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“I can’t be sure.” Her eyes were full of sorrow. “It’s almost dawn. You want me to fix you something to eat?”
“I think I’ll go back to sleep. It was just a dream.”
“About the war?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Don’t lie to the only people you can count on.”
“Okay, Alf.”
“I’m going to get back on my manuscript. Try to sleep.”
“Don’t get close to Tony Nemo.”
“He comes around the set. Nobody pays attention to him.”
I lay back down on the pillow. “See you later, Alfenheimer.”
She closed the door. I stared at the ceiling, afraid to sleep again.
* * *
I KNEW IT would happen. Sunday morning, I saw Babette Latiolais outside the church I attended. The church was located in a mixed-race neighborhood, one of windmill palms and small frame houses with tin roofs and yards that had no fences. She was wearing a pillbox hat that looked dug out of an attic, and a pink suit that probably came from a secondhand store. She saw me out of the corner of her eye and quickened her step in the opposite direction.
I caught up with her. “You’re not going to say hello, Miss Babette?”
“Hi,” she said, not slowing.
“You in a hurry?”
“My li’l girl is by herself. I got to get some cereal, then we going to church.”
“You belong to St. Edward’s?”
“I go to Assembly of God. Why you axing me this?” She kept her face at an angle so that one side was covered with shadow.
“Can you look at me, Miss Babette?”
“What you t’ink I’m doing?”
“Look at me.”
“I got to go, Mr. Dave.”
“Who hit you?”
“Suh, please don’t be doing this. It was an accident.”
“Spade did this?”
“He was drunk. I fussed at him.”
“A man who strikes a woman is a moral and physical coward. A cop who hits a woman is the bottom of the barrel. Is Labiche at your house?”
“I don’t know where he’s at.”
“You need to file charges. We don’t want a man like this representing the sheriff’s department.”
