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TEN
"COOL BREEZE RUN OUT OF gas. That's why he didn't come back to the camp," Mout' said.
It was Wednesday afternoon, and Helen and I sat with Mout' in his small living room, listening to his story.
"What'd the Vermilion Parish deputies say?" Helen asked.
"Man wrote on his clipboa'd. Said it was too bad about my dog. Said I could get another one at the shelter. I ax him, 'What about them two men?' He said it didn't make no sense they come into my camp to kill a dog. I said, 'Yeah, it don't make no sense 'cause you wasn't listening to the rest of it.'"
"Where's Cool Breeze, Mout'?"
"Gone."
"Where?"
"To borrow money."
"Come on, Mout'," I said.
"To buy a gun. Cool Breeze full of hate, Mr. Dave. Cool Breeze don't show it, but he don't forgive. What bother me is the one he don't forgive most is himself."
BACK AT MY OFFICE, I called Special Agent Adrien Glazier at the FBI office in New Orleans.
"Two white men, one with the first name of Harpo, tried to clip Willie Broussard at a fish camp in Vermilion Parish," I said.
"When was this?"
"Last night."
"Is there a federal crime involved here?"
"Not that I know of. Maybe crossing a state line to commit a felony."
"You have evidence of that?"
"No."
"Then why are you calling, Mr. Robicheaux?"
"His life's in jeopardy."
"We're not unaware of the risk he's incurred as a federal witness. But I'm busy right now. I'll have to call you back," she said.
"You're busy?"
The line went dead.
A UNIFORMED DEPUTY PICKED up Cool Breeze in front of a pawnshop on the south side of New Iberia and brought him into my office.
"Why the cuffs?" I said.
"Ask him what he called me when I told him to get in the cruiser," the deputy replied.
"Take them off, please."
"By all means. Glad to be of service. You want anything else?" the deputy said, and turned a tiny key in the lock on the cuffs.
"Thanks for bringing him in."
