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Then he realized what he was watching.
The images filled him with embarrassment and shame; they were part of the unclean thoughts he’d been taught not to have. The man was spread-eagled, his shirt unbuttoned, his trousers down, his bronzed muscle-corded abdomen exposed. The woman’s head moved up and down above his body. The man’s eyes were closed, his face suffused with pleasure.
Smiley wanted to run away. But he recognized the man: He was one of the movie people. The men always looked the same—their bodies hard, their hair bleached at the tips, the sun’s warmth trapped inside their skin, their teeth perfect, their eyes sparkling as they stared into the faces of ordinary people, never blinking.
No one else was around. Smiley pulled his small .22 semi-auto from his pants pocket and clicked off the safety. He curled his left hand inside the Subaru’s door handle. Neither the woman nor the man heard him ease the door open. Then the woman stopped what she was doing and turned around and held both of her hands in front of her face, her bottom lip quivering.
“No,” she said. “Please, suh. Please, please.”
Smiley pulled the trigger. The firing pin snapped on a dead round. The man came to life, his eyes opening, his teeth shiny with saliva.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
CLETE HAD TO pick up a bail skip in St. Martinville at nine a.m. I left him at the motor court and drove to Desmond’s home on Cypremort Point. My cut-down twelve-gauge was wrapped in a blanket behind the seat. I had no plan in mind. However, that statement is one I have always distrusted in other people, and I distrust it even more when I think it or say it myself. The unconscious always knows what the person is doing or planning. The agenda is to find the situation and the rationale that will allow the individual to commit deeds that are unconscionable.
No matter how you cut it, I was back to the short form of the Serenity Prayer, known in AA and other recovery groups as Fuck It. I cannot praise the nuances of Fuck It enough, but you already know the drill. I ached to get back on that old-time rock and roll, this time not with the flak juice but with double-aught bucks and pumpkin balls at point-blank range.
Don’t mistake this for a paean to the gun culture. It’s my admission of the madness that has defined most of my adult life.
No one was home. A gardener was raking the yard. He said Mr. Cormier was at a picnic in New Iberia.
“How about Mr. Butterworth?” I said.
“I don’t have no truck wit’ Mr. Butterworth’s goings or comings, suh,” he said, his eyes downcast.
I drove back home and left the shotgun behind the seat and went inside. I heard Alafair clicking on her keyboard in her bedroom. I stood in the doorway until she reached a stopping place. Snuggs was sleeping inside her manuscript basket, his thick tail hanging through the wire. I didn’t know where Mon Tee Coon was. Alafair’s hands were still for a long time, as though she were coming out of a trance.
“Hey, Squanto,” I said.
“Sorry, Dave. I didn’t see you there.”
“Is that your new book?”
“Yeah, it’s called The Wife.”
I looked through the window and across the bayou. “Is that the movie crew over there?”
“The whole city is invited.”
“You’re not going?”
“I took your advice. I’m getting loose from Des and his crowd. I’m not going to Arizona for the reshoot either. Des is leaving in the morning.”
“What changed your attitude?”
She rubbed her forehead and took a breath. “I love Hollywood, I don’t care what people say about it. But Des isn’t Hollywood, Dave. He’s Leonardo da Vinci working for Cesare Borgia, except he won’t admit it.”
“He’s laundering money?”
“Probably.”
“Where’s Wexler in all this?”
“We’re just friends.”
“No man is just a woman’s friend.”
