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“You like war, Mr. Wexler?”
“No, I hate it. I also bloody well hate those who profit from it.”
“Security contractors don’t?” I said.
“With respect, sir, we saved the lives of thousands who would have been massacred in their villages.”
“That’s a noble endeavor,” I said. “Top of the evening to you.”
I got into my truck and fired up the engine. Alafair walked to my window. The belt on the fan was squealing, the gearshift knob throbbing in my palm. Wexler remained on the gallery. “You either end this attitude or I won’t be back,” she said to me.
“Security contractor, my ass,” I said.
“I mean it, Dave.”
My heart was a lump of ice.
• • •
I DROVE TO THE blues bar on the bayou. The night was sliding into the hours when the psychological metabolism in certain people shifts into reverse and the worst in them comes out and they feed fires that warp and reconfigure who they are. The sky was black, the air dry and full of dust, the parking lot lined with gas-guzzlers. A man and woman were arguing by the entrance. The woman hit him and stormed away. He grinned at her, grabbed his package, and said, “Bite.”
I went inside and sat in the shadows at the end of the bar. The singer who called herself a Mississippi nigger was playing an instrumental with two Creole men who wore porkpie hats and firehouse suspenders and puff-sleeved pink dress shirts that looked as fresh as roses. My bartender friend with the waxed mahogany knob for a head drummed his fingers in front of me. “What’ll it be, chief?”
“I look like I have feathers in my hair?” I said.
“Same question. You want some ribs? You want a beer? What d’you want?”
“I made a crack about a mop and pail and Stepin Fetchit.”
“I was all busted up about that.”
“I apologize.”
“I ain’t got all night.”
“Give me a diet Dr Pepper.”
“This ain’t a soda fountain.”
“Give me a Dr Pepper and give the lady on the bandstand whatever she’s having.”
“She drinks double Scotches and milk.”
“Then give her that. One other thing?”
“What?”
“Has Hilary Bienville been in?”
“The working girl? I hear she not taking any friction, get my meaning?”
“What’s your name?”
“Lloyd.”
“You’re a charmer, Lloyd.”
“You need to see a psychiatrist, man.”
