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“I love Louisiana.”
She rested her hand on the back of his neck, her fingernails touching his hairline and the pockmarks in his skin. He felt her nails move back and forth inside his hair, as though she were stroking a cat. “Under it all, you’re a tender man,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody like you.”
AS I SAT in Helen’s office on Thursday afternoon, less than twenty-four hours after the shooting death of Ronnie Earl Patin, I wondered how things might have worked out if I had gotten Patin into custody at Lafayette PD. But if my perceptions were correct, a black hooker at the bar had notified someone that Patin was hooked to my bumper in cuffs and about to be housed in the city jail. Which meant the people behind his death and behind the attempt on my life and probably
behind the deaths of Blue Melton and Waylon Grimes and Bix Golightly and Frankie Giacano had influence and power and control that went far beyond the crime families that once operated out of Galveston and New Orleans. In other words, Ronnie Patin had been DOA no matter what I did or didn’t do.
Or was I falling into that category of people who saw conspiracies at work in every level of society?
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right, Dave,” Helen said. “You think Patin’s brother was the shooter in the freezer truck?”
“I’m not sure. I think Ronnie Earl boosted the truck. I think the shooter in it looked like Ronnie after he’d lost a hundred pounds. Ronnie said his brother was dead or living in Kansas.”
“Patin didn’t know which?”
“I wouldn’t call him a family-values kind of guy.”
“I just talked to the chief of police in Lafayette. He said no one heard the shot or saw who killed Patin. There were no shell casings and no outside surveillance cameras at any building on the street. The chief wonders why you didn’t coordinate with him before you went to the club.”
“I wasn’t sure the guy there was Ronnie Earl.”
“You should have let Lafayette handle it.”
Maybe she was right. When I didn’t reply, she said, “Second-guessing others is a bad habit of mine. Maybe Lafayette PD would have sent a couple of uniforms and spooked the guy out the back door. What a crock, huh, bwana?”
I was standing by her window, with a fine view of Bayou Teche and the lawn that sloped down to the water and the camellia bushes growing on the far bank and the shady grotto dedicated to the mother of Jesus. I saw a black Saab convertible turn off East Main and come up the long curved driveway past the grotto and park below our building, its waxed surfaces glittering like razor blades. A woman got out and walked across the grass through the side entrance. I could not see her face, only the top of her head and her figure and the martial fashion in which she walked. “Are you expecting Varina Leboeuf?” I asked.
“She’s here?” Helen said.
“Her vehicle is parked in the yellow zone. She just came through the restricted entrance.”
“That girl needs her butt kicked.”
“I think I’d better get back to my office.”
“I think you should stay right where you are. Let’s see what our hypocritical little cutie-pie is up to.”
“Maybe she’s a bit hot-tempered, but I wouldn’t call her a hypocrite.”
“You know why I love you, Dave? When it comes to women, you’re hopeless.” She waited for me to speak, but I wasn’t going to. “You think she’s the rebel, the reckless and passionate woman who’ll always risk her heart if the right man comes into her life?”
“How about we drop it?”
But I had stepped into it. Like many people who are made different, either in the womb or because they grew up in a dysfunctional home, Helen had spent a lifetime puzzling through all the reasons she had been arbitrarily rejected by others. Therapists often identify this particular behavioral syndrome with individuals who are weak and obsessed with concerns that are of no consequence. Nothing could be further from the truth. The only reason most of these individuals become survivors and not suicides or serial killers is because they finally figure out that the world did a number on them and their rejection is undeserved and is on the world and not on them.
“Run the tape backward,” Helen said. “She’s rebellious over issues nobody cares about. She attends a church where most of the people are poor and uneducated and where she’s a superstar. But in politics and business, she’s always on board with the majority and puckering up her sweet mouth to the right people. Let me rephrase that. She’s always squatting down for her nose lube.”
“That’s kind of rough,” I said.
“When she was about fifteen, I was an instructor at the gun range. Varina’s summer church camp was sponsoring a rifle team. They’d come shoot for an hour or so every morning. One morning just after a rainstorm, Varina set up at a shooting table under the shed with her bolt-action twenty-two. Nobody had fired a round yet. I was getting some paper targets out of the office when I saw her loading her rifle. I never let the kids load until I had gone downrange and tacked up the targets and returned to the shed. She knew that. She was loading anyway, pushing one shell after another into the magazine, all the time looking downrange. I said, ‘Varina, you don’t load until I tell you.’ But she locked down the bolt as though she hadn’t heard me and raised the stock to her shoulder and let off two rounds before I could get to the table and shut her down. There was a possum in a persimmon tree about thirty feet on the far side of the plywood board we tacked the paper bull’s-eyes on. The possum had three babies on her back. Varina put one round through her side and one through her head.”
“Sometimes kids don’t think,” I said.
“That’s the point. She did think. She knew the rules, and she heard me tell her to stop loading, but she went ahead and, with forethought, shot and killed a harmless creature. Speak of the devil.”
Varina Leboeuf opened Helen’s door without knocking and came inside. She was dressed in jeans and low-topped boots and an orange cowboy shirt. Her mouth was bright with lip gloss, her chest visibly expanding when she breathed, her cheeks streaked with color. “Good, I caught you both,” she said.
“Ms. Leboeuf, you need to go back downstairs and out the side door and move your vehicle and then come through the front entrance and ask at the reception desk if Detective Robicheaux and I are here,” Helen said. “Then someone will buzz my extension, and I will probably tell that person I’m here and to send you up. Or maybe not.”
