ask about Cormac, had I found him?
Drew agreed. “The network is so wide by now,” he said, “wherever he is, he’ll be ratted out sooner or later.” Both men could tell this line of talk was only going so far with me. Pierre changed tack, told me Eddie Lafitte had come by and left a letter for me.
“About what?” I asked.
“I didn’t read it,” he said. “What kind of friend do you think I am?” Pierre winked and got the letter from beside the cash register. “You know how Lou is about animals,” Pierre said. “I bet it’s something about your dog.”
“Why wouldn’t he just meet me for a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Pierre said. “Just read the letter.”
Drew said he was late to meet a plumber at a job site. “Cormac’s in the pipeline, pal,” Drew said. “Lots of eyes are looking for that red dog. We’ll find him.” He squeezed my shoulder, nodded to Pierre and left. Pierre said he had to do a couple of book searches online before the customers phoned this morning. I said I’d check back with him later in the day. I looked at the envelope in my hand, wondering what Lou had written.
I first met Eddie “Lou Garou” Lafitte in the company of Pierre. Loup-garou is the French name for werewolf, and Lou, as his friends call him, is a hairy man. Pierre said he had a pelt, which was ironic given that Lou had been a teenage fur trapper in the Louisiana swamps. He was a Cajun, a six-foot-nine-inch walking book on the outdoors, had a master’s degree in forestry, and had once hosted his own outdoorsman reality show on cable television. Lou loved dogs everywhere, and particularly Jenny, his brindled Catahoula. Media people loved him, and he was frequently the authority on some wild creature issue for Animal Planet on the Discovery Channel. Eddie Lafitte narrated a public television special on the return of brown pelicans to Mobile Bay after nearly a quarter-century’s absence.
Lou’s affinity with animals was legend. The day I met him I watched the legend spread as a scene unfolded before a group of people seated on the gallery of the Pink Pony Lounge in Gulf Shores, Alabama, on a certain sunny Sunday afternoon five years ago.
Pierre had come by the bookstore the previous Friday afternoon, and asked me to join him and his friend Lou on Sunday for a ride over to the Gulf beaches, maybe grab a beer, watch some football on television.
On Sunday, just past noon, Pierre and Lou showed up. I got into the car with them and we drove south a half hour until we arrived in Gulf Shores, and went directly to the Pink Pony. The sun was out, though the wind blew a little chilly. Still, we decided to take our beers to the deck facing the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico waters. The game between the Saints and the Bears had not yet started. Kickoff was in forty-five minutes.
We were about to sit when I noticed a seagull down at the surf’s edge. Weird, it seemed, just sitting there as though hatching an egg. I usually saw seagulls in flight, or running on the beach toward a morsel dropped there by a sunbather, sometimes floating on the waves. I didn’t remember seeing one sitting stock-still on the sand.
Lou detected the seagull’s broken wing first. He called it to my attention, since he saw me looking in its direction. Even then I couldn’t see the damaged wing. But when the bird got to its feet, I saw the short, jagged bone protruding from matted feathers at its left shoulder. “Look at that,” I said. Lou said nothing. Pierre asked, “What?”
Then he, too, saw the heavy-seeming and lifeless wing hanging at the gull’s side. The bird might have been a child’s toy with its gimpy motion. It wobbled along for ten feet and had to sit again. I cut my eyes around to other patrons on the deck. Some were aware of the bird’s plight and pointed toward the water’s edge, to the gull still sitting on the sand. Some, I could overhear.
“You know,” said a small-breasted woman with
Drew agreed. “The network is so wide by now,” he said, “wherever he is, he’ll be ratted out sooner or later.” Both men could tell this line of talk was only going so far with me. Pierre changed tack, told me Eddie Lafitte had come by and left a letter for me.
“About what?” I asked.
“I didn’t read it,” he said. “What kind of friend do you think I am?” Pierre winked and got the letter from beside the cash register. “You know how Lou is about animals,” Pierre said. “I bet it’s something about your dog.”
“Why wouldn’t he just meet me for a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Pierre said. “Just read the letter.”
Drew said he was late to meet a plumber at a job site. “Cormac’s in the pipeline, pal,” Drew said. “Lots of eyes are looking for that red dog. We’ll find him.” He squeezed my shoulder, nodded to Pierre and left. Pierre said he had to do a couple of book searches online before the customers phoned this morning. I said I’d check back with him later in the day. I looked at the envelope in my hand, wondering what Lou had written.
I first met Eddie “Lou Garou” Lafitte in the company of Pierre. Loup-garou is the French name for werewolf, and Lou, as his friends call him, is a hairy man. Pierre said he had a pelt, which was ironic given that Lou had been a teenage fur trapper in the Louisiana swamps. He was a Cajun, a six-foot-nine-inch walking book on the outdoors, had a master’s degree in forestry, and had once hosted his own outdoorsman reality show on cable television. Lou loved dogs everywhere, and particularly Jenny, his brindled Catahoula. Media people loved him, and he was frequently the authority on some wild creature issue for Animal Planet on the Discovery Channel. Eddie Lafitte narrated a public television special on the return of brown pelicans to Mobile Bay after nearly a quarter-century’s absence.
Lou’s affinity with animals was legend. The day I met him I watched the legend spread as a scene unfolded before a group of people seated on the gallery of the Pink Pony Lounge in Gulf Shores, Alabama, on a certain sunny Sunday afternoon five years ago.
Pierre had come by the bookstore the previous Friday afternoon, and asked me to join him and his friend Lou on Sunday for a ride over to the Gulf beaches, maybe grab a beer, watch some football on television.
On Sunday, just past noon, Pierre and Lou showed up. I got into the car with them and we drove south a half hour until we arrived in Gulf Shores, and went directly to the Pink Pony. The sun was out, though the wind blew a little chilly. Still, we decided to take our beers to the deck facing the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico waters. The game between the Saints and the Bears had not yet started. Kickoff was in forty-five minutes.
We were about to sit when I noticed a seagull down at the surf’s edge. Weird, it seemed, just sitting there as though hatching an egg. I usually saw seagulls in flight, or running on the beach toward a morsel dropped there by a sunbather, sometimes floating on the waves. I didn’t remember seeing one sitting stock-still on the sand.
Lou detected the seagull’s broken wing first. He called it to my attention, since he saw me looking in its direction. Even then I couldn’t see the damaged wing. But when the bird got to its feet, I saw the short, jagged bone protruding from matted feathers at its left shoulder. “Look at that,” I said. Lou said nothing. Pierre asked, “What?”
Then he, too, saw the heavy-seeming and lifeless wing hanging at the gull’s side. The bird might have been a child’s toy with its gimpy motion. It wobbled along for ten feet and had to sit again. I cut my eyes around to other patrons on the deck. Some were aware of the bird’s plight and pointed toward the water’s edge, to the gull still sitting on the sand. Some, I could overhear.
“You know,” said a small-breasted woman with
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