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“Because they’re for Bobby Earl, and Bobby Earl’s a shit!” Alafair said.
I looked down at her, stunned.
“Put the cork in that language, Alf,” I said.
“I heard Bootsie say it,” she answered. “He’s a shit. He hates black people.”
Two men at the beer cooler were grinning at me.
“Dave, that’s right. Them is for that fella Earl?” Batist said.
“Yeah, but you didn’t know, Batist,” I said. “Here, I’ll throw them in the trash.”
“I ain’t never seen him on TV, me, so I didn’t pay his picture no mind.”
“It’s all right, podna.”
The men at the cooler were still grinning in our direction.
“Do you gentlemen need something?” I said.
“Not a thing,” one of them said.
“Good,” I said.
I took Alafair by the hand, and we walked back up the slope to the gallery. The wind was cool blowing out of the marsh and smelled of wet leaves and moldy pecan husks and the purple four-o’clocks that were just opening in the shadows. Alafair’s hand felt hot and small in mine.
“You mad, Dave?” she said.
“No, I’m real proud of you, little guy. You’re what real soldiers are made of.”
Her eyes squinted almost completely shut with her smile.
THAT EVENING ALAFAIR went to a baseball game with the neighbors’ children, and Bootsie and I were left alone with each other. It had stopped raining, and the windows were open and you could hear the crickets and the cicadas from horizon to horizon. Our conversation, when it occurred, was spiritless and morose. At nine o’clock the phone rang in the kitchen.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hey, Streak, I thought I’d pass on some information in case you’re wondering about life down here in the Big Sleazy.”
“Just a minute, Clete,” I said.
I took the telephone on its extension wire out on the back steps and sat down.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“I found the perfect moment to drop the dime on our man. His dork just went into the electric socket big time.”
In the background I could hear people talking loudly and dishes clattering.
“Where are you?”
“I’m scarfing down a few on the half shell and chugging down a few brews at the Acme, noble mon. There’s also a French lady at my table who’s fascinated with my accent. I told her it’s Irish-coonass. She also says I’m a sensitive and entertaining conversationalist. She’s talking about painting me in the nude. . . . Hey, trust me, Dave, everything’s copacetic. I’ll never go down in a manual on police procedure, but when it’s time to mash on their scrots, you do it with hobnailed boots. Hang loose, partner, and come on down this weekend and let’s catch some green trout.”
I replaced the receiver in the phone cradle and went back inside the house. Bootsie had just put away some dishes in the cabinet and was watching me.
“That was Clete, wasn’t it?” she said. She wore a sundress printed with purple and green flowers. She had just brushed her hair, and it was full of small lights.
“Yep.”
