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“What’s the name of the hooker?”
“I never asked. I bought her a few drinks.”
He was wearing a loose suit and a crisp sport shirt without a tie. His eyes were smoky green, impossible to read, his face free of alcohol.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “Clean those thoughts out of your head.”
“Which thoughts?”
“Squaring things with Devereaux on your own.”
“I shouldn’t have told you what Devereaux said about Bailey Ribbons,” he said.
“I’ll take care of that through the proper procedure.”
“Proper procedure? Lovely. Do you know what my greatest fear is?”
“No clue,” I said.
“That one day you’ll find out who you really are and shoot yourself.”
• • •
AFTER WORK I drove in my pickup to the blues club on the bayou. The sun was low and red in the west; dust drifted from the cane fields. I went inside and opened my badge holder on the bartender.
“I know who you are,” he said.
“Clete Purcel was in here Friday night,” I said. “There was a black woman sitting at the end of the bar. She had on a navy blue coat with big brass buttons. She followed him into the restroom.”
The bartender popped a counter rag idly in the air, looking down the bar at an empty stool. “Yeah, I remember. What about her?”
“What’s her name?”
“Hilary Bienville. She drinks in here. But that’s all she does.”
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“How many nights a week does she come in?”
“Four or five.”
“Who does she come in with?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Who does she leave with?”
“Same answer.”
“Where does she live?”
“Don’t know exactly.”
“You know who Axel Devereaux is?”
“No, suh.”
The bartender began rinsing out a washrag in the sink, his eyes lidded. A black woman with a slim figure in a tight black skirt and a green cowboy shirt with pearl snap buttons and glass Mardi Gras beads in her hair was tuning her guitar on the stage. Her hair hung in her face, but I had the feeling her gaze was on me rather than the tuning pegs.
