interesting company. This is Louisiana,
Swede."
He rolled the rubber ball down the back of his forearm, off
his elbow, and caught it in his palm, all in one motion. Then he rolled
it back and forth across the top of his fingers, the gum snapping in
his jaw all the while.
"I went out max time. You got no handle. I got a job, too. In
the movies. I'm not shitting you on that," he said.
"Watch your language, please."
"My language? Wow, I love this town already." Then his face
tilted, disconcerted, his breath drawing through his nose like an
animal catching a scent. "Why's Blimpo staring at me like that?"
I turned and saw Clete Purcel standing behind me. He grinned
and took out his comb and ran it through his sandy hair with both
hands. The skin under his arms was pink with sunburn.
"You think I got a weight problem?" he asked.
"No. 'Cause I don't know you. I don't know what kind of
problem you got."
"Then why'd you call me Blimpo?"
"So maybe I didn't mean anything by it."
"I think you did."
But Boxleiter turned his back on us, his attention fixed on
the deep end of the pool, his right hand opening and closing on the
blue rubber ball. The wind blew lines in his peroxided hair, and his
scalp had the dead gray color of putty. His lips moved silently.
"What'd you say?" Clete asked. When Boxleiter didn't reply,
Clete fitted his hand under Boxleiter's arm and turned him away from
the fence. "You said, 'Blow me, Fatso'?"
Boxleiter slipped the ball in his pocket and looked out into
the trees, his hands on his hips.
"It's a nice day. I'm gonna buy me a sno'ball. I love the
spearmint sno'balls they sell in this park. You guys want one?" he said.
We watched him walk away through the trees, the leaves
crunching under his feet like pecan shells, toward a cold drink stand
and ice machine a black man had set up under a candy-striped umbrella.
"Like the boy says, he doesn't come with handles," Clete said.
THAT AFTERNOON THE SHERIFF called me
into his office. He was
watering his window plants with a hand-painted teakettle, smoking his
pipe at the same time. His body was slatted with light through the
blinds, and beyond the blinds I could see the whitewashed crypts in the
old Catholic cemetery.
"I got a call from Alex Guidry. You reported him to the Humane
Society?" he said.
"He keeps his dogs penned on a filthy concrete slab without
shade."
"He claims you're harassing him."
"What did the Humane Society say?"
"They gave him a warning and told him they'd be back. Watch
your back with this character, Dave."
"That's it?"
"No. The other problem is your calls to the FBI in New
Orleans. They're off our backs for a while. Why stir them up?"
"Cool Breeze should be in our custody. We're letting the Feds
twist him to avoid a civil suit over the abuse of prisoners in our
jail."
"He's a four-time loser, Dave. He's not a victim. He fed a guy
into an electric saw."
"I don't think it's right."
"Tell that to people when we have to pass a parish sales tax
to pay off a class action suit, particularly one that will make a bunch
of convicts rich. I take that back. Tell it to that female FBI agent.
She was here while you were out to lunch. I really enjoyed the half
hour I spent listening to her."
"Adrien Glazier was here?"
IT WAS FRIDAY, AND when I drove home
that evening I should
have been beginning a fine weekend. Instead, she was waiting for me on
the dock, a cardboard satchel balanced on the railing under her hand. I
parked the car in the drive and walked down to meet her. She looked hot
in her pink suit, her ice-blue eyes filmed from the heat or the dust on
the road.
"You've got Breeze in lockdown and everybody around here
scared. What else do you want, Ms. Glazier?"
"It's Special Agent Gla—"
"Yeah, I know."
"You and Megan Flynn are taking this to the media, aren't you?"
"No. At least I'm not."
"Then why do both of you keep calling the Bureau?"
"Because I'm being denied access to a prisoner who escaped
from our jail,
Swede."
He rolled the rubber ball down the back of his forearm, off
his elbow, and caught it in his palm, all in one motion. Then he rolled
it back and forth across the top of his fingers, the gum snapping in
his jaw all the while.
"I went out max time. You got no handle. I got a job, too. In
the movies. I'm not shitting you on that," he said.
"Watch your language, please."
"My language? Wow, I love this town already." Then his face
tilted, disconcerted, his breath drawing through his nose like an
animal catching a scent. "Why's Blimpo staring at me like that?"
I turned and saw Clete Purcel standing behind me. He grinned
and took out his comb and ran it through his sandy hair with both
hands. The skin under his arms was pink with sunburn.
"You think I got a weight problem?" he asked.
"No. 'Cause I don't know you. I don't know what kind of
problem you got."
"Then why'd you call me Blimpo?"
"So maybe I didn't mean anything by it."
"I think you did."
But Boxleiter turned his back on us, his attention fixed on
the deep end of the pool, his right hand opening and closing on the
blue rubber ball. The wind blew lines in his peroxided hair, and his
scalp had the dead gray color of putty. His lips moved silently.
"What'd you say?" Clete asked. When Boxleiter didn't reply,
Clete fitted his hand under Boxleiter's arm and turned him away from
the fence. "You said, 'Blow me, Fatso'?"
Boxleiter slipped the ball in his pocket and looked out into
the trees, his hands on his hips.
"It's a nice day. I'm gonna buy me a sno'ball. I love the
spearmint sno'balls they sell in this park. You guys want one?" he said.
We watched him walk away through the trees, the leaves
crunching under his feet like pecan shells, toward a cold drink stand
and ice machine a black man had set up under a candy-striped umbrella.
"Like the boy says, he doesn't come with handles," Clete said.
THAT AFTERNOON THE SHERIFF called me
into his office. He was
watering his window plants with a hand-painted teakettle, smoking his
pipe at the same time. His body was slatted with light through the
blinds, and beyond the blinds I could see the whitewashed crypts in the
old Catholic cemetery.
"I got a call from Alex Guidry. You reported him to the Humane
Society?" he said.
"He keeps his dogs penned on a filthy concrete slab without
shade."
"He claims you're harassing him."
"What did the Humane Society say?"
"They gave him a warning and told him they'd be back. Watch
your back with this character, Dave."
"That's it?"
"No. The other problem is your calls to the FBI in New
Orleans. They're off our backs for a while. Why stir them up?"
"Cool Breeze should be in our custody. We're letting the Feds
twist him to avoid a civil suit over the abuse of prisoners in our
jail."
"He's a four-time loser, Dave. He's not a victim. He fed a guy
into an electric saw."
"I don't think it's right."
"Tell that to people when we have to pass a parish sales tax
to pay off a class action suit, particularly one that will make a bunch
of convicts rich. I take that back. Tell it to that female FBI agent.
She was here while you were out to lunch. I really enjoyed the half
hour I spent listening to her."
"Adrien Glazier was here?"
IT WAS FRIDAY, AND when I drove home
that evening I should
have been beginning a fine weekend. Instead, she was waiting for me on
the dock, a cardboard satchel balanced on the railing under her hand. I
parked the car in the drive and walked down to meet her. She looked hot
in her pink suit, her ice-blue eyes filmed from the heat or the dust on
the road.
"You've got Breeze in lockdown and everybody around here
scared. What else do you want, Ms. Glazier?"
"It's Special Agent Gla—"
"Yeah, I know."
"You and Megan Flynn are taking this to the media, aren't you?"
"No. At least I'm not."
"Then why do both of you keep calling the Bureau?"
"Because I'm being denied access to a prisoner who escaped
from our jail,
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