AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Let's go, Lieutenant," Robin said.
"Wait till the Man leaves. My horizon keeps tilting. Key West is a bad town to have trouble in."
"All I do is flex my boobs and they tip their hats. Such gentlemen. No more booze, honey pie."
"I need to tell you some things. About my wife. Then you have to tell me some more about those people in New Orleans."
"Tomorrow morning. Mommy's going to fix you a steak tonight."
"They killed her."
"What?"
"They blew her to pieces with shotguns. That's what they did, all right."
She stared at me with her mouth parted. I could see the edges of her nostrils discolor.
"You mean Bubba Rocque killed your wife?" she said.
"Maybe it was him. Maybe not. Ole Bubba's a hard guy to second-guess."
"Dave, I'm sorry. Jesus Christ. Did it have something to do with me? God, I don't believe it."
"No."
"It does, though, because you're here."
"I just want to see if you can remember some things, Maybe I just wanted to see you, too."
"I guess that's why you had the hots for me when you were single. Tell me about it when your head's not ninety-proof." She looked around the bar. The floor fan ruffled her short black hair. "This place's a drag. The whole town's a drag. It's full of low-rent dykes and man-eaters that drift down from New York. Why'd you send me over here?"
"You told me you were doing well here."
"Who's doing well when people are out there killing a guy's wife? You messed with them, didn't you, Dave? You wouldn't listen to me."
I didn't answer, but instead picked up my highball glass.
"Forget it. Your milk cow has gone dry for tonight," she said, then took the glass out of my hand and poured it in a pool of whiskey and ice on the table.
She lived on the first floor of an old two-story stucco building with a red tile roof just off Duval Street. A huge banyan tree had cracked one wall, and the tiny yard was overgrown with weeds and untrimmed banana trees. Her apartment had a small kitchen, a bedroom separated by a sliding curtain, and a couch, breakfast table, and chairs that looked like they had come from a Goodwill store.
Robin had a good heart, and she wanted to be kind, but her cooking was truly a challenge, particularly to someone on a bender. She turned the steak black on one side, fried the potatoes in a half-inch of grease, and filled the apartment with smoke and the smell of burned onions. I tried to eat but couldn't. I'd reached the bottom of my drunk. The cogs on my wheels were sheared smooth, all my wiring was blown, and the skin of my face was thick and dead to the touch. I suddenly felt that I had aged a century, that someone had slipped a knife along my breastbone and scooped out all my vital organs.
"Are you going to be sick?" she said.
"No, I just need to go to bed."
She looked at me a moment in the light of the unshaded bulb that hung from the ceiling. Her eyes were green, and unlike most of the strippers on Bourbon, she had never needed to wear false eyelashes. She brought two sheets from her dresser in the bedroom and spread them on the couch. I sat down heavily, took off my shoes, and rubbed my hand in my face. I was already starting to dehydrate, and I could smell the alcohol against my palm like an odor climbing out of a dark well. She carried a pillow back t
o the couch.
"Robin?" I said.
"What are you up to, Lieutenant?" She looked down at me with the light behind her head.
I put my hand on her wrist. She sat down beside me and looked straight ahead. Her hands were folded, and her knees were close together under her black waitress uniform.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" she said.
