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In the crowd I saw Julie Balboni and his entourage, Elrod Sykes, the mayor of New Iberia, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, a couple of Teamster officials, a state legislator, and Twinky Hebert Lemoyne from Lafayette. In the middle of it all sat Hogman Patin on an up-ended crate, his twelve-string guitar resting on his crossed thighs. He was dressed like a nineteenth-century Negro street musician, except he also wore a white straw cowboy hat slanted across his eyes. The silver picks on his right hand rang across the strings as he sang,
Soon as day break in the mornin' I gone take the dirt road home. 'Cause these blue Monday blues Is goin' kill me sure as you're born.
"You ought to get yourself a plate."
It was Murphy Doucet, the security guard. He was talking to me but his eyes were looking at a blond girl in shorts and a halter by the punch bowl. He ate a slice of boudin off a toothpick, then slipped the toothpick into the corner of his mouth and sucked on it.
"It doesn't look like everybody's b
roken up about Kelly Drummond's death, does it?" I said.
"I guess they figure life goes on."
"You're in business with Mr. Lemoyne over there, Murph?"
"We own a security service together, if that's what you mean. For me it's a pretty good deal, but for him it's nothing. If there's a business around here making money, Twinky's probably got a piece of it. Lord God, that man knows how to make money."
Lemoyne sat by the lake in a canvas chair, a julep glass filled with bourbon, shaved ice, and mint leaves in his hand. He looked relaxed and cool in the breeze off the water, his rimless glasses pink with the sun's afterglow. His eyes fixed for a moment on my face, then he took a sip from his glass and watched some kids waterskiing out on the lake.
"Get something to eat, Dave. It's free. Hell, I'm going to take some home," Murphy Doucet said.
"Thanks, I've already eaten," I said, and walked over to where Hogman sat next to two local black women who had been hired as extras.
"You want a ride?" I said.
"I ain't ready yet. They's people want me to play."
"It was your idea for me to come out here, Sam."
"I'll be comin' directly. That's clear, ain't it? Mr. Goldman fixin' to cut his cake." Then he began singing,
I ax my bossman, Bossman, tell me what's right.
He whupped my left, said, Boy, now you know what's right.
I tole my bossman, Bossman, just give me my time.
He say, Damn yo' time, boy,
Boy, you time behind.
I waited another half hour as the twilight faded, the party grew louder, and someone turned on a bank of floodlamps that lit the whole area with the bright unnatural radiance of a phosphorus flare. The punch bowl was now empty and had been supplanted by washtubs filled with cracked ice and canned beer, a portable bar, and two white jacketed black bartenders who were making mint juleps and martinis as fast as they could.
"I've got to head for the barn, Hogman," I said.
"This lady axin' me somet'ing. Give me ten minutes," he said.
A waiter came by with a tray and handed Hogman and the black woman with him paper cups streaming with draft beer. Then he handed me a frosted julep glass packed with shaved ice, mint leaves, orange slices, and candied cherries.
"I didn't order this," I said.
"Gentleman over yonder say that's what you drink. Say bring it to you. It's a Dr Pepper, suh."
"Which gentleman?"
"I don't rightly remember, suh."
I took the cup off the tray and drank from it. The ice was so cold it made my throat ache.
