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We walked up on the gallery and knocked on the door. The sky was an ink wash, the smoke from the stubble eye-watering. Through the glass in the door, I saw a man rise from the kitchen table and walk through a hallway into the living room. I have been in law enforcement a long time. In the American South, there is a kind of lawman every decent cop instantly recognizes. His uniform is usually soiled and wrinkled, more like army fatigues or marine utilities, as though he has worked long hours in it. If allowed, he wears a coned cowboy hat. His posture and physicality exude a quiet sense of confidence, whether he’s leaning against a rail or gazing idly at something he doesn’t like. There is no moral light in his eyes. For reasons you cannot explain, he bears an animus toward the world, particularly toward people of color, no matter how poor or powerless they are.
Jess Bottoms opened the wood door but left the screen latched. His head had the shape of a smoked ham, his shoulders thick and humped like football pads. He wore khaki trousers and suspenders, half-top slip-on boots, and a long-sleeve snap-button white shirt with silver stripes in it. His stomach hung over his belt like thirty pounds of bread dough. He glared at Clete, then at me.
I opened my badge holder. “Dave Robicheaux, Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Bottoms. I’d like to get some information from you regarding a prostitute named Li’l Face Dautrieve.”
“Nigger works out of the quarters in Loreauville?” he said.
“Can we come in?” I asked.
“I’m eating.”
“It’s in your interest,” I said.
“What is this, Purcel?” he said.
“It’s like he says, Jess. We think you might be in danger.”
Bottoms unlatched the screen. “I got people coming over. They arrive, you leave.”
He pushed the screen open with his foot and then walked back into the kitchen. The interior of the house looked worn and old, the wallpaper water-
stained; the lamps barely gave light. But the kitchen had obviously been refurbished, as though it were the only part of the home that had a purpose. The appliances were new; a flat-screen television was playing on the wall. I heard dogs barking again. Bottoms sat down and dug into a T-bone, chasing it with sips from a bottle of beer.
“You have a kennel?” I said.
His eyes were on the TV. “What’s this danger I’m in?”
“Can we turn off the television?” I asked.
“I’m watching a show,” he said, his eyes not leaving the screen.
“Li’l Face says you paid her three hundred dollars to pull a train,” Clete said.
“I never knew a nigger who didn’t lie,” he said.
“This is part of a homicide investigation, Mr. Bottoms,” I said. “We’re not interested in the sex life of your friends. You gave Li’l Face some marked bills. We’d appreciate your telling us where those bills came from.”
“I dug them out of your mother’s maggoty, insignificant cunt,” he said. “Does that answer your question?”
“That’s a mouthful,” I said.
Clete walked to the television and hit the off switch with the flat of his fist. “What’s with those dogs?”
“They’re dogs,” Bottoms said. “Turn the set on.”
“What time do you feed them?” Clete said. “You feed them after you fight them?”
Bottoms cut a piece of steak and lifted it to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “How about you suck my dick, Purcel? When you finish, you can tell the Dautrieve girl her black ass is grass.”
“I’ll be right back, Dave,” Clete said. He went out the back door, letting it slam.
“What’s he doing?” Bottoms said.
“Search me.”
Bottoms looked out the screen at the darkness and the sparks twirling into the sky. “Maybe I can share some information with you,” he said.
“If I share some with you?”
