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“How you doing, Bobby Joe?” I said.
“I was a drunkard for fifteen years. Up until I met Amidee six months ago. Not one drink since.”
“That’s great. My friend has met the reverend, but I haven’t. Can you introduce me?” I said.
Clete and I both shook hands with Broussard, but I don’t think he saw or heard either of us. He never stopped chewing his salad and never quite took his eyes off the Vietnamese waitress. Clete and I and Bobby Joe Guidry pulled up folding chairs to his table and sat down among a group of people who seemed to share no commonalities except their faith in Amidee Broussard, a man who knew the will of God and also what was best for their country.
“You’ve got a collection of the biggest SUVs I’ve ever seen,” Clete said. He’d already snagged another whiskey on the rocks, at least four fingers of it, drinking it in sips while he talked. “What kind of vehicle do you drive?”
“It’s a dandy, a Chevrolet Suburban. I can fit nine people in it,” Broussard said.
The Vietnamese waitress set a ketchup bottle and a bottle of steak sauce by Broussard’s plate. He patted her kindly on the forearm, looking up brightly at her. “Would you take this steak back? It’s still red in the middle.”
“Yes, sir. I sorry. I bring it back to you all cooked, Reverend Amidee,” she replied.
“That’s a good girl. You give that cook a good fussing-out while you’re at it,” he said. He continued to look at her as she walked away, but this time he did not let his eyes drop below her waist. “A beautiful girl.”
“You think we kicked enough raghead butt over there to keep the oil flowing?” Clete said.
Please don’t blow it, Clete, I thought.
“What was that about ragheads?” Broussard said.
“I was talking about the price of gas. That Suburban must get the mileage of a motor home packed with concrete,” Clete said.
I tried to interject myself into the conversation and stop Clete from wrecking our situation. “I think I know you,” I said to Lamont Woolsey. “You’re a friend of Varina Leboeuf.”
His eyes made me think of dark blue marbles floating in milk, his mouth duck-billed, his nose shiny with moisture, even though the night air was cool and getting cooler. I had never seen anyone with such strange coloration or with such a combination of peculiar features, nor had I ever seen anyone whose eyes were so deeply blue and yet devoid of moral light.
“Yes, I’m familiar with Ms. Leboeuf. I don?
?t recall seeing you while I was in her company,” he said. The accent was Carolinian or Tidewater, the vowels rounded, the R’s slightly bruised. That he’d chosen the word “familiar” to describe his relationship with a woman didn’t seem to bother him.
“I think she was on your boat, the one that has a sawfish painted on the bow,” I said.
His eyes fixed on mine, hard and so blue they were almost purple. “I don’t remember that.”
Take a chance, I heard a voice say. “Don’t you live on an island somewhere?”
“I did. I grew up in the Georgia Sea Islands.”
“You ever hear of a guy named Chad Patin? He took a shot at me.”
“Why would I know someone like that?” Woolsey said.
“This guy Patin was a couple of quarts down. He told me this crazy story about a medieval instrument called the iron maiden. He said it was on an island someplace. It works like a grape press. Except people are put inside it and not grapes.”
Woolsey’s head swiveled on his shoulders, as though he were surveying the crowd. His hands rested on the tablecloth, as round and pale as dough balls, his chest as puffed as a peacock’s. “Who are you?”
“Dave Robicheaux is the name. I’m a homicide detective in Iberia Parish.”
He fingered a gold cross that hung from his neck. His eyes came back to mine. “I think you and your friend have had too much to drink.”
“I don’t drink,” I replied.
He stretched his legs out before him, popping his knees, and smiled at me. “Maybe you should start. A snootful gives a fellow a wonderful excuse to say whatever is on his mind. He can apologize later and have it both ways.”
“I never thought of it like that. You’re not up to speed on iron maidens, huh?”
