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“Would you like a beer or a Scotch, Mr. Robicheaux?” Jamie Sue Wellstone asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s odd you have no memory of a Mexican or Indian watching you at the saloon, because the bartender made a point about his being there.”
“Maybe an Indian or Mexican was there. It’s just not the way I remember it. I’m not saying the bartender is wrong,” she said.
Know what the false close is in the ethos of a door-to-door salesman? The salesman backs off, concedes that the customer’s reluctance is understandable, and seemingly gives up. It’s a hot day. The salesman is tired and asks for a glass of water. A moment later, he’s the customer’s friend, a victim himself, a family man with a wife and kids depending on him. The customer gets sandbagged without ever knowing what hit him.
“I see,” I said, nodding, studying my notebook. “Did the California couple indicate they’d had trouble with anyone? You think maybe they were mixed up with criminals?”
“The woman sounded like she’d lived a checkered life,” Jamie Sue said.
“As a prostitute?” I said.
“I can’t say that with authority.”
“On an unrelated subject, why would y’all hire a man like Lyle Hobbs to work security for you?” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hobbs has served time for child molestation. He also worked for a Mafia pimp by the name of Sally Dio,” I said.
“My husband and brother-in-law try to help ex-felons. They also believe in forgiveness. You don’t believe in forgiveness, Mr. Robicheaux?”
“I think the best place for child molesters is the graveyard. But I’m not a theologian,” I said.
She took a drink from her vodka and let her eyes rest on mine. She was pretty; her voice and accent were lovely. It would have been easier to dismiss her as deceptive and cunning, even villainous. But I had the feeling she was much more complex than that and would not fit easily into a categorical envelope.
“I saw you once,” Clete said to her out of nowhere.
“Oh?”
“In a joint in Uvalde, Texas. A big live-oak tree grew up through the floor. I was chasing down a bail skip over there. You sang ‘I Forgot More Than You’ll Ever Know.’ You reminded me of Skeeter Davis.”
“I knew Skeeter. She influenced me a lot.”
His green eyes lingered on hers. The moment was one that made me think of a red light flashing at a train crossing. “You ought to stay clear of Lyle Hobbs. Also that racist from Mississippi who works with him,” he said.
“I wish I could oblige, but I don’t decide who works here,” she said.
“Can you describe the man who was watching you at the saloon?” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember anyone watching me. How many times do I have to say that to you, Mr. Robicheaux?”
“That’s perplexing. The waitress in the café remembered him. She also remembered you coming in and asking about him,” I said.
“Maybe I did. I’d had more to drink than I probably should have,” she replied, then turned her attention back to Clete. “When were you in Uvalde?”
The French doors on the back of the house opened, and Leslie Wellstone walked out on the flagstone patio, dressed in gray slacks, a print sport shirt, and a blue blazer. “Comment va la vie, Monsieur Robicheaux? Et votre ami aussi?” he said.
“Ça roule,” I replied.
“I heard your remarks about the quality of our personnel. You don’t think Mr. Hobbs quite fulfills the requirements of the reborn?” he said.
“I’m sure he’s a special kind of guy. Most ex-cons with a short-eyes jacket are,” I said.
He let the reference pass and inserted a cigarette into a holder. “Did you know in 2004 we were responsible for getting the anti–gay marriage initiative on the ballot in your home state?”
“Yeah, you got the fundamentalists into the voting booth, and once there, they pulled the lever to put your boy back in the White House,” I said.
