He walked back to the French doors, blotting a cut on his chin with a towel, the razor still in his hand. Then he folded the razor, dropped it in the back pocket of his denims, and began buttoning on his shirt.
'What are you doing, Batist?'
'Take a look out yonder.'
A tall, thin mulatto with skin the color of a new penny was talking to a half dozen black kids by my truck. He wore striped brown pants, with a braided black belt, and a lavender short-sleeve shirt with a white tie. He grinned and jiggled, and his hands moved in the air while he talked, as though a song were working inside him.
'A man like that just like a movie star to them raggedy kids, Dave.'
'At some point they'll learn he isn't.'
'It won't be no he'p then. He's a dope dealer or a pimp, don't be tellin' me he ain't. He'll use up them young boys' lives just so he can have money for a nice car, take womens out to the racetrack, put dope up his nose… Hey, you t'ink I'm wrong? Come see.'
The mulatto man rubbed one kid on his head, the way a baseball coach might, then hooked two fingers inside the kid's belt, drew the kid close to him, and stuffed something small inside his pants. Then he cupped his hand around the nape of another kid's neck, his face beaming with goodwill and play, and shoved something down inside his pants, too.
'I be right back,' Batist said.
'Leave this guy alone, Batist. I'll call the locals and they'll send somebody out.'
'Yeah, in t'ree hours they will.'
'This isn't our pond, partner.'
'Yeah? How come you run across town last night to get mixed up with Purcel and them dagos?'
He picked up his dry cigar from the ashtray, put it deep in his jaw, and went out the door.
Batist walked from the guesthouse through the shade of the mulberry tree to the edge of the parking lot. The mulatto man was leaning against the headlight of my truck, entertaining his audience by one-handedly rolling a half-dollar across the backs of his fingers. He propped one shined shoe behind him on the truck bumper and gingerly squeezed his scrotum. I don't know what he said to Batist. It may have been a patronizing remark or perhaps even a pleasant greeting; he was smiling when he said it. But I don't think he expected the response he got.
The flat of Batist's right hand, which could curve around a brick and shale the corners off it, seemed to explode against the side of the man's head. His face went out of round with the blow, and the blood drained from his cheeks; his jaw hung open, and his eyes were suddenly small and round, shrunken in his head like a pig's. Then Batist hit him with his open hand again, harder, this time on the side of the mouth, so that the bottom lip broke against the teeth.
Batist waved his hands in the midst of the black kids like someone shooing chickens out of a brooder house. They ran in all directions while the mulatto man held the back of his wrist against his mouth, one palm turned outward in a placating gesture.
Batist pointed bis finger into the man's face and walked toward him silently, as though he were leveling a lance at him. The man broke and ran through the parking lot toward a cottage on the opposite side of the street. Batist ground a tiny glass vial into the cement with the heel of his boot, then walked past a group of stunned tourists who had just emerged from the guesthouse dining room; his perspiring face was turned away in embarrassment.
I called my wife, Bootsie, in New Iberia and told her that I would be at least another day in New Orleans, then I tried calling Lucinda Bergeron again at Garden District headquarters. She was still out, so I decided to drive over there, file a statement, and be done with the matter. I didn't know that I would end up talking to Sergeant Benjamin Motley, who used to be in Vice when I was a homicide lieutenant in the First District.
He was a rotund, powerful black man, whose clothes always smelled of cigar smoke, with a thick black mustache and glistening fire-hydrant neck, who had little sympathy for the plight of his own people. One time a black wino in a holding cell had ridiculed Motley, calling him the white man's hired 'knee-grow,' and Motley had sprayed the man from head to foot with a can of Mace. Earlier in his law-enforcement career he had been the subject of a wrongful death investigation, when, as a bailiff, he had escorted seven prisoners from the drunk tank on a wrist chain to morning arraignment and a fire in the courthouse basement had blown the circuits and stalled the elevator between floors. Motley had gotten out through the trap-door in the top of the elevator; the seven men on the chain had died of asphyxiation.
His office was glassed in and spacious, and several merit and civic citations were framed on the walls. Outside was a squad room filled with uniformed cops doing their paperwork at their desks. Motley leaned back in his swivel chair, one shoe propped on his waste-basket, and ate a half-peeled candy bar while I finished writing out in longhand what little I could report about the exchange between Nate Baxter and Lucinda Bergeron.
I signed my name at the bottom of the form and handed it to him. His eyes went up and down the page while he brushed at his chin with one knuckle.
'What are you doing in New Orleans, anyway, Robicheaux? I thought you were a plainclothes in Iberia Parish,' he said.
'I'm on leave for a while.'
'You couldn't stay out of New Orleans?'
'You need anything else, Motley?'
'Not a thing. Use your time any way you want to.'
'What's that mean?'
'You think this is going to bail that broad out?' He shook the page between his fingers.
'I don't know. But she didn't cuss out Nate Baxter while I was there. In fact, in my opinion, it was Baxter who was out of line.'
'Baxter got you suspended without pay when he was in Internal Affairs. You even punched him out in a squad room at First District. You should have written this on toilet paper and put it in the John.'
'You haven't lost your touch, Motley.'
He chewed on the corner of his lip and rolled his eyes sideways.
'Look through the glass,' he said. 'Count the white officers in the squad room, then count the black officers. When you get done doing that, count the female officers in the room. Then count the black female officers. Is the picture coming clear for you?'
'Do they give her a lot of heat?'
'You didn't hear it from me.'
I looked at his face and didn't speak. He wiped the chocolate off his fingers with the candy wrapper and threw the wrapper into the wastebasket.
'Dog shit in her desk drawer, a dildo Scotch-taped to a jar of Vaseline in her mailbox, phony phone messages from David Duke's campaign headquarters, that kind of stuff,' he said. 'She seems like a stand-up broad, but they'll probably run her off eventually.'
'It sounds like she could use some friends,' I said, and got up to go.
'You mean the brothers? Like me?'
I shrugged.
'Last hired, first fired,' he said. 'That's the way it is, my man. It doesn't change because you wear tampons. And let's be clear, the only reason you're involved in this is because of your buddy Purcel. So go pull on your own pud, Robicheaux.'
That evening Batist and I walked over to St. Charles and took the streetcar up to Canal, then walked into the Quarter and ate at the Acme on Iberville. It was crowded and warm inside and smelled of flat beer and the piles of empty oyster shells in the drain bins. We heard thunder out over the river, then it started to rain and we walked in the lee of the buildings back to Canal and caught the streetcar out on the neutral ground.
As we clattered down the tracks around Lee Circle, past the equestrian statue of Robert Lee, St. Charles Avenue opened up into a long green-black corridor of moss-hung oak trees, swirling with mist, touched with the red afterglow of the sun. The inside of the streetcar was cool and dry and brightly lit, the windows flecked with
