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“I wouldn’t say I know Kermit Abelard well, but I do know him. I never heard of the other guy.”
“He’s a celebrity ex-convict. He wrote a book called—”
“Yeah, I remember now. One of those books about how the world dumped on the author by making him rich.”
“You and Kermit are doing presentations on biofuels?”
Layton was still seated on the bench, his knees spread. He pulled at an earlobe. “Not exactly. You’re asking about the talk I gave in Jackson?”
“I saw something about it in a newspaper.”
“Yeah, Kermit Abelard was there. But I’m not making the connections here. What are we talking about?” He sneaked a glance at his wristwatch.
“You ever hear of the St. Jude Project?”
“In New Orleans? I thought Katrina shut down all the welfare projects.”
I didn’t know whether he was being cynical or not. After Katrina made landfall and the levees burst and drowned over one thousand people, a state legislator stated that God in His wisdom had solved the problems in the welfare developments that man had not. The state legislator was not alone in his opinion. I knew too many people whose resentment of blacks reached down into a part of the soul you don’t want to see. “The St. Jude Project is supposed to be a self-help program for people who have addiction problems. Junkies, hookers, homeless people, battered wives, whatever,” I said.
“The big addiction those people have is usually their aversion to work. Not always but most of the time. I’m not knocking them, but you and I didn’t have a charitable foundation to take care of us, did we?”
“Kermit Abelard never talked to you about the St. Jude Project?”
“Dave, I just said I’ve never heard of it. Hey, Carolyn, you got the meat on the fire?”
“You ever hear of Herman Stanga?”
“No, who is he?”
“A pimp and a dope dealer.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure. Before we go any farther with this, how about telling me what’s really on your mind?”
“Seven dead girls in Jeff Davis Parish.”
Layton’s hands were resting in his lap. He gazed at the back lawn. It had already fallen into deep shade, and the wind was flattening the azalea petals on the bushes. The sun had started to set on the far side of the trees, and its reflection inside the room had taken on the wobbling blue-green quality of refracted light at the bottom of a swimming pool. Then I realized that the change of color in the room had been brought about by the sun’s rays shining through a large dome-shaped panel of stained glass inset close to the ceiling.
“I’m not up on homicides in Jeff Davis Parish,” Layton said. “Kermit Abelard is mixed up in something like that?”
“I was wondering why Kermit is doing biofuel presentations with you.”
“He’s interested in saving the environment and rebuilding the coastline. He’s a bright kid. I get the sense he likes to be on the edge of new ideas. You drove all the way down here about Kermit Abelard? He’s a pretty harmless young guy, isn’t he? Jesus Christ, life must be pretty slow at the department.”
“You know the Abelard family well?”
“Not really. I respect them, but we don’t have a lot in common.”
“Why do you respect them? Their history of philanthropy?”
“You go to a lot of meetings?” Layton asked.
“Sometimes. Why?”
“I’ve heard that when alcoholics quit drinking, they develop obsessions that work as a substitute for booze. That’s why they go to meetings. No matter how crazy these ideas are, they stay high as a kite on them so they don’t have to drink again.”
“I was admiring your stained glass.”
“It came from a Scottish temple or church or something.”
