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"Your jaw's bruised," he said.
"We had a visitor at the bait shop this weekend. NOPD thinks he's a Mexican carnival worker who got loose from a detox center."
He nodded, gazed without interest at the tile wall in front of us, pushed down on the stoop with the heels of his hands and worked the muscles in his back, his brown, hard body leaking sweat at every pore. I watched the side of his face, the handsome profile, the intelligent eyes that seemed never to cloud with passion.
"You have Ph.D. degrees in both English and psychology, Buford?" I said.
"I received double credits in some areas, so it's not such a big deal."
"It's impressive."
"Why are you here, Dave?"
"I have a feeling I may have stuck my arm in the garbage grinder. You know how it is, you stick one finger in, then you're up to your elbow in the pipe."
"We're back to our same subject, I see," he said.
Other men walked back and forth in the steam, swinging their arms, breathing deeply.
"How do you know Aaron Crown's daughter?" I asked.
"Who says I do?"
"She does."
"She grew up in New Iberia. If she says she knows me, fine . . . Dave, you have no idea what you're tampering with, how you may be used to undo everything you believe in."
"Why don't you explain it to me?"
"This is hardly the place, sir."
We showered, then went into an enclosed, empty area off to one side of the main locker room to dress. He dried himself with a towel, put on a pair of black nylon bikini underwear and flipflops, and began combing his hair in the mirror. The muscles in his back and sides looked like tea-colored water rippling over stone.
"I've got some serious trouble, Dave. These New York film people want to make a case for Aaron Crown's innocence. They can blow my candidacy right into the toilet," he said.
"You think they have a vested interest?"
"Yeah, making money . . . Wake up, buddy. The whole goddamn country is bashing liberals. These guys ride the tide. A white man unjustly convicted of killing a black civil rights leader? A story like that is made in heaven."
I put on my shirt and tucked it in my slacks, then sat on the bench and slipped on my loafers.
"Nothing to say?" Buford asked.
"Your explanations are too simple. The name Mingo Bloomberg keeps surfacing in the middle of my mind."
"This New Orleans mobster?"
"That's the one."
"I've got a fund-raiser in Shreveport at six. Come on the plane with me," he said.
"What for?"
"Take leave from your department. Work for me."
"Not interested."
"Dave, I'm running for governor while I teach school. I have no machine and little money. The other side does. Now these sonsofbitches from New York come down here and try to cripple the one chance we've had for decent government in decades. What in God's name is wrong with you, man?"
