p>\n

or they get planted in the gum trees.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How about under the levee?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He hung up on me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

At noon I walked past the whitewashed and crumbling brick crypts in St.<\/span><\/p>\n

Peter’s Cemetery to Main Street and ate lunch at Victor’s Cafeteria,<\/span><\/p>\n

then returned to the office just as the sun went behind a bank of<\/span><\/p>\n

thunderheads and the wind came up hard in the south and began blowing<\/span><\/p>\n

the trees along the train tracks. There were two telephone messages<\/span><\/p>\n

from Theodosha Flannigan in my mailbox. I dropped them both in the<\/span><\/p>\n

dispatcher’s wastebasket.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

At 4:00 P.M.” in the middle of a downpour, I saw her black Lexus pull<\/span><\/p>\n

to the curb in front of the courthouse. She popped open an umbrella<\/span><\/p>\n

and raced for the front of the building, water splashing on her calves<\/span><\/p>\n

and the bottom of her pink skirt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I went out into the corridor to meet her, feigning a confidence that<\/span><\/p>\n

masked my desire to avoid seeing her again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Did you get my invitation?” she said, her face and hair bright with<\/span><\/p>\n

rain.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes, thanks for sending it,” I replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I called earlier. A couple of times.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Two deputies at the water cooler were looking at us, their eyes<\/span><\/p>\n

traveling the length of her figure.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Come on in the office, Theo. It’s been a little busy today,” I<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I closed the door behind us. “If you can’t come Saturday, I<\/span><\/p>\n

understand. I need to talk to you about something else, though,” she<\/span><\/p>\n

said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’ve got a problem. It comes in bottles. Not just booze. Six months<\/span><\/p>\n

ago I started using again. My psychiatrist gave me the keys to the<\/span><\/p>\n

candy store,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her voice was wired, the whites of her eyes threaded with tiny veins.<\/span><\/p>\n

She let out a breath in a ragged sigh. Her breath smelled like whiskey<\/span><\/p>\n

and mint leaves, and not from the previous night. “Can I sit down?”<\/span><\/p>\n

she asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes, I’m sorry. Please,” I said, and looked over my shoulder at Helen<\/span><\/p>\n

Soileau passing in the corridor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Dave, I have little men with drills and saws working in my head all<\/span><\/p>\n

day. Sometimes in the middle of the night, too,” Theodosha said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“There’s a meeting tonight at Solomon House, across from old New Iberia<\/span><\/p>\n

High,” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’ve been in treatment twice. I was in analysis for seven years. I<\/span><\/p>\n

get a year of sobriety, then things start happening in my head again.<\/span><\/p>\n

My most recent psychiatrist shot himself last week. In Lafayette, in<\/span><\/p>\n

Girard Park, while his kids were playing on the swings. I keep<\/span><\/p>\n

thinking I had something to do with it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Where’s Merchie in all this?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He makes excuses for me. He doesn’t complain. I couldn’t ask for<\/span><\/p>\n

more. You know, he’s not entirely normal himself.” She took a<\/span><\/p>\n

handkerchief from her purse and blotted the moisture from her eyes. “I<\/span><\/p>\n

don’t know what I’m doing here. Merchie’s bothered because you think<\/span><\/p>\n

he’s dumping oil waste around poor people’s homes. He looks up to you.<\/span><\/p>\n

Can’t you come out to Fox Run Saturday?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m kind of jammed up these days.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How long were you drunk?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Fifteen years, more or less.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You didn’t want to drink when your wife died?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No,” I said, my eyes leaving hers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t know how anybody stays sober. I feel dirty all over.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who cares? Some people are born messed up,” she said. “I’m sorry for<\/span><\/p>\n

coming in here like this. I’m going to find a dark, hermetically<\/span><\/p>\n

sealed, air-conditioned lounge and dissolve myself inside a vodka<\/span><\/p>\n

collins.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Some people just ride out the hangover. Today can be the first inning<\/span><\/p>\n

in a new ballgame.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Good try,” she said, rising from her chair.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I thought she was about to leave. Instead, she fixed her gaze on me,<\/span><\/p>\n

waiting. Her hair had the black-purplish sheen of silk, the tips damp<\/span><\/p>\n

and curled around her throat.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Is there something else?” I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What about Saturday?” Her face softened as she waited for an<\/span><\/p>\n

answer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Chapte<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

