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“What can I say?”
“The truth.”
“White Doves at Morning is one of my best books and one of the least read. I wanted to see it on the screen. Nemo obtained the funding. If I had gotten it myself, I would have ended up dealing with the same Hollywood people he deals with. When you get off the phone with them, you want to clean your ear with baby wipes.”
“Who killed Penny?”
“I didn’t.”
“There’s something you’re hiding. I don’t buy your story about the drill. It’s too coincidental that you show up just after someone turns him into Swiss cheese.”
“You never mention Jimmy Nightingale or his sister,” he said. “He’s headed for the Senate and maybe even bigger things. He’s a fascist who’s lying to all these poor people who think he’s going to make their lives better. But you’re worried about justice for the guy who raped my wife and maybe killed some of the Jeff Davis Eight.”
“Seen any good movies?” I said.
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
But it wasn’t over. Rowena walked across the grass to the edge of the driveway, wearing jeans and a beige T-shirt with paint on it and no bra. “Don’t talk to him like that, Levon. Come in, Mr. Robicheaux. Have some tea with us.”
She lived up to her name, right out of Sir Walter Scott. “You’re a grand lady, madam,” I said. “All the best to both of you.”
On the way home, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I flipped it open. The caller was Melvin LeBlanc, the physician.
“What’s the haps, Mel?” I said.
“I’m at Iberia General. The head nurse thinks you should get over here.”
“Regarding what?”
“Spade Labiche. She says he keeps repeating the word ‘Robo.’ Mean anything?”
* * *
I PARKED UNDER the oaks in front of the hospital and went inside. A nurse walked with me to the ICU. “Is he a friend of yours, Detective?”
“We work together.”
“I wondered if he had any immediate family in the area.”
“Maybe in New Orleans.”
“I see.”
“Why do you ask?”
“If he belongs to a church, this would be an appropriate time for his pastor to visit.”
I went inside the room. The left side of his face was encased in bandages, except for the eye. He was breathing through his mouth, his lips formed in a cone as though he had eaten hot food and was trying to cool his tongue.
“It’s me, Spade,” I said. “Dave Robicheaux.”
He seemed not to hear me. The fingers of his right hand twitched.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, partner,” I said. “You got a bad deal.” No reply, no reaction. I looked over my shoulder. The nurse had gone. “You want to tell me something?”
His fingers moved again, up and down, as though he were beckoning. I leaned over, my ear close to his mouth. “Tell me what it is.”
