think.”
“Both?”
D E LU S I O N
45
“First came the photos.”
“How many?”
Nell thought back. She’d sat at a desk, Clay on the other side, turning up photos and sliding them toward her, one at a time. “A lot.”
“Like?”
“I’m not sure.” Her clearest memory of the photo-array episode was Clay’s calming presence, and the careful way his hands moved, sympathetic somehow.
“And then they brought DuPree in?”
“I’m not sure. He might have been in custody already, for something else.”
“But you’re certain you picked him out of a lineup as well.”
“Yes.” Nell closed her eyes, tried to summon the memory of standing before the one-way glass. All she could picture was the number card in DuPree’s hands: 3.
“How hard was that?”
“In what way?”
“Did you have doubts, or did it seem like he was the one, right off?”
“He was the one,” Nell said; there was no seeming about it.
Lee Ann gazed at her, eyes unreadable behind those intelligence-magnifying lenses.
“Where did you get the glasses?” Nell said.
“You like them?”
Before Nell could answer, a big black car came speeding down Parish Street, braking hard on the other side of the towpath. The car was still rocking on its suspension when a rear door opened and a big man jumped out, followed by a small man and a woman, all of them wearing business suits. Nell knew the big man: Kirk Bastien, Duke’s younger brother, former all-SEC linebacker at Georgia Tech and now mayor of Belle Ville. He strode right past Nell and Lee Ann without a glance—the small man and the woman hurrying after him—and glared down from the edge of the bayou, sunshine glinting on his swept-back hair.
“God damn,” he said, swinging around, “this is a disgrace. Why the hell didn’t I know about it?”
46
PETER ABRAHAMS
The small man and the woman glanced at each other, said nothing.
“You’re fired,” Kirk Bastien said, voice rising. Nell had heard he had a bad temper, had never before seen a demonstration. “The both of you. Get out of my sight.” At that moment, Kirk Bastien noticed her.
“Nell?” he said, lowering his voice and putting on his sunglasses.
His face was bright red.
“Hi, Kirk.”
“What are you doing here?” he said. He turned toward Lee Ann and frowned.
“Hello, Mayor,” Lee Ann said. “We were just out for a spin.”
“Oh, Christ,” Kirk said. “You’re doing a story on this?”
“Looks like a story to me,” Lee Ann said.
“Aw, come on now,” Kirk said. He approached Lee Ann, buttoning his jacket. Nell hadn’t seen him in a while, noticed how much weight he’d put on; hurricane stress had had the opposite effect on Clay, dulling his appetite, reducing him. “How’s that going to help morale?”
Lee Ann looked up at him. “That’s not our job.”
“I know that, Lee Ann. But everyone’s so worn out. How about we make ourselves a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
“This mess is all cleaned up by nightfall,” Kirk said. “You write a nice story about something else.”
He waited, towering over her. There was no threat or anything like that, but still Nell admired the way Lee Ann stood her ground and waited a long time before saying, “It’s a deal, but I’ll need some pictures just in case.”
“Knock yourself out,” Kirk said, stepping aside.
Lee Ann dug a small camera from her bag, moved closer to the bayou, took pictures from different angles. Then she turned to Nell.
“All set?”
“Bye, Kirk,” Nell said.
“That husband of yours is doing a fabulous job,” Kirk said. “You say hi, now.”
D E LU S I O N
47
Nell and Lee Ann got in the car. They heard Kirk’s voice rising again. “You two familiar with that expression?” he said; the jobless assistants hadn’t moved. “Nightfall?”
“So they’re not fired?” Nell said as Lee Ann did a U-turn and drove back down Parish Street.
“Not till tomorrow,” Lee Ann said. “And tomorrow and
“Both?”
D E LU S I O N
45
“First came the photos.”
“How many?”
Nell thought back. She’d sat at a desk, Clay on the other side, turning up photos and sliding them toward her, one at a time. “A lot.”
“Like?”
“I’m not sure.” Her clearest memory of the photo-array episode was Clay’s calming presence, and the careful way his hands moved, sympathetic somehow.
“And then they brought DuPree in?”
“I’m not sure. He might have been in custody already, for something else.”
“But you’re certain you picked him out of a lineup as well.”
“Yes.” Nell closed her eyes, tried to summon the memory of standing before the one-way glass. All she could picture was the number card in DuPree’s hands: 3.
“How hard was that?”
“In what way?”
“Did you have doubts, or did it seem like he was the one, right off?”
“He was the one,” Nell said; there was no seeming about it.
Lee Ann gazed at her, eyes unreadable behind those intelligence-magnifying lenses.
“Where did you get the glasses?” Nell said.
“You like them?”
Before Nell could answer, a big black car came speeding down Parish Street, braking hard on the other side of the towpath. The car was still rocking on its suspension when a rear door opened and a big man jumped out, followed by a small man and a woman, all of them wearing business suits. Nell knew the big man: Kirk Bastien, Duke’s younger brother, former all-SEC linebacker at Georgia Tech and now mayor of Belle Ville. He strode right past Nell and Lee Ann without a glance—the small man and the woman hurrying after him—and glared down from the edge of the bayou, sunshine glinting on his swept-back hair.
“God damn,” he said, swinging around, “this is a disgrace. Why the hell didn’t I know about it?”
46
PETER ABRAHAMS
The small man and the woman glanced at each other, said nothing.
“You’re fired,” Kirk Bastien said, voice rising. Nell had heard he had a bad temper, had never before seen a demonstration. “The both of you. Get out of my sight.” At that moment, Kirk Bastien noticed her.
“Nell?” he said, lowering his voice and putting on his sunglasses.
His face was bright red.
“Hi, Kirk.”
“What are you doing here?” he said. He turned toward Lee Ann and frowned.
“Hello, Mayor,” Lee Ann said. “We were just out for a spin.”
“Oh, Christ,” Kirk said. “You’re doing a story on this?”
“Looks like a story to me,” Lee Ann said.
“Aw, come on now,” Kirk said. He approached Lee Ann, buttoning his jacket. Nell hadn’t seen him in a while, noticed how much weight he’d put on; hurricane stress had had the opposite effect on Clay, dulling his appetite, reducing him. “How’s that going to help morale?”
Lee Ann looked up at him. “That’s not our job.”
“I know that, Lee Ann. But everyone’s so worn out. How about we make ourselves a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
“This mess is all cleaned up by nightfall,” Kirk said. “You write a nice story about something else.”
He waited, towering over her. There was no threat or anything like that, but still Nell admired the way Lee Ann stood her ground and waited a long time before saying, “It’s a deal, but I’ll need some pictures just in case.”
“Knock yourself out,” Kirk said, stepping aside.
Lee Ann dug a small camera from her bag, moved closer to the bayou, took pictures from different angles. Then she turned to Nell.
“All set?”
“Bye, Kirk,” Nell said.
“That husband of yours is doing a fabulous job,” Kirk said. “You say hi, now.”
D E LU S I O N
47
Nell and Lee Ann got in the car. They heard Kirk’s voice rising again. “You two familiar with that expression?” he said; the jobless assistants hadn’t moved. “Nightfall?”
“So they’re not fired?” Nell said as Lee Ann did a U-turn and drove back down Parish Street.
“Not till tomorrow,” Lee Ann said. “And tomorrow and
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