psychiatrists considered him pathological and hence untreatable; and even if he was convicted of a capital crime, judges knew that he could turn his own execution into an electronic carnival of world-class proportions.
Would he take an interest in my home and family? I had no answer. But I was convinced that, like Joey Gouza or Bobby Earl, he was one of those who had gone across a line at some point in his life and had declared war on the rest of us. Whether we elected to recognize that fact or not, Vic would be at work with a penny book of matches or a strand of wire that he would pop musically between his fists. The time of his appearance in our lives would be of his choosing.
I fixed a cup of coffee and walked down the slope of my yard to the dock. The stars looked white and hot in the sky; on the wind I could smell the sour reek of mud and rotted humus in the marsh, and the wet, gray odor of something dead. A white tree of lightning splintered across the southern sky. Sweat ran down my sides. It was going to be a scorching day.
I unlocked the door of the bait shop and went inside and pulled the chain on the electric bulb that hung over the counter. Then I saw the diagonal slash across the back screen window that gave onto the bayou.
But it was too late. He rose up from behind the bait tanks and gently pressed the barrel of a pistol behind my ear.
'No, no, don't turn around, my friend. That'd get both of us in trouble,' he said.
The light threw both of our shadows on the floor. I could see his extended arm, the pistol rounded by his fist, and an object, a sack perhaps, that seemed to dangle from his other hand.
'The till's empty. I've got maybe ten dollars in my wallet,' I said.
'Come on, Mr. Robicheaux. Give me a little credit.' The accent was New Orleans, the voice one I had heard before.
'What do you want, partner?'
'To give you something. You just shouldn't have come to work so early…. No, no, don't turn around-'
He shifted his position so that his face was well behind MY range of vision. But when he did I saw his distorted silvery reflection on the aluminum side of a horizontal lunchmeat and cold-drink cooler. Or rather I saw the reflected metal caps and fillings in his mouth.
Then he stooped, set something on the floor, and nudged me toward the counter.
'Lean on it, Mr. Robicheaux. You probably don't pack when you come down to your bait shop, but a guy can't take things for granted,' he said, and moved his free hand down my hips and pockets and over my ankles.
'Look, a black man who works for me is going to be here soon. I don't want him to walk in on this. How about telling me what's on your mind and getting out of here?'
'Your ovaries don't get heated up too easy, do they?' He clicked off the light. 'What time's the colored man get here?'
'Anytime now.'
'That sure would change your luck in a bad way, believe me.' Then he said, 'Listen, the man I work for has fixations. Right now you're one of them. Why? Because you keep bugging the shit out of him. It's time you lay off, man.
This is an important guy. There's people up in Chicago don't want him puking blood all over New Orleans because of nervous anxiety…. No, no, eyes forward-' He rubbed the pistol barrel along my jawbone.
'Is that it?' I said.
'No, that's not it, man. Look, nobody's got a beef with you, Mr. Robicheaux. Nobody had a beef with that cop who walked into Sonnier's house, either. That dumb fuck Fluck went out of control. We don't whack cops, you know that, man. So we're making it right.
'But it doesn't have to end here. You're a bright guy and you can have a lot of good things. Nothing illegal, no strings, just good business. Like maybe a nightclub down in Grand Isle. It's yours for the asking. All you got to do is call the right Italian restaurant on Esplanade. You know the place I'm talking about.'
Through the slashed screen I could see the false dawn lighting the gray tops of the cypress trees in the marsh. I heard a fish flop loudly in the lily pads.
'I'll think about it,' I said.
'Good… good. Now-'
I felt him shift his weight, felt the dangling object in his hand brush against my pants leg.
'What?' I said.
'I got to figure what to do with you. You keep walking in on me at the wrong time. Nothing personal but you've really fucked up my plans twice now.'
'Like you say, so far it's not personal…. Don't do the wrong thing, partner.'
I could hear him breathing in the dark. The back of my neck and head felt naked, as though the skin had been peeled away from all the nerve endings.
'What's inside that door, the one with the lock on it?' he said.
'It's just a storage room.'
'Well, that's where you're going.'
From behind, he put his left hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the door. I felt the sacked object bump back and forth below my shoulder blade.
'Unlock it,' he said.
I found the key on my ring and snapped open the long U-shaped shaft on the lock. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my wrist.
'Come on, get inside, man,' he said.
'I want to give you something to think about when you leave me.'
'You're gonna give me something to think about? I think you've got it turned around.' He started to push me inside.
'No, I don't. I didn't see your face, so I can't identify you. That means you're home free on this one. But I know who you are, Jack. Don't go near my house. God help you if you get anywhere near my house.'
'You don't know who your friends are. Hey, the man in New Orleans sent you a present. You'll like it. He's not a bad guy. He's got his own problems. How'd you like to have boils all over the lining of your stomach? Why don't you have a little compassion?'
With his knuckles he shoved me into the storage room, then snapped the lock shut. I heard him go out the front door, then moments later a car engine start out on the road.
I braced my back against a stack of beer cases and kicked as hard as I could against the door; but it was sheathed in tin, and the lock and hasp were solid. Then in the dark I tripped over an old twenty-five-horsepower Evinrude engine. I balanced it over my head by the shaft and the housing and hurled it against the slat wall next to the door. Two slats burst from the studs, and I splintered the others loose until I could squeeze through a hole back into the shop. I could hear the diminishing sound of Gates's car on the dirt road that led to the drawbridge over the bayou. I pulled the chain on the light bulb over the counter and started punching the office number on the phone. Both my hands were shaking.
'Sheriff's Department-'
'This is Dave…. Jack Gates just tore out of my bait shop…. He's armed and dangerous…. Call the bridge tender and tell him to lift the bridge…. I'll meet you guys at the-' Then I stopped.
'What is it, Dave?'
I looked at the weighted clear plastic bag hanging from a nail on a post in the center of my shop.
'I'll meet you guys at the bayou,' I said.
'What's wrong, Dave? Are you hurt?'
'No, I'm all right. Get hold of the bridge tender and seal the whole area off. Don't let this guy get out of town.'
I put the receiver back in the cradle and stared numbly at the severed head inside the plastic bag. The eyes were rolled, the tongue lolled out of the mouth, the nose was mashed against the folds of plastic, and the blond hair was matted with congealed blood; but even in death the face looked like it belonged to a toy man. And to preclude the possibility that I could ever mistake Jewel Fluck for someone else, one of his fingers had been inserted in the thick, purple residue at the bottom of the bag.
I ran to the house, through the front door and into the bedroom, and grabbed the.45 out of the dresser drawer.
