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“Lebeau was Tillin
ger’s friend.”
“Maybe the quotation is coincidence. Or maybe Tillinger is a real nightmare.”
“I hope he’s our guy,” she said. “I’d like to put all this craziness on one guy and shut him down.”
“Except it’s a whole lot more complicated, isn’t it?”
“To say the least,” she replied. “Just before you came in, I got a call from Desmond Cormier. He said he wants to cast Bailey Ribbons in his movie, but he doesn’t want to cause her conflict.”
“Then why does he create conflict?”
“I said something similar. How’s Bailey working out?”
“Good. The best,” I said.
“Really?”
“Is that supposed to have a second meaning?” I said.
“Nope. Just asking.” She leaned back in her swivel chair, her eyes unfocused, her face wan. “Some fun, huh, bwana?”
• • •
WHILE IN NEW IBERIA, Clete Purcel lived on East Main at the Teche Motel, a 1940s motor court with cottages on either side of a narrow strip of tree-shaded asphalt that dead-ended in an oak grove on the bayou. Two or three evenings a week he cooked a pork roast or a chicken on a grill under the oaks, and shared it with anyone who wanted to sit down with him. Late Wednesday afternoon a smoking gas-guzzler gnarled with dents made its way down to the last cottage on the asphalt. Hilary Bienville got out and knocked on the cottage door.
“I’m over here,” Clete said.
She twitched at the sound of his voice. “Can I talk wit’ you?”
“Yeah. Who told you where I live?”
She walked toward him. She wore jeans and sandals and a man’s khaki shirt tied at the waist. “The bartender at the club.”
“What happened to your face?”
“Tripped on the stairs.”
“You live in a trailer.”
“Tripped somewhere else.”
“Who did that to you?” he said.
“Ain’t important.”
“You went to the hospital?”
“I don’t mess with them emergency room people.”
“Axel Devereaux beat you up?”
“I’m scared, Mr. Clete.”
“I’m not a ‘mister.’ Answer me.”
“I don’t care about Axel. I’m here about somebody else. What he’s doing to me.” She pointed at her head. “Inside here.”
