get away with all of it.
I went outside through the front door and circled around the side of the building. The air was cold, the wind biting, and in the north the sky piled with clouds that looked as though they contained both snow and electricity. Bobby Joe Guidry was latching the doors on the freezer compartments of his truck.
“Did you see Miss Julie with a couple of young women?” I asked.
“I didn’t see Miss Julie,” he replied. “There were a couple of young women here, though.”
“What did they look like?”
“One had long black hair. The other one looked kind of AC/DC, know what I mean? Her eyes were purple.”
“That’s my daughter, Alafair, and her friend.”
“Sorry.”
“Where did they go?”
“I gave them ice cream and they went back inside. The one with the black hair is your daughter, Mr. Robicheaux?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Two guys were eyeballing them. One guy had grease in his hair and a bump on his nose. The other guy was fat. His suit looked like he got it out of a laundry bag. I didn’t like the looks of them. They were hanging around a long time, smoking cigarettes out there in the trees. I started to go over there and ask them what they were doing.”
“Why?”
“Because I heard one of them say something when he walked by. He said, ‘Maybe get them on the amphib and throw one of them out.’ Then they laughed. When your daughter and her friend showed up, they stopped talking. They just smoked cigarettes and watched everything from under the tree. I didn’t know that was your daughter, Mr. Robicheaux. I would have come got you.”
“Where’d the two guys go?”
“Through the back door right after your daughter and her friend went inside,” he replied.
I wrote my cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to him. “If you see these two guys again, call me.”
“I feel bad about this, Mr. Robicheaux. When I came back from Iraq, I gave up hunting. I promised to do a good deed every day for the rest of my life. I also made a promise that I’d be a protector for people who didn’t have anyone to look after them.”
“You did fine, Bobby Joe.”
“Does that business about an amphibian mean anything to you?” he asked.
I found Clete up by the stage. The band had just finished playing “Ida Red” and was giving up the stage to a full orchestra, one dressed in summer tuxes irrespective of the season, just like Harry James’s orchestra. Clete was shielding his eyes from the glare of the spotlights while he searched the crowd for any sign of Gretchen and Alafair and Julie Ardoin. I told him what Bobby Joe Guidry had said. “You think those two asswipes were talking about the seaplane you saw behind Varina’s place? They were talking about throwing somebody out of a plane?” he asked.
“That’s what Guidry said.”
Clete’s face was pale, his eyes looking inward at an image he obviously didn’t want to see. “I saw that once.”
I could hardly hear him above the noise of the audience. “Say again?”
“Some intelligence guys brought two VC onto the Jolly Green. They were roped up and blindfolded. The guy who was the target had to watch the other guy get thrown out the door. We were probably five hundred feet over the canopy.”
“Clean that stuff out of your head. You think Julie Ardoin is in on this?”
“Nobody could take down Gretchen unless she trusted the wrong person.”
“You’re saying Julie is dirty?”
“I don’t know, Dave. Look at my history. I’ve trusted the wrong women all my life.”
“Where do you want to start?” I said.
His eyes swept the balcony and the crowd and the beer concession. “I don’t have any idea. I’ve made a mess of things, and I can’t sort anything out.”
“Follow me,” I said.
We began at the women’s restroom. I banged on the door with my fist and hung my badge holder inside. “Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department,” I said. “Excuse us, ladies, but we need to come inside.”
I pushed open the door. There was immediate laughter. “Boy, you guys are hard up!” a woman yelled.
“We’re looking for Alafair Robicheaux and Gretchen Horowitz and Julie Ardoin,” I said. “They may be in danger. We need your help.”
The laughter and smiles died. “I know Julie and Alafair,” a woman at a lavatory said. “They ain’t in here, suh.”
“How about in the stalls?” I said.
“They ain’t in here,” the woman repeated.
Regardless, I went from stall to stall, knocking on each door or pushing it open. Clete was looking from side to side, his face burning. “Has anyone in here seen Alafair Robicheaux or Julie Ardoin this evening?” I shouted out.
“By the ice-cream truck,” another woman said.
“Was anyone with them?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” she replied.
The room smelled of perfume and urinated beer. Toilets were flushing. Everyone in the room was staring at me, the frivolous moment gone, a deadness in every person’s face, as though a cold wind had blown through the windows high up on the wall. “Thanks for your help, ladies. We apologize for bothering y’all,” I said.
We went back out in the concourse and climbed the stairs to the balcony and then went back downstairs and through the crowd again. The orchestra had just finished pounding out Louis Prima’s “Sing, Sing, Sing.” No one I recognized or spoke to had seen Alafair or Julie Ardoin, at least not in the last twenty minutes. I saw Clete opening and closing his hands at his sides, a bone flexing in his cheek. “This is a pile of shit,” he said.
“They weren’t abducted by a UFO. Somebody saw them,” I said.
“Except we can’t find that somebody,” he said.
“Where haven’t we looked?”
“Behind the stage?” he said.
“It’s Grand Central Station back there,” I said.
“No, I chased a bail skip in there once. He was at a picnic and tried to hide in a room full of paint buckets and stage costumes.”
“How do we get in?”
He thought about it. “There’s a back door.”
We went back outside into the cold and the damp, musky smell of leaves that had turned from green to yellow and black inside pools of water. We scraped open a heavy metal door in the back of the building just as the orchestra went into Will Bradley and Freddie Slack’s boogie-woogie composition “Beat Me Daddy, Eight to the Bar.”
“God, that gives me the willies,” Clete said.
“What does?”
“That song is on your iPod, the one you said Tee Jolie Melton gave you.”
We were inside a dark hallway, one that smelled of dust and Murphy Oil Soap. “That’s right, Tee Jolie gave it to me. You believe me now?” I said.
“I’m not sure. I got a feeling this isn’t real, Dave.”
“What isn’t?”
“Like I said before. We were supposed to die in the gig on the bayou. The real surprise is maybe we did die. We just haven’t figured it out yet. I’ve heard stories about people’s souls wandering for a long time before they’re
