Dave Robicheaux 12 - Jolie Blon's Bounce by James Lee Burke

Author:James Lee Burke
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2010-01-13T06:00:00+00:00

Late that evening Clete sat with me at the redwood table under the mimosa in my backyard and told me the story of his conversation with Joe Zeroski. When he finished, he took off his Marine Corps utility cap and refitted it on his head and looked at the purple light in the sky and the wind blowing across my neighbor's cane field, his green eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. "I thought the drought was over. Two days of dry weather and it's the dust bowl again," he said. "You bothered about taking Zeroski over the hurdles?" I asked. "Joe will probably eat his gun one day. But he never tried to jam anybody who wasn't in the life. I guess if I could feel sorry for a gumball, I do for him," Clete said. "We don't have any influence over these guys. Stop trying to orchestrate them, Clete." "I think I ought to call him up," he said. I squeezed Clete's bicep, hard, my fingers biting deep into the muscle. "Once and for all and forever, leaveZeroski and especially Legion Guidry alone." I tightened my grasp when Clete tried to pull away from me. "Did you hear me? Legion Guidry comes from someplace the rest of us don't. That's a theological statement." "Sometimes I wish you didn't share all your thoughts, big mon."

Iawoke before sunrise on Tuesday and walked down the slope through the oaks and pecan trees to the bait shop. The fog was a bluish gray in the fjalse dawn, then the sun broke on the horizon and the fog turned the color of cotton candy and I could see snow egrets rising like confetti above the cypress trees in the swamp. Batist and I scrubbed down the spool tables, popped opened the umbrellas above them, picked up beer cans and bait cups from the boat ramp, and used a boat hook to gather floating trash from the pilings under the dock. All of this was done under the supervision of Tripod, Alafair's fat, three-legged, silver-ringed pet coon. Then Batist took a break and poured a cup of coffee for himself from a drip pot on the gas burner and dropped a red quarter into the jukebox and played Guitar Slim's "I Done Got Over It." The haunting sounds of Slim's music reverberated across the water and into the trees like electronic echoes inside a stone pipe. "Why'd you play that particular song?" I asked. "The man talking about getting over it. You don't never get ahead of it. You just get over it. I t'ink he figured out what it was all about." "You think Tee Bobby Hulin murdered that white girl?" I asked. Batist picked up Tripod from a shelf, where he wassniffing a glass jar filled with candy bars. Batist opened the screen and dropped him with a thump on the dock. "That boy ain't no good, Dave. You don't believe I'm right, ax yourself who he hang around wit'. Jimmy Dean Styles say jump,

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