then turned it over.
“It belonged to a guy who disappeared into Laos,” I said. “He never came back home. I think he's one of those who got written off by Nixon and Kissinger.”
“I don't understand,” she said.
“Batist found it on the windowsill in the bait shop this morning.
It's thespian bullshit of some kind. Last night somebody put a rusted leg iron on the seat of my truck.”
“Did you tell the sheriff?”
“I'll talk to him Monday.”
I chewed a mouthful of Grape-Nuts and kept my face empty.
“Alafair's still asleep. You want to go back inside for a little while?”
“You bet.”
A few minutes later we lay on top of the sheets in our bedroom. The curtains were gauzy and white with small roses printed on them, and they puffed in the breeze that blew through the azaleas and pecan trees in the side yard. Bootsie kissed like no woman I ever knew. Her face would come close to mine, her mouth parting, then she would angle her head slightly and touch her lips dryly against mine, remove them, her eyes never leaving mine; then she'd brush my lips with hers one more time, her fingernails making a slow circle in the back of my hair, her right hand moving down my stomach while her tongue slid across my teeth.
She made love without inhibition or self-consciousness, and never with stint or a harbored resentment. She sat on top of me, took me in her hand, and placed me deep inside her, her thighs widening, a wet murmur breaking from her throat. Then she propped herself on both arms so that her breasts hung close to my face, her breath coming faster now, her skin bright with a thin sheen of sweat. I felt her heat spreading into my loins, as though it were she who was controlling the moment for both of us. She leaned closer, gathering herself around me, her feet under my thighs, her face flushed and growing smaller and turning inward now, her hair damp against her skin like swirls of honey. In my mind's eye I saw a great hard-bodied tarpon, thick and stiff with life, glide through tunnels of pink coral and waving sea fans, then burst through a wave in strings of foam and light.
Afterward, she lay inside my arm and touched what seemed to me all the marks of my mortality and growing age-the white patch of hair on the side of my head, my mustache, now flecked with silver,
the puckered indentation from a .38 round below my left collarbone, the gray scar, like a flattened earthworm, from a pun gi stick, on my stomach, and the spray of arrow-shaped welts on my thigh where steel shards from a Bouncing Betty still lay embedded. Then she rolled against me and kissed me on the cheek.
“What's that for?” I said.
“Because you're the best, cher”
“You, too, Boots.”
“But you're not telling me something.”
“I have a bad feeling about this one.”
She raised up on one elbow and looked into my face. Her bare hip looked sculpted, like pink marble, against the light outside.
“These two murders,” I said. “We're not dealing with local dimwits.”
“So?”
“It's an old problem, Boots. They come from places they've already ruined, and then it's our turn. By the time we figure out we're dealing with major leaguers, they've been through the clock shop with baseball bats.”
“That's why we hire cops like you,” she said, and tried to smile. When I didn't answer, she said, “We can't remove south Louisiana from the rest of the world, Dave.”
“Maybe we should give it a try.”
She lay against me and placed her hand on my heart. She smelled of shampoo and flowers and the milky heat in her skin. Outside, I could hear crows cawing angrily in a tree as the sun broke out of the clouds like a heliograph.
Chapter 7
PROBABLY SAFE to say the majority of them are self-deluded, uneducated, fearful of women, and defective physically. Their political knowledge, usually gathered from paramilitary magazines, has the moral dimensions of comic books. Some of them- have been kicked out of the service on bad
“It belonged to a guy who disappeared into Laos,” I said. “He never came back home. I think he's one of those who got written off by Nixon and Kissinger.”
“I don't understand,” she said.
“Batist found it on the windowsill in the bait shop this morning.
It's thespian bullshit of some kind. Last night somebody put a rusted leg iron on the seat of my truck.”
“Did you tell the sheriff?”
“I'll talk to him Monday.”
I chewed a mouthful of Grape-Nuts and kept my face empty.
“Alafair's still asleep. You want to go back inside for a little while?”
“You bet.”
A few minutes later we lay on top of the sheets in our bedroom. The curtains were gauzy and white with small roses printed on them, and they puffed in the breeze that blew through the azaleas and pecan trees in the side yard. Bootsie kissed like no woman I ever knew. Her face would come close to mine, her mouth parting, then she would angle her head slightly and touch her lips dryly against mine, remove them, her eyes never leaving mine; then she'd brush my lips with hers one more time, her fingernails making a slow circle in the back of my hair, her right hand moving down my stomach while her tongue slid across my teeth.
She made love without inhibition or self-consciousness, and never with stint or a harbored resentment. She sat on top of me, took me in her hand, and placed me deep inside her, her thighs widening, a wet murmur breaking from her throat. Then she propped herself on both arms so that her breasts hung close to my face, her breath coming faster now, her skin bright with a thin sheen of sweat. I felt her heat spreading into my loins, as though it were she who was controlling the moment for both of us. She leaned closer, gathering herself around me, her feet under my thighs, her face flushed and growing smaller and turning inward now, her hair damp against her skin like swirls of honey. In my mind's eye I saw a great hard-bodied tarpon, thick and stiff with life, glide through tunnels of pink coral and waving sea fans, then burst through a wave in strings of foam and light.
Afterward, she lay inside my arm and touched what seemed to me all the marks of my mortality and growing age-the white patch of hair on the side of my head, my mustache, now flecked with silver,
the puckered indentation from a .38 round below my left collarbone, the gray scar, like a flattened earthworm, from a pun gi stick, on my stomach, and the spray of arrow-shaped welts on my thigh where steel shards from a Bouncing Betty still lay embedded. Then she rolled against me and kissed me on the cheek.
“What's that for?” I said.
“Because you're the best, cher”
“You, too, Boots.”
“But you're not telling me something.”
“I have a bad feeling about this one.”
She raised up on one elbow and looked into my face. Her bare hip looked sculpted, like pink marble, against the light outside.
“These two murders,” I said. “We're not dealing with local dimwits.”
“So?”
“It's an old problem, Boots. They come from places they've already ruined, and then it's our turn. By the time we figure out we're dealing with major leaguers, they've been through the clock shop with baseball bats.”
“That's why we hire cops like you,” she said, and tried to smile. When I didn't answer, she said, “We can't remove south Louisiana from the rest of the world, Dave.”
“Maybe we should give it a try.”
She lay against me and placed her hand on my heart. She smelled of shampoo and flowers and the milky heat in her skin. Outside, I could hear crows cawing angrily in a tree as the sun broke out of the clouds like a heliograph.
Chapter 7
PROBABLY SAFE to say the majority of them are self-deluded, uneducated, fearful of women, and defective physically. Their political knowledge, usually gathered from paramilitary magazines, has the moral dimensions of comic books. Some of them- have been kicked out of the service on bad
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