The next morning I telephoned Drew to ask her about the intruder in her kitchen, but there was no answer, and later when I went by her house she wasn't home. I stuck my business card in the corner of her screen door.
As I drove back down East Main under the oaks that arched over the street, I saw her jogging along the sidewalk in a T-shirt and a pair of purple shorts, her tan skin glistening with sweat. She raised her arm and waved at me, her breasts big and round against her shirt, but I didn't stop. She could call me if she wanted to, I told myself.
I drove home for lunch and stopped my pickup at the mailbox on the dirt road at the foot of my property. Among the letters and bills was a heavy brown envelope with no postage and my name written across it with no address. I cut the engine, sorted out the junk mail, then sliced open the brown envelope with my pocket knife. Inside were a typed letter and twenty one-hundred dollar bills. The letter read:
We think this fell out of your pocket in Weldon Sonniers house. We think you should have it back. The cop in the basement was an accident. Nobody wanted it that way. He could have walked out of it but he wanted to be a hard guy. Sonnier is a welsher and a rick. If you want to be his knothole, that's your choice. But we think you should mark off all this bull shit and stay in New Iberia. What you've got here is two letrge with more down the road, maybe some business opportunities too, if we get the right signals. Let Sonnier drown in his own shit. If you don't want the money, blow your nose on it. It's all the same to us. We just wanted to offer you an intelligent alternative to being Sonnier main localfuck.
I replaced the hundred-dollar bills and the letter in the envelope, put the envelope in my back pocket, and walked down to the dock. Batist was squatted down on the boards in the sunlight, scaling a stringer of bluegill with a spoon.
The sun was hot off the water, and sweat coursed down between the shoulder blades of his bare back.
'Did you see someone besides the postman up by the mailbox?' I asked.
He squinted his eyes in the glare and thought for a moment. The backs of his hands were shiny with fish mucus.
'A man pass on a mortorsickle,' he said.
'Did he stop?'
'Yeah, I t'ink he stopped. Yeah, he sho' did.'
'What did he look like?'
'I ain't real sure. I ain't paid him much mind, Dave. Somet'ing wrong?'
'It's nothing to worry about.'
Batist tapped his spoon on the dock.
'I 'member he was dressed funny,' he said. 'He didn't have no shirt but he wore them Vings on his pants, what you call them t'ings, you see them in the movies.'
I tried to visualize what he meant, but I was at a loss, as I often was when I tried to talk with Batist in either English or French.
'What movies?' I said.
'The cowboy movies.'
'Chaps? Big leather floppy things that fit over the legs?'
'Yeah, that's it. They was black, and he had tattoos on his back. And he had long hair, too.'
'What kind of tattoos?'
'I don't 'member that.'
'Okay, partner. That's not bad.'
'What ain't bad?'
'Nothing. Don't worry about it.'
'Worry about what?'
'Nothing. I'm going up to the house for lunch now. If you see this guy again, call me. But don't mess with him. Okay?'
'This is a bad guy?'
'Maybe.'
'This is a bad guy, but Batist ain't suppose to worry, no. You somet'ing else, Dave. Lord, if you ain't.'
He went back to scraping the fish with his spoon. I started to speak again, but I had learned long ago to leave Batist alone when I had offended him by underestimating his perception of a situation.
I walked up to the house, and Bootsie and I ate lunch on the redwood table under the mimosa tree in the backyard.
She wore a flowered sundress, and had put on lipstick and earrings, which she seldom did in the middle of the day.
'How do you like the sandwich?' she said.
'It's really good.' It was, too. Ham and onion and horseradish, one of my favorites.
'Did something happen today?'
'No, not really.'
'Nothing happened?'
'Somebody put some money in our mailbox. It's a bribery attempt. Batist thinks it was a guy on a motorcycle.
Somebody with riding chaps and tattoos on his back. So kind of look out for him, although I doubt he'll be back.'
'Is this about Weldon Sonnier?'
'Yeah, I think Clete and I shook up somebody's cookie bag when we went to Bobby Earl's house.'
'You think Bobby Earl's trying to bribe you?'
'No, he's slicker than that. It's probably coming from somewhere else, maybe somebody who's connected with him. I'm not sure.'
'You got a call from Drew Sonnier.'
'Oh?'
'Why did she call here, Dave?'
'I left my card at her house this morning.'
'At her house. I see.'
'Lyle said somebody broke into her house.'
'Doesn't that involve the city police, not the sheriff's department?'
'She didn't report it to them.'
'I see. So you're investigating?'
I looked at the mallards splashing on the pond at the back of our property.
'I promised Lyle I'd talk to her.'
'Lyle made you promise? Is that right? I had the impression that you had a low opinion of Lyle.'
'Ease up, Boots. This case is a pain in the butt as it is.'
'I'm sure that it is. Why don't we ask Drew over sometime? I haven't seen her in a long time.'
'Because I'm not interested in seeing Drew.'
'I think she's very nice. I've always been fond of her.'
'What should I do, Boots? Pretend she's not part of this case?'
'Why should you do that? I don't think you should do that at all.'
I could see the peculiar cast coming into her eyes, as though inside her head she had seen a thought or a conclusion that should have been as obvious to the rest of the world as it was to her.
'Let's go to the track tonight,' I said.
'Let's do. Will you call her this afternoon? I think you should.'
I tried to read what was in her eyes. The mood swings, the distorted and fearful perception, took place sometimes as quickly as a bird flying in and out of a cage.
'I might talk to her,' I said, and put my hand on top of hers, 'but I don't think she'll be much help in the case.
