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“Thought you might be here,” I lied.
He looked at Labiche but spoke to me. “You want to eat?”
“Nope.”
“You just like slop chutes? Like memories of past boom-boom?”
I glanced up at the TV screen. “I want to watch the ball game.”
“Yeah? Who’s playing?”
I placed my hand on his shoulder. It felt like concrete. “Think we’re too old for this?”
“Old for what?”
“All this crap.”
“Don’t buy in to that. Most people are dead inside at forty.” He snapped his fingers. “Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“You’re looking at Labiche. What gives?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Are you trying to have another slip? Because if you are, I’m leaving.”
“You worry too much. Miss Babette, can I have another one of these, please?” I handed her my empty glass.
But I could not say liquor wasn’t on my mind. I could not only smell it, I was drawn to it the way a bee is drawn to flowers. The bottles on the back counter rang with light. I could almost taste the foam and brassy bead of the beer splashing from the spigot into a big ice-crusted mug, the whiskey brimming on the edges of a shot glass, the Collins mix and shaved ice and mint leaves in tropical drinks made with vodka and rum and gin. I could not explain the metabolic craving that had brought me nothing but sickness and misery, not to mention a murderous rage that was often the surrogate for the booze I couldn’t get enough of.
I looked at Labiche’s profile and the way he positioned himself at the bar, one foot on the brass rail, shoulders back, half a head taller than those around him. He could see everyone coming in or leaving; he could see down a woman’s blouse, particularly the women behind the bar. He could see a tryst beginning in the parking lot. He could eyeball a parolee who wasn’t allowed to keep company with other ex-felons or enter establishments where alcohol was sold. He was Polonius eavesdropping on the rest of the world.
I saw Babette bend over to pick up a napkin from the duckboards. I saw Labiche’s eyes follow her breasts down.
“Where you going?” Clete said.
“To tell Spade whom he reminds me of.”
“Whom?”
I stood behind Labiche but couldn’t bring myself to touch him. I remember seeing Babette look at me, her brow furrowed. I remember Labiche turning around as though he heard the bell at a rail crossing.
“Want something?” he asked.
“Repeat what you said to my daughter earlier today.”
“I didn’t say anything to her. ‘Top of the morning’ or something like that. You drunk?”
“Think carefully. You asked her if she saw a guy in red tennis shoes. Then you said something else.”
“You’re a sick man, Robicheaux. Everybody knows it except you. In regard to your daughter, I wouldn’t wipe my ass with her.”
A quietness settled on the bar.
“Did you hear me?” he said.
I nodded. I picked at my nails.
