I sat on a stone bench by Tony's clay tennis court and watched the twilight fade in the stillness. The western sky was the dull gray color of scraped bone. One of the gatemen turned on the flood lamps that were anchored in the oak trees along the outer walls, and the fish ponds, the birdbaths, the alabaster statues on the lawn, seemed to glow with a humid, electric aura as though the coming of the night had no application to Tony's world.
I could see him through the glassed-in sun porch, watching television with Paul, his face laughing at a joke told by a comedian. I wondered if Tony ever thought about life in New Orleans's welfare projects or that army of teenage crack addicts who cooked their brains for breakfast. I thought he probably did not.
I called Bootsie twice that evening. She wasn't home either time, but the next morning I was up early and caught her at six. Her voice was warm and full of sleep. "I've been trying to get hold of you," I said.
"I've been out of town."
"Where?"
"Over at Houston. At Baylor."
"At the hospital?"
"Yes."
"What were you doing at Baylor?"
"Oh, it's nothing."
"Boots?"
"Yes?"
"What are you holding out on me?"
"Don't worry about it, hon. When am I going to see you?"
"Can I come by now?" I said.
"Mmmm, what'd you have in mind?"
I suddenly realized that I didn't have an honest answer to her question.
"Because I have to go to work, hon," she said.
"I just wanted to see you, to talk to you."
"Is something wrong?"
"No, not really," I said. "Look, Boots, I have to go over to the apartment in a little bit and pick up some things. Your office is only a few blocks away. Can you come by for a few minutes? I'll fix breakfast for us."
"I'll try," she said. "Dave, what is it?"
I took a breath.
"People just need to talk sometimes. This is one of them," I said.
"Yes, I think it is," she said.
I gave her my address on Ursulines.
"Dave?" she said.
"Yes."
"I don't get hurt easily anymore. If that's what we're talking about."
"We're not talking about that at all," I said.
After I hung up the phone I looked out the window at the early sun shining through the trees in Tony's yard, the wind ruffling on his fish ponds, the flapping of the dew-soaked canvas screens on his tennis court. But I took no joy in the new morning.
I drove into the center of the city and parked my truck in the garage on Ursulines, then went through the domed brick archway into the courtyard. The flagstones were streaked with water, and I could smell coffee and bacon from someone's apartment. Upstairs on the balcony a fat woman in a print dress was sweeping dust out through the grillwork into the sunlight.
I had my keys in my hand before I noticed the soft white gashes, in the shape of a screwdriver head, between the door and jamb of my apartment. I slipped my.45 out of the back of my trousers, let it hang loosely at my side, pushed the sprung door back on its hinges with my foot, and stepped inside.
My eyes would not encompass or accept the interior of the apartment all at once, in the way that your mind rejects the appearance of your car after a street gang has worked it over with curbstones. A large bullfrog was nailed to the back of the door. Its puffed white belly was split by the force of the nail, its legs hung down limply, and its wide, flat mouth stretched open as though it were waiting for a fly.
The ceiling, the walls, the cheap furniture, were dotted with blood as though it had been slung there in patterns. Above the kitchen doorway, painted redly into the plaster, were the words you are ded. The blood had run in strings down the plaster and dripped onto the linoleum.
But my bedroom was untouched, and I thought I had seen the worst of it until I looked into the bathroom. The toilet lid was closed, but blood and water had swelled over the lip and streamed down the white porcelain, too thick and dark for the dilution that should have taken place. Written with a ballpoint pen on a damp sheet of lined paper that lay on the toilet lid were the words dont flush, my baby is inside.
I stuck the.45 through the back of my belt and started to raise the lid, then withdrew my hand. Don't rattle, I thought. They didn't do it, they didn't do that.
I went into the kitchen, tore off a section of paper towel, folded it in a neat square, and went back into the bathroom to lift the toilet lid. My neighbor's bluetick dog floated in the purple water, one eye of his severed head staring up at me, his entrails bulging out of the slit that ran from his testicles to a flap of skin on his neck.
I dropped the bloody piece of paper towel in the wastebasket, turned around, and saw Bootsie frozen in the doorway, her hand pinched to her mouth, her cheeks discolored, her pulse leaping in her neck.
CHAPTER 12
She sat alone in the bedroom while I talked to two uniformed cops who had been called by the apartment owner. A black man from the city health department dipped the dog's remains out of the toilet with a fishnet, while my neighbors stared through the open front door of the apartment. I told the cops a second time that I had no idea who had done it.
One of them wrote on his clipboard. There were red marks on his nose where he had taken off his sunglasses, and his sky-blue shirt was stretched tightly across his muscular chest.
"You think maybe somebody just doesn't like you?" he asked.
"Could be," I said.
"You're not in a cult, are you?" He grinned at the corner of his mouth.
"No, I don't know much about cults."
He put his ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket.
"Well, there're a lot of spaced-out dopers around these days. Maybe that's all there was to it," he said. "I'd get some better locks, though."
"Thank y'all for coming out."
"Mr. Robicheaux, you say you used to be a police officer?"
"That's right."
"You never heard about a nailed-up frog before?"
I cleared my throat and looked away from his eyes.
"Maybe I heard something. It's a little vague."
He smiled to himself, then wrote out a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
"Here's the report number in case you or the owner needs it for an insurance claim. Call us if we can help you in any way," he said.
They left and closed the door behind them. There's a cop who won't have to write traffic tickets too long, I thought.
Back in the bedroom Bootsie sat on the side of my bed, her hands folded in her lap. Her cotton dress was covered with gray and pink flowers.