A Morning For Flamingos by James Lee Burke

Author:James Lee Burke
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Detective, Mystery, Private Investigators, Detective and Mystery Stories, Crime & mystery, Mystery & Detective, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Hard-Boiled, General, Robicheaux, Private investigators - Louisiana - New Orleans, Murder, Suspense, Mystery & Detective - Hard-Boiled, Crime & Thriller, Fiction, Dave (Fictitious character)
ISBN: 9780380713608
Publisher: New York : Avon, 1990.
Published: 1991-07-31T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12 She sat alone in the bedroom while I talked to two uniformed cops who had been called by the apartment owner. A black man from the city health department dipped the dog's remains out of the toilet with a fishnet, while my neighbors stared through the open front door of the apartment. I told the cops a second time that I had no idea who had done it. One of them wrote on his clipboard. There were red marks on his nose where he had taken off his sunglasses, and his sky-blue shirt was stretched tightly across his muscular chest. "You think maybe somebody just doesn't like you?" he asked. "Could be," I said. "You're not in a cult, are you?" He grinned at the corner of his mouth. "No, I don't know much about cults." He put his ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket. "Well, there're a lot of spaced-out dopers around these days. Maybe that's all there was to it," he said. "I'd get some better locks, though." "Thank y'all for coming out." "Mr. Robicheaux, you say you used to be a police officer?" "That's right." "You never heard about a nailed-up frog before?" I cleared my throat and looked away from his eyes. "Maybe I heard something. It's a little vague." He smiled to himself, then wrote out a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "Here's the report number in case you or the owner needs it for an insurance claim. Call us if we can help you in any way," he said. They left and closed the door behind them. There's a cop who won't have to write traffic tickets too long, I thought. Back in the bedroom Bootsie sat on the side of my bed, her hands folded in her lap. Her cotton dress was covered with gray and pink flowers. "I'm sorry you had to arrive in the middle of all this," I said. "Dave, that officer was talking about a cult. Do you know people like that?" "It wasn't done by cultists. He knew it, too." "What?" "I'm supposed to think I've got a gris-gris on me. You remember a Negro woman named Gros Mama Goula in New Iberia?" "She ran a brothel?" "That's the one. She'd like to shake up my cookie bag. She either sent some of her people over here to do this, or it was done by a guy named Jimmie Lee Boggs. But my guess is that the two of them are working together." "I just don't understand." "These are people who for one reason or another would like me to disappear. So they put on this gris-gris show. But whoever did this has probably spent some time in a southern prison. A frog with a nail through it means a guy had better jump or he's going to have a bad fate." I saw her face becoming more and more clouded. "Bootsie, these guys are dimwits. They're always looking for something new or clever to dress up their act.

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