home. It started to rain and I waited a half hour under a leaky awning for my cab to arrive. I made a quiet resolution about accepting invitations from federal employees.
But, as Fitzpatrick had said, I’d written my own script, and the next morning I continued to write it, only with some disastrous consequences that made me wonder if my alcoholic, self-destructive incubus was not alive and well.
I started by looking for Bobby Joe Starkweather. I didn’t have many threads, but he was the kind of guy who showed up at certain places. I tried a couple of indoor target ranges, outlaw motorcycle bars, sex shops, and a survivalist store that catered to people who relished the unlimited prospects of living in a post-World War III wasteland. But I struck out.
Then, at noon, while Cletus and I were eating a pizza out of a box on a bench in Jackson Square, I wondered why I was chasing after an unknown quantity like Bobby Joe Starkweather when the primary connection was already available. We sat under a mimosa tree, and St. Louis Cathedral and the square itself were drenched in hot sunlight. There were drops of perspiration and flecks of red pizza sauce on Clete’s face while he ate. His eyes were looking abstractedly at the sidewalk artists in Pirates Alley.
“What have you got on the burner for this afternoon?” I asked.
“Not much. Figure out what I’m going to do with my goddamn wife. Get this. She just sent a check for six hundred dollars to the Buddhist priest out in Colorado. I tried to put a stop-payment on it, but it already went through. That’s thousands she’s given to this guy. When I say anything about it, she says I’m drunk.”
“Maybe y’all should separate for a while.”
“I can’t. She’s become suicidal. Her psychiatrist says she shouldn’t even be driving an automobile.”
“I’m hoping to take a girl out to dinner tonight, if I can get ahold of her. Why don’t you and Lois think about coming along? It’s on me.”
“Maybe so, Dave. Thanks.”
“I want to go out to Julio Segura’s this afternoon.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to roust him and take him in for questioning.”
“He might file a harassment charge this time.”
“He was the last person to see a murder victim alive.”
“Sounds shaky. It’s not our jurisdiction.” His eyes smiled.
“You coming or not?”
“Hell, yes.”
We drove in Clete’s car along the lakefront road. There was a light chop on the slate-green surface, and pelicans were diving for fish out of the white sun. The palm trees on the esplanade clicked dryly in the wind; and on the right-hand side of the road beyond the pink stucco walls, the long iron pike fences, the impassable hedges and rows of myrtle trees, lay the terraced lawns and mansions of the rich. I knew liberals out at Tulane who would tell me these were the people whom we served. But I didn’t like them any better than anybody else did. Actually, they didn’t like the police, either, or at least trust us, because they hired their own security, kept attack dogs on the grounds, and maintained floodlight and burglar alarm systems that were an electronic miracle. They lived in fear of kidnappers of their children, sophisticated jewel creeps, minorities who would compromise their property values. The irony was that they were among the most secure people upon earth—secure from disease, poverty, political oppression, virtually everything except death.
“How much you think these places cost?” Cletus asked.
“I don’t know, maybe a million bucks.”
“My pop was a milkman in the Garden District, and sometimes in the summer I’d go on the route with him. One morning I was messing around in front of this big house right off St. Charles and this lady came out and said I was the cutest little fellow she’d ever seen and I should come back at three o’clock for some ice cream. That afternoon I took a bath and put on my nice clothes and knocked on her door right at
But, as Fitzpatrick had said, I’d written my own script, and the next morning I continued to write it, only with some disastrous consequences that made me wonder if my alcoholic, self-destructive incubus was not alive and well.
I started by looking for Bobby Joe Starkweather. I didn’t have many threads, but he was the kind of guy who showed up at certain places. I tried a couple of indoor target ranges, outlaw motorcycle bars, sex shops, and a survivalist store that catered to people who relished the unlimited prospects of living in a post-World War III wasteland. But I struck out.
Then, at noon, while Cletus and I were eating a pizza out of a box on a bench in Jackson Square, I wondered why I was chasing after an unknown quantity like Bobby Joe Starkweather when the primary connection was already available. We sat under a mimosa tree, and St. Louis Cathedral and the square itself were drenched in hot sunlight. There were drops of perspiration and flecks of red pizza sauce on Clete’s face while he ate. His eyes were looking abstractedly at the sidewalk artists in Pirates Alley.
“What have you got on the burner for this afternoon?” I asked.
“Not much. Figure out what I’m going to do with my goddamn wife. Get this. She just sent a check for six hundred dollars to the Buddhist priest out in Colorado. I tried to put a stop-payment on it, but it already went through. That’s thousands she’s given to this guy. When I say anything about it, she says I’m drunk.”
“Maybe y’all should separate for a while.”
“I can’t. She’s become suicidal. Her psychiatrist says she shouldn’t even be driving an automobile.”
“I’m hoping to take a girl out to dinner tonight, if I can get ahold of her. Why don’t you and Lois think about coming along? It’s on me.”
“Maybe so, Dave. Thanks.”
“I want to go out to Julio Segura’s this afternoon.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to roust him and take him in for questioning.”
“He might file a harassment charge this time.”
“He was the last person to see a murder victim alive.”
“Sounds shaky. It’s not our jurisdiction.” His eyes smiled.
“You coming or not?”
“Hell, yes.”
We drove in Clete’s car along the lakefront road. There was a light chop on the slate-green surface, and pelicans were diving for fish out of the white sun. The palm trees on the esplanade clicked dryly in the wind; and on the right-hand side of the road beyond the pink stucco walls, the long iron pike fences, the impassable hedges and rows of myrtle trees, lay the terraced lawns and mansions of the rich. I knew liberals out at Tulane who would tell me these were the people whom we served. But I didn’t like them any better than anybody else did. Actually, they didn’t like the police, either, or at least trust us, because they hired their own security, kept attack dogs on the grounds, and maintained floodlight and burglar alarm systems that were an electronic miracle. They lived in fear of kidnappers of their children, sophisticated jewel creeps, minorities who would compromise their property values. The irony was that they were among the most secure people upon earth—secure from disease, poverty, political oppression, virtually everything except death.
“How much you think these places cost?” Cletus asked.
“I don’t know, maybe a million bucks.”
“My pop was a milkman in the Garden District, and sometimes in the summer I’d go on the route with him. One morning I was messing around in front of this big house right off St. Charles and this lady came out and said I was the cutest little fellow she’d ever seen and I should come back at three o’clock for some ice cream. That afternoon I took a bath and put on my nice clothes and knocked on her door right at
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