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“You put him in lockup because you said he had some jackrabbit in him. Then you took him out of lockup and left him unattended around a firearm. A man of your experience did that?”
“This conversation is over.”
“Latiolais wasn’t a violent offender.”
“Did you hear me?”
“No, I didn’t, not at all. Why didn’t you call and tell me Latiolais had more information for me? I think you just killed a man who could have helped solve several homicides in our area.”
“I’ve had about all this I can take. You stay the hell away from me.”
He broke the connection. And I was glad he did. There were times in my job when I wanted to dig a hole in the earth and bury my shield and scrub my skin with peroxide.
IT’S THE CONTENTION of Alcoholics Anonymous that drinking is but the symptom of the illness. Those afflicted souls who quit drinking but do nothing else to change their way of life become what are called “dry drunks.” Often they channel their bitterness and anger into the lives of others. They also seek to control everyone around them, and they accomplish this end by the most insidious means possible: the inculcation of guilt and fear and low self-esteem in those who are unfortunate enough to be in their sway.
A person who practices the steps and principles of A.A. has little latitude in certain situations. When we are wrong about something, we have to admit it promptly. Then we have to make amends and restitution. In moments like these, a person may yearn for an easier way—say, a tall glass packed with shaved ice, stained with four jiggers of Black Jack Daniel’s, wrapped with a napkin to keep the coldness inside the glass, a sprig of mint inserted in the ice.
After supper, I watched Alafair feed Tripod and Snuggs in the backyard. She walked past me into the kitchen without speaking. I followed her inside and asked her to take a walk with me.
“I’m going out,” she said.
“It won’t take long.”
“I have to dress.”
“You going out with Kermit?”
“What about it? Should I arrange for him to pick me up somewhere else?”
“No.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
Molly was watching CNN in the living room. I heard her turn off the television and walk into the hallway that gave onto the kitchen.
“Nothing. It’s a nice evening. I just thought you might want to take a walk,” I said.
I left the house and went down the street to Clementine’s, where I knew I would find Clete Purcel at the bar. He was wearing cream-colored pleated slacks and oxblood loafers and a starched short-sleeved shirt printed with big gray and white flowers, his porkpie hat tilted forward on his head. He was sipping from a frosted mug of draft beer while the bartender poured his shot glass to the brim with Johnnie Walker. Clete looked at my reflection in the yellowed mahogany-framed mirror behind the bar. His eyes were lit with an alcoholic shine.
“You see the story about Elmore Latiolais?” he asked.
“Helen showed it to me.”
“That gunbull friend of yours capped him?”
“Jimmy Darl Thigpin is not my friend.”
“But he’s the guy who capped Latiolais, right?”
“He’s the one.”
“How do you read it?”
“I’m not sure. Why are you drinking boilermakers?”
“I only do it when I’m alone or with people. It’s not a problem.”
“It’s not funny, either.”
