that’s not clear yet.
SEVEN
T ell you what let’s do,” Duke Boutette said when we’d finished our drinks. “So’s we
can avoid goin’ through all these things twice.” He paused as though waiting for Bernie
to jump in. When Bernie did not, Duke said, “Catch that—what’s the word?”
“Reference,” called the bartender from back of the bar. We were at a table near the
stage, Bernie and Duke sitting on chairs, me on the floor, my eyes just above tabletop
level, one of my favorite viewing angles. Above the table everything looked on the
up-and-up. Below the table, one of Duke’s legs was going a mile a minute, which turns
out to be not that fast, just another thing I’d learned from Bernie. Out in the desert
we’d topped two miles a minute plenty of times, Bernie hooting and hollering behind
the wheel, me howling at the sky from the shotgun seat. You’ve got to make time for
a little relaxation: that’s one of my core beliefs.
“Right—reference,” Duke said. “You catch my little reference, Bernie?”
“To Bob Dylan?” said Bernie. The name meant nothing to me. A perp? Couldn’t rule it
out. And if he was a perp, he’d bebreaking rocks in the hot sun sooner or later. That was pretty much our game plan
at the Little Detective Agency.
“Uh-huh,” said Duke, not looking pleased, which was maybe easier for him than most,
on account of the way his normal face was almost there already. “Fact is, ol’ Bob
was sitting at this very table, in your very chair, not two months ago.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie.
“We got music in our veins here in New Orleans, brother,” Duke said. “What was he
drinkin’?”
“Pink lemonade,” said the bartender. “Then he switched to chocolate milk.”
“There you go,” said Duke. “Show Mr. Little where that drummer of his put a fist through
the wall.”
The bartender pointed to a hole in the wall near the front door. At that moment, it
opened and a uniformed cop walked in. He glanced around and said, “Hey.” No one else
spoke or even seemed to notice him. The cop headed over to the bar. The bartender
poured him a shot of something. He slugged it down and walked out.
“Point is,” Duke said, rising from the table, “we’ll pay a little visit over to Lord’s
place and go through everything just the once.”
The woman with cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other suddenly came to life.
“And what if he’s not there?”
The white-haired old guy laughed so hard his straw hat fell off.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” Duke said. He stalked out of the bar. We went with him.
Outside the rain had stopped and the street, the sidewalk, even the rooftops were
steaming, a lovely sight. Back inside the bar, the white-haired guy’s laughter seemed
to have spread to the bartender and the lone lady drinker.
“Can you believe those banshees?” Duke said. “I’m gonna burn the place to the ground.”
“Really?” Bernie said.
“Just an expression,” said Duke. “More or less.” He checked his watch, huge and gold,
with lots of dials and jewels. “Up for a walk? It’s only three blocks.”
“Sure,” said Bernie. “That sounds—” He looked at me. “Ch—et?”
That’s a special way he has of saying Chet, and when he does I always pay close attention.
Like now: I went absolutely still, with the possible exception of my tail. I’m totally
at the controls of all the rest of me, but my tail has a—how to put it? Mind of its
own? Whoa! What a scary thought, two minds in one body! What if . . . but I didn’t
want to go there. So I didn’t, dodging some dark thoughts at the very last instant.
Bernie came closer. “What have you got there, big guy?”
I had something? News to me. Then Duke looked my way and started laughing. There was
a lot of laughter in this burg, normally a good thing, but confusing at the moment.
Bernie bent down and . . . what was this?
SEVEN
T ell you what let’s do,” Duke Boutette said when we’d finished our drinks. “So’s we
can avoid goin’ through all these things twice.” He paused as though waiting for Bernie
to jump in. When Bernie did not, Duke said, “Catch that—what’s the word?”
“Reference,” called the bartender from back of the bar. We were at a table near the
stage, Bernie and Duke sitting on chairs, me on the floor, my eyes just above tabletop
level, one of my favorite viewing angles. Above the table everything looked on the
up-and-up. Below the table, one of Duke’s legs was going a mile a minute, which turns
out to be not that fast, just another thing I’d learned from Bernie. Out in the desert
we’d topped two miles a minute plenty of times, Bernie hooting and hollering behind
the wheel, me howling at the sky from the shotgun seat. You’ve got to make time for
a little relaxation: that’s one of my core beliefs.
“Right—reference,” Duke said. “You catch my little reference, Bernie?”
“To Bob Dylan?” said Bernie. The name meant nothing to me. A perp? Couldn’t rule it
out. And if he was a perp, he’d bebreaking rocks in the hot sun sooner or later. That was pretty much our game plan
at the Little Detective Agency.
“Uh-huh,” said Duke, not looking pleased, which was maybe easier for him than most,
on account of the way his normal face was almost there already. “Fact is, ol’ Bob
was sitting at this very table, in your very chair, not two months ago.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie.
“We got music in our veins here in New Orleans, brother,” Duke said. “What was he
drinkin’?”
“Pink lemonade,” said the bartender. “Then he switched to chocolate milk.”
“There you go,” said Duke. “Show Mr. Little where that drummer of his put a fist through
the wall.”
The bartender pointed to a hole in the wall near the front door. At that moment, it
opened and a uniformed cop walked in. He glanced around and said, “Hey.” No one else
spoke or even seemed to notice him. The cop headed over to the bar. The bartender
poured him a shot of something. He slugged it down and walked out.
“Point is,” Duke said, rising from the table, “we’ll pay a little visit over to Lord’s
place and go through everything just the once.”
The woman with cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other suddenly came to life.
“And what if he’s not there?”
The white-haired old guy laughed so hard his straw hat fell off.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” Duke said. He stalked out of the bar. We went with him.
Outside the rain had stopped and the street, the sidewalk, even the rooftops were
steaming, a lovely sight. Back inside the bar, the white-haired guy’s laughter seemed
to have spread to the bartender and the lone lady drinker.
“Can you believe those banshees?” Duke said. “I’m gonna burn the place to the ground.”
“Really?” Bernie said.
“Just an expression,” said Duke. “More or less.” He checked his watch, huge and gold,
with lots of dials and jewels. “Up for a walk? It’s only three blocks.”
“Sure,” said Bernie. “That sounds—” He looked at me. “Ch—et?”
That’s a special way he has of saying Chet, and when he does I always pay close attention.
Like now: I went absolutely still, with the possible exception of my tail. I’m totally
at the controls of all the rest of me, but my tail has a—how to put it? Mind of its
own? Whoa! What a scary thought, two minds in one body! What if . . . but I didn’t
want to go there. So I didn’t, dodging some dark thoughts at the very last instant.
Bernie came closer. “What have you got there, big guy?”
I had something? News to me. Then Duke looked my way and started laughing. There was
a lot of laughter in this burg, normally a good thing, but confusing at the moment.
Bernie bent down and . . . what was this?
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