4.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

That evening, at twilight, a Buick carrying three teenage girls roared<\/span><\/p>\n

around a curve on Loreauville Road, passed a truck, caromed off a<\/span><\/p>\n

roadside mailbox, then righted itself and slowed behind a school bus as<\/span><\/p>\n

someone in the backseat flung a box of fast-food trash and plastic cups<\/span><\/p>\n

and straws out the window. The truck driver, a religious man who kept<\/span><\/p>\n

a holy medal suspended from a tiny chain on his rearview mirror, would<\/span><\/p>\n

say later he thought the girls had settled down and would probably<\/span><\/p>\n

follow the church bus at a reasonable speed into Loreauville, five<\/span><\/p>\n

miles up Bayou Teche.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Instead, the driver crossed the double-yellow stripe again, into<\/span><\/p>\n

oncoming traffic, then tried to cut in front of the church bus when she<\/span><\/p>\n

realized safe harbor would never again be hers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Helen Soileau, four uniformed deputies, two ambulances, and a firetruck<\/span><\/p>\n

were already at the accident scene when I arrived. The girls were<\/span><\/p>\n

still inside the Buick. The telephone pole they had hit was cut in<\/span><\/p>\n

half at the base and the downed wires were hanging in an oak tree. The<\/span><\/p>\n

Buick had slid on its roof farther down the embankment, splintering a<\/span><\/p>\n

white fence before coming to rest by the side of a fish pond, where the<\/span><\/p>\n

gas tank had exploded and burned with heat so intense the water in the<\/span><\/p>\n

pond boiled.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You run the tag yet?” I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It’s registered to a physician in Loreauville. The baby-sitter says<\/span><\/p>\n

he and his wife are playing golf. I left a message at the country<\/span><\/p>\n

club,” Helen said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She wore her shield on a black cord around her neck. The wind shifted,<\/span><\/p>\n

blowing across the barns and pastures of the horse farm where the Buick<\/span><\/p>\n

had burned. But the odor the wind carried was not of horses and<\/span><\/p>\n

alfalfa. Helen held a wadded-up piece of Kleenex to her nose,<\/span><\/p>\n

snuffing, as though she had a cold. Two firemen used the jaws-of-life<\/span><\/p>\n

to pry apart the window on the driver’s side of the Buick, then began<\/span><\/p>\n

pulling the remains of the driver out on the grass.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The bus driver says the Buick was swinging all over the road?” I<\/span><\/p>\n

asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yep, they were having a grand time of it. Life on the bayou in 2002,”<\/span><\/p>\n

Helen said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The water oaks along the Teche had already lost their leaves and their<\/span><\/p>\n

branches looked skeletal against the flattened, red glow of the sun on<\/span><\/p>\n

the western horizon. A spruce green Lincoln with two people in the<\/span><\/p>\n

front seat approached us from the direction of Loreauville, slowing in<\/span><\/p>\n

the dusk, pulling onto the shoulder. The driver got out, looking over<\/span><\/p>\n

the top of his automobile at the scene taking place by the fish pond,<\/span><\/p>\n

his face stenciled with a sadness that no cop, at least no decent one,<\/span><\/p>\n

ever wishes to deal with.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I reached through the open window of Helen’s cruiser and picked up a<\/span><\/p>\n

pair of polyethylene gloves and a vinyl garbage bag.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Where you going?” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Litter patrol,” I replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I walked back along the road for two hundred yards or so, past a line<\/span><\/p>\n

of cedar trees that bordered another horse farm, then crossed the road<\/span><\/p>\n

to the opposite embankment where a spray of freshly thrown trash<\/span><\/p>\n

bloomed in the grass. I picked up chicken bones, half-eaten dinner<\/span><\/p>\n

rolls, soiled paper napkins, a splattered container of mashed potatoes<\/span><\/p>\n

and gravy, three blue plastic cups, three lids and straws, and broken<\/span><\/p>\n

pieces of a plastic wrap that had been used to seal the lids on the<\/span><\/p>\n

cups.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There were still grains of ice in the cups, along with the unmistakable<\/span><\/p>\n

smell of sugar, lemon juice, and rum. I found a paper sack and placed<\/span><\/p>\n

the cups and lids in it, then deposited the sack in the garbage bag.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

When I got back to the accident scene, Helen was talking to the father<\/span><\/p>\n

and mother of the girl who had driven the Buick. The father’s face was<\/span><\/p>\n

dilated with rage as he pointed his finger at the drivers of both the<\/span><\/p>\n

truck and the church bus, both of whom had said his daughter was<\/span><\/p>\n

speeding and crossing the double-yellow stripe.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Maybe you boxed her off, too. Why would she go off the left-hand<\/span><\/p>\n

embankment unless you wouldn’t let her back in line? Answer me that,<\/span><\/p>\n

goddammit,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Read the full book by downloading it below.<\/p>\n

DOWNLOAD EPUB<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Book Preview \u00a0 Last Car to Elysian Fields By James Lee Burke \u00a0 Synopsis: \u00a0 Following his superb historical novel White Doves Morning, America’s most acclaimed crime writer winner of the CWA Gold Dagger and twice winner of the Edgar Award returns to Louisiana and Dave Robicheaux. \u00a0 James Lee Burke is in top form … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2021,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[109],"class_list":["post-2022","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-james-lee-burke"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2022","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2022"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2022\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2021"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2022"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2022"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2022"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}