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“Goodbye, madam.”
I walked out of the building. A storm front had moved in from the Gulf, shadowing the bayou and City Park and East Main, blowing leaves and pine needles into the circular driveway where the grotto stood, candles flickering in the votive glasses at the foot of the statue. Then the clouds burst, and the rain pounded on my head and shoulders and ran down inside my shirt. I went back into the building. Wally was at the candy machine.
“Did you hear anything on LaForchette?” I said.
“Nutting, Dave.”
I waited for him to make another sarcastic or cynical remark.
“No comment?” I said.
“You want some paper towels? You look like a drowned cat.”
“No, thanks.”
Wally looked into space.
“You want to tell me something?” I asked.
“I always felt sorry about LaForchette,” he said. “I t’ought he got a bad deal, going to jail as a kid and all. What’s wit’ that woman?”
“Penelope Balangie?” I said.
“She was crying. You said somet’ing bad to her? That ain’t like you, Dave.”
* * *
THE EVENTS THAT followed are hard to put into words. They’re the kind that make you wonder how you could have prevented a serious blot on your soul or changed a li
fe or lifted someone from his despair with a gift as small as a smile, a gentle word, a touch on the cheek. Or, in my case, simply ignoring a bothersome knock on the door.
The sky remained dark that evening, the rain unrelenting, the oaks and pecan trees in the yard quaking like apparitions when lightning rippled through the clouds. I was eating a frozen dinner in the kitchen when I saw a vehicle turn off East Main and bounce into my driveway, the high beams on. I put aside my food and went into the living room. Someone’s pickup was parked behind mine, the windshield wipers slapping, the engine running. I opened the front door but could not see who was behind the wheel.
“Who’s that?” I hollered.
I waited, but there was no answer. It wasn’t unusual for lost tourists to pull into my driveway. I closed the door and went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. The headlights in the driveway continued to burn through the front windows. Then I saw someone in a slicker and a flop hat run for the front steps; a moment later, a fist pounded violently on the door. I removed a five-round titanium .38 Special snub from the cutlery drawer and stuck it in the back of my belt, then went into the living room again and unbolted and opened the front door.
Marcel LaForchette glared at me from under his hat. “I need to confess.”
“See Father Julian.”
“This is about you, motherfucker.”
“I don’t like people swearing on my property or in my home. I’m also out of Purple Hearts. I’ll see you at the department tomorrow.”
“That’s what you t’ink.”
He stiff-armed me backward and stepped into the room. I had not realized how strong and solid his body was. His face was beaded with water and twisted in an angry knot. He smelled like leaves and earth and the sulfur of the storm.
“You’re a pro, Marcel,” I said. “Eighty-six the melodrama, will you?”
“Maybe I’ll bust your jaw.”
“I never jammed you.” I said. “I never ran you in with the lowlifes.”
“You always talked down to me. Just like you’re doing now.”
“Has Mark Shondell got a contract on you?”
