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“Not the night of the assault? Last night?”
“That’s what I said. He’s changing.”
I was afraid to ask what she meant.
“His skin, his pigmentation,” she said. “He has hands, not claws.”
“I’d like for LeBlanc to hear this.”
“He’s not coming in this house.”
“What does Richetti want from you?”
“Nothing. He says I’m already a spirit, so his apology to me is too late. He wants your friend.”
“Clete Purcel?”
“You said it, not me.”
“You have to talk to this guy, Leslie.”
“My ass.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“God, are you weird,” she said.
“I thought you might think better of me.”
She stepped closer to me, her eyes six inches from mine. Her face was unlined, her teeth white. Her breath smelled like marinated strawberries. “Maybe I do. But I’m bad news.”
“In what way?”
“I wasn’t burned because I was a Jew. I was burned because I was a witch. I didn’t get on a pole on Bourbon Street because a bunch of drunk dimwits raped me; I loved every minute of it. I got high watching those fat shits drool on the bar.”
“Yesterday’s box score,” I said.
“Great metaphor. I’m fucked up, honey-bunny. I always will be. Spirit or not, that’s why I’m attracted to guys like you.”
I could not believe I had just had a conversation of this kind. Who needs hooch and dope? I’ll take the natural world anytime.
* * *
CARROLL LEBLANC AND I headed back toward New Iberia. The tide was coming in on the Teche, and the wind was pushing waves up on the banks. There had been tornado warnings before sunrise.
“I really don’t feel good, Dave,” Carroll said.
“Want to go to the ER?”
“Maybe to City Park for a few minutes. They got a Coca-Cola machine in the rec hall.”
“Sure.”
“What’d Rosenberg tell you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We can talk later.”
“I got a problem.”
