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“No.”
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be decades younger. I wanted to be everything except what I was. Unfortunately, at a certain age, wanting something you can’t be or wanting what you can’t have can become a way of life.
• • •
WHEN I GOT home, Alafair and Lou Wexler were sitting in rocking chairs on the gallery.
“Where have you been?” Alafair said.
“I took a walk.”
“How about telling me next time?” she said.
“How do you do, Mr. Robicheaux?” Wexler said.
“I’m solid. How about you?”
“It’s a lovely night,” he said.
“Y’all are going to Arizona on Tuesday?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, rocking back and forth.
“In your private plane?”
“Actually, I rent it,” he said. “I get a corporate break.”
“Is that how it works?” I said. “I think I’ll incorporate my pickup truck.”
“Come in and let’s have some pecan pie, Dave,” Alafair said.
“I have to make a call on a bartender I insulted.”
“You did what?” she said.
“A black guy who bartends at that blues joint on the bayou,” I said. “I told him he should adopt a mop and pail as his coat of arms.”
“You didn’t,” Alafair said.
“I was in a bad mood.”
“Don’t go there,” she said.
“I won’t be long.”
She got up from the chair. It rocked weightlessly behind her. “Please.”
“You worry too much,” I said.
“Can we go along?” Wexler said.
“No need. They cater to a rough trade,” I said. “You know how Louisiana is.”
“Try a couple of ports in West Africa,” he said.
“That’s right, you and Butterworth were mercenaries,” I said.
“I was a security contractor. Butterworth was a degenerate fop.”
