Page 28 of Dixie City Jam (Dave Robicheaux 7)

But that kind of advice, under those kinds of circumstances, is similar to telling a person who has been stricken with a cerebral disease to rise from his sickbed and walk.

I turned off the grits on the stove, washed and put away our coffee cups and saucers, and took Bootsie to a restaurant on the Vermilion River in Lafayette for brunch. When I went to the men's room, she called the waiter back to the table and ordered a vodka collins. After we had eaten, we walked out on the deck that overlooked the water and watched some kids waterskiing. The sun was white and straight up in the sky, the air laced with the smell of diesel smoke from the trucks passing over the concrete bridge. Down below in the muddy current, a dead snow egret floated among an island of twigs and torn camellia leaves. The egret's wing had been broken, and above one eye was the coppery glint of an embedded BB in the feathers.

'Oh,' Bootsie said, and let out her breath. Then she turned away from the deck railing and said, 'Maybe we should go now, Dave. I'm going to listen to you and stay out of the sun. I've been terribly careless about it, I know. It's wrong to make other people worry about you, isn't it? I am not going to allow myself to be a careless person anymore, I promise.'

Her eyes were as bright and intent as if she were putting together a syllogism that in one way or another would solve a particular problem for all time. She walked back through the restaurant and out the front without waiting for me.

When we got home the phone was ringing in the kitchen. Bootsie went into the bedroom, turned on the window fan, and lay down on the bed with her arm across her eyes.

'Hello,' I said into the telephone receiver.

'This Mr. Robicheaux?'

'Yes.'

'How come you ain't he'ped my mama?'

'Excuse me?'

'She he'ped you, ain't she? How come you ain't he'ped her?'

'Who is this?'

'Zoot Bergeron.' But the tone of voice had become less aggressive and certain. 'My mama said Mr. Baxter's gonna get her fired if he can.'

'You're Lucinda's son?'

'Yes, suh.' Then he tried to deepen his voice. 'Yeah, that's right.'

'How old are you, podna?'

'Seventeen. I'm seventeen years old.' In the background I could hear echoes, like people shouting at each other in a public hall, and slapping sounds like leather hitting against leather.

'Does your mother know you're making this call?' I said.

'She tole you some stuff and you tole it back to Mr. Baxter. That ain't right she got to be in trouble 'cause you went and tole what you wasn't supposed to.'

Oh boy, I thought, the business about the other homicide victims being mutilated.

'I'll talk to your mother about it,' I said.

I could almost hear his breath click in his throat.

'That won't do no good. I can tell you who them vigilantes are. Then you and my mama can arrest them.'

'Oh? Why don't you just tell her?'

'Cause she don't believe me.'

'I see.'

'You coming down here?' he said.

'Where would that be?'

'The gym. Mr. Lonighan's Sport Center. You know where that's at?'

'What are you doing around Tommy Lonighan, partner?'

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