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We think this fell out of your pocket in Weldon Sonnier’s house. We think you should have it back. The cop in the basement was an accident. Nobody wanted it that way. He could have walked out of it but he wanted to be a hard guy. Sonnier is a welsher and a prick. If you want to be his knothole, that’s your choice. But we think you should mark off all this bullshit and stay in New Iberia. What you’ve got here is two large with more down the road, maybe some business opportunities too, if we get the right signals. Let Sonnier drown in his own shit. If you don’t want the money, blow your nose on it. It’s all the same to us. We just wanted to offer you an intelligent alternative to being Sonnier’s main local fuck.
I replaced the hundred-dollar bills and the letter in the envelope, put the envelope in my back pocket, and walked down to the dock. Batist was squatted down on the boards in the sunlight, scaling a stringer of bluegill with a spoon. The sun was hot off the water, and sweat coursed down between the shoulder blades of his bare back.
“Did you see someone besides the postman up by the mailbox?” I asked.
He squinted his eyes in the glare and thought for a moment. The backs of his hands were shiny with fish mucus.
“A man pass on a mortorsickle,” he said.
“Did he stop?”
“Yeah, I t’ink he stopped. Yeah, he sho’ did.”
“What did he look like?”
“I ain’t real sure. I ain’t paid him much mind, Dave. Somet’ing wrong?”
“It’s nothing to worry about.”
Batist tapped his spoon on the dock.
“I ’member he was dressed funny,” he said. “He didn’t have no shirt but he wore them t’ings on his pants, what you call them t’ings, you see them in the movies.”
I tried to visualize what he meant, but I was at a loss, as I often was when I tried to talk with Batist in either English or French.
“What movies?” I said.
“The cowboy movies.”
“Chaps? Big leather floppy things that fit over the legs?”
“Yeah, that’s it. They was black, and he had tattoos on his back. And he had long hair, too.”
“What kind of tattoos?”
“I don’t ’member that.”
“Okay, partner. That’s not bad.”
“What ain’t bad?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Worry about what?”
“Nothing. I’m going up to the house for lunch now. If you see this guy again, call me. But don’t mess with him. Okay?”
“This is a bad guy?”
“Maybe.”
“This is a bad guy, but Batist ain’t suppose to worry, no. You somet’ing else, Dave. Lord, if you ain’t.”
He went back to scraping the fish with his spoon. I started to speak again, but I had learned long ago to leave Batist alone when I had offended him by underestimating his perception of a situation.
I walked up to the house, and Bootsie and I ate lunch on the redwood table under the mimosa tree in the backyard. She wore a flowered sundress, and had put on lipstick and earrings, which she seldom did in the middle of the day.
“How do you like the sandwich?” she said.
