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“You’re not making sense. Oars on a sailboat? That doesn’t sound right.”
“It looked like it was out of medieval times.”
“Don’t think about these things anymore, Mr. Clete. You can’t talk about this to others, either. The more you do, the more people will not believe you. You see any of their faces?”
“Yeah, the cop and the guy in a hood.”
“What’d the guy in the hood look like?” Johnny asked.
“Not human.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Don’t talk about any of this. People will try to put you away. Most people don’t want the truth.”
Clete wiped the rain out of his eyes. His skivvies were translucent, his skin blue. He let Johnny help him to the rental car. For the first time in his life, he believed that madness might be the norm and that his own mind might become his greatest enemy.
* * *
CLETE SPENT THE next two days in Fort Lauderdale, then flew back to New Orleans and drove to New Iberia in his Caddy. In the meantime I had gotten my badge back and was hoping to put to rest my involvement with the Shondell and Balangie families.
Of course, that’s not the way things worked out. Clete hit town a nervous wreck. We were sitting at the redwood picnic table in my backyard when he told me what happened in the Keys. The cicadas were droning in the trees. But I could hardly hear them because of the popping sounds Clete’s words left in my ears. I thought he had finally lost his mind.
“Johnny Shondell showed up in the junkyard with a semi-auto?” I asked.
“He said he carried it in his guitar case.”
“Like that’s what all musicians do?” I said.
He didn’t answer. He stared at a blue heron that was standing in the lily pads on the edge of the bayou, pecking at its feathers.
“You couldn’t find the plainclothes who sapped you?” I said.
“The city and county guys said there was no one fitting that description in their departments.”
“How about the motel clerk who made the 911 call?”
“He blew town.” Clete gazed at the shadows under the trees as though the light were shrinking from the world.
“Stay here,” I said.
“Where you going?”
“You need something in the tank.”
“You got a shot of Dr. Jack stashed away?”
Sometimes I kept booze in the house. Or guests left it there. That might seem a funny admission from a recovering drunk, but the problem is in the man, not the bottle. If a drunk wants booze, he’ll burn down the liquor store to get it. For guys like Clete or me or anyone who shares our metabolism, alcohol and heroin are chemically synonymous, and the temptations are everywhere. A normal person cannot understand the longing a drunk feels for his glass. It is stronger and worse than any sexual desire, any fear of hell, any allegiance to family, country, or church.
I fixed a glass of iced tea and a ham-and-onion-and-avocado sandwich and brought them to him on a tray. I thought he’d be irritable because I didn’t bring him four fingers of Jack on the rocks or at least a beer. But he didn’t complain. I think Clete knew he was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. You’ve heard of the thousand-yard stare? His hands were shaking on his sandwich as though he had a chill.
“We’ve been in rougher spots,” I said.
“When?”
“Where’s Johnny now?”
“Back in town. Probably at his uncle’s. I can’t trust my own thoughts. I think I’m going crazy, Dave.”
“You saw the ship out on the water, the one with the oars?”
