what I got.”
“Who said otherwise?” I said, sitting down in the driver’s seat, leaving the door open and putting down all the windows with the power buttons.
“These federal investigators, they’re taking me apart. Look, I wasn’t running a Ponzi scheme. It’s like any kind of investment. The people who get in early make the big money. The ones who come along later don’t always do as well. All investment is speculative in nature.”
It was time to change the subject. “Why’d you want to see Purcel?”
“I think my wife is having an affair. I think Purcel knows who it is.”
“If that’s true, why wouldn’t Clete tell you?”
“Maybe somebody got to him.”
Layton kept staring straight ahead, the sno’ball melting in his hand. At one time or another, we have all met someone whose fate we secretly pray will never be our own. The person upon whom a premature death sentence has been imposed will use every medical procedure he can afford to repurchase his life; he will be brave and humble and for a while will even pretend that willpower and prayer and holistic medicine will give him back the sunlit mornings that he once took for granted. But eventually a shadowy figure will step in front of his eyesight and his face will forever be darkened by the experience. I believed that Layton Blanchet had become that man, and it was very hard to feel anger or indignation toward him.
“Clete didn’t stiff you. He’s an honest man,” I said. Then I shifted the direction of the inquiry again. “Did Clete lend you his gold pen?”
I could see Layton’s mouth moving, as though repeating my question. “Gold pen? Why would I want his pen? What are we talking about?”
I was convinced his confusion was not manufactured. “It’s not important,” I said. “I don’t believe the possibility of your wife’s infidelity is the issue, Layton. I think those dead girls are. Maybe it’s time to come clean and get it behind you. Your parents were honest working people. What would they tell you to do?”
“Don’t you try to use my family against me,” he replied. But he spoke without passion, the sno’ball melting and running down his wrist. I took it from his hand and threw it out the window.
“You denied a personal relationship with the Abelards,” I said. “But Kermit Abelard was with you when you gave a talk on biofuels in Jackson, Mississippi. You also have stained glasswork in your house that either he or his father gave you.”
“Maybe it’s him.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Kermit Abelard. Maybe it’s him my wife is sleeping with.”
“I’ve got news for you. Kermit has a boyfriend.”
Layton looked at me as though he were coming out of a trance. “This writer who was in Huntsville?”
You just stuck your foot in it, bud, I thought. “Yeah,
“I don’t care about them one way or another.”
“I would. They’re about to take you down. You have resources, Layton. You’re an intelligent man. Don’t take the weight for these bums.”
Then he said something that convinced me I would never reach the engine that drove Layton Blanchet. “A year ago I took Carolyn to a state fair up in Montana,” he said. “I always loved fairs and carnivals and festivals and circuses and rodeos when I was a kid. It was a summer evening, and the sky was pink and green above the mountains, and this ride called the Kamikaze was lit up against the sunset. I couldn’t recall a more beautiful moment. We were eating candied apples on a bench and watching all these kids get on and off the Kamikaze, and we were surrounded by all these working-class families that were grinning up at the Kamikaze like it was a big piece of magic in the sky. But they looked like people of five hundred years ago. Their faces were just like the faces you see of peasants in paintings of fairs in the Middle Ages. And I said that to Carolyn.”
“Said what?” I asked.
“That nothing has changed. That we’re still the same people, doing the same things, not knowing any more than we knew back then. I told Carolyn, ‘We’re all dust. At a moment like this, you get to look through a glass rainbow and everything becomes magical, but when all is said and done, we’re just dust. Like the people in those paintings. We don’t even know where their graves are.’”
“Maybe life is ongoing. Maybe we all get to see one another again,” I said. “But no matter how it plays out, why not get on the square? You’ve come through hard times before. Maybe things aren’t as bad as you think.”
“She laughed,” he replied, as though he had heard nothing I’d said.
“Who?”
“Carolyn laughed and threw her candied apple in the trash. She said, ‘Honey, you’re telling this to the gal who’s seen you take an old widow for her last cent. Lose the role of the poet, will you?’”
I started the cruiser and drove us out of the park, over the drawbridge, and back onto Main Street. One of Layton’s eyes bulged from his head, like a prosthesis that didn’t fit the socket.
CHAPTER 13
IT WAS STILL raining when Clete Purcel went to sleep that night. He slept peacefully in his cottage at the motor court on the bayou, his air conditioner turned up full blast, a pillow on the side of his head, a big meaty arm on top of the pillow. Inside his sleep, he could hear the rain on the roof and in the trees and hear it tinking on the air conditioner inset in the window. At a little after five A.M., he heard a key turn in the lock. Without removing the pillow from his head, he slipped his hand under the mattress and worked his fingers around the grips of his blue- black snub-nose.38.
In the glow from the night-light in the bathroom, he saw a figure enter the room and close the door softly and relock it. He removed his hand from the pistol and shut his eyes. He heard the sounds of someone undressing; then he felt a person’s weight next to him and a hand tugging the pillow loose from his face.
Emma Poche bent down over him and put her mouth on his and touched him under the sheet and then slid her tongue over his teeth. “How you doin’, honey-bunny?” she said.
He pulled back the covers and took her inside them and held her close against his body. He could feel the heat in her skin and the weight of her breasts against his chest. “I didn’t think you got off till oh-six-hundred,” he said.
“Somebody is covering in the log for me,” she said.
“That’s a good way to get in trouble.”
“No, oh-four-hundred to oh-seven-hundred is all dead time. The drunks are either under arrest or home, and normal people haven’t left for work yet.”
“You got it figured out,” he said.
“Always,” she said, and bit him on the ear. She placed her knee across his thigh and touched him again and blew on his cheek and neck and chest and ran her tongue down his stomach. Then she mounted him and lifted his phallus and placed it inside her, her eyes closing and her mouth opening. “Did you miss me?”
“Oh, boy,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“No, tell me. Did you miss me? Did you have dreams before I got here?”
“You bet,” he said, his voice as thick as rust in his throat.
“You like me, Clete? You like being with me?”
“Don’t talk.”
“No, tell me.”
“You’re great,” he said.
“You’re my big guy. Oh, Clete, keep doing this to me. Just do it and do it and do it.” Then she said “Oh” and “Oh” and “Oh” and “Oh,” like the rhythm of waves hitting on a beach.
When it was over, his heart was pounding and his loins felt drained and weak and empty and his skin was hot to his own touch. She curled against his side and put her fingers in his hair and placed the flat of her hand on his
