In the glow of the movie screen I looked at Alafair's upraised and innocent face and wondered about the victims of greed and violence and political insanity all over the world. I have never believed that their suffering is accidental or a necessary part of the human condition. I believe it is the direct consequence of corporate avarice, the self-serving manipulations of politicians who wage wars but never serve in them themselves, and, perhaps worse, the indifference of those of us who know better.
I've seen many of those victims myself, seen them carried out of the village we mortared, washed down with canteens after they were burned with napalm, exhumed from graves on a riverbank where they were buried alive.
But as bad as my Indochinese memories were, one image from a photograph I had seen as a child seemed to encapsulate the dark reverie I had fallen into. It had been taken by a Nazi photographer at Bergen-Belsen, and it showed a Jewish mother carrying her baby down a concrete ramp toward the gas chamber, while she led a little boy with her other hand and a girl of about nine walked behind her. The girl wore a short cloth coat like the ones children wore at my elementary school. The lighting in the picture was bad, the faces of the family shadowy and indistinct, but for some reason the little girl's white sock, which had worked down over her heel, stood out in the gloom as though it had been struck with a shaft of gray light. The image of her sock pushed down over her heel in that cold corridor had always stayed with me. I can't tell you why. But I feel the same way when I relive Annie's death, or remember Alafair's story about her Indian village, or review that tired old film strip from Vietnam. I commit myself once again to that black box that I cannot think myself out of.
Instead, I sometimes recall a passage from the Book of Psalms. I have no theological insight, my religious ethos is a battered one; but those lines seem to suggest an answer that my reason cannot, namely, that the innocent who suffer for the rest of us become anointed and loved by God in a special way; the votive candle of their lives has made them heaven's prisoners.
It rained during the night, and in the morning the sun came up soft and pink in the mist that rose from the trees across the bayou. I walked out to the road and got the newspaper from the mailbox and read it on the front porch with a cup of coffee.
The phone rang. I went inside and answered it.
"What are you doing driving around with the dyke?"
"Dunkenstein?" I said.
"That's right. What are you doing with the dyke?"
"None of your business."
"Everything she and Bubba do is our business."
"How'd you know I was with Claudette Rocque?"
"We have our ways."
"There wasn't a tail."
"Maybe you didn't see him."
"There wasn't a tail."
"So?"
"Have you got their phone tapped?"
He was silent.
"What are you trying to tell me, Dunkenstein?" I asked.
"That I think you're crazy."
"She used the phone to tell somebody I gave her a ride into New Iberia?"
"She told her husband. She called him from a bar. Some people might think you're a dumb shit, Robicheaux."
I looked at the mist hanging in the pecan trees. The leaves were dark and wet with dew.
"A few minutes ago I was enjoying a cup of coffee and the morning paper," I said. "I think I'm going to finish the paper now and forget this conversation."
"I'm calling from the little grocery store by the drawbridge. I'll be down to your place in about ten minutes."
"I think I'll make a point of being on my way to work by then."
"No, you won't. I already called your office and told them you'd be late. Hang loose."
A few minutes later I watched him drive his U.S. government motor pool car up my front lane. He closed his car door and stepped around the mud puddles in the yard. His loafers were shined, his seersucker slacks ironed with knife-edge creases, his handsome blond face gleaming with the closeness of his shave. He wore his polished brown belt high up on his waist, which made him look even taller than he was.
"Have you got another cup of coffee?" he said.
"What is it you want, Minos?" I held the screen open for him, but I imagine my face and tone were not hospitable.
He stepped inside and looked at Alafair's coloring book on the floor.
"Maybe I don't want anything. Maybe I want to help you," he said. "Why don't you try not to be so sensitive all the time? Every time I talk with you, you're bent out of joint about something."
"You're in my house. You're running on my meter. You haven't given me any help, either. Cut the bullshit."
"All right, you've got a legitimate beef. I told you we'd handle the action. We didn't. That's the way it goes sometimes. You know that. You want me to catch air?"
"Come on in the kitchen. I'm going to fix some Grape-Nuts and strawberries. You want some?"
"That sounds nice."
I poured him a cup of coffee and hot milk at the kitchen table. The light was blue in the backyard.
"I didn't talk to you at the funeral. I'm not good at condolences. But I wanted to tell you I was sorry," he said.
"I didn't see you there."
"I didn't go to the cemetery. I figure that's for family. I think you're a stand-up guy."
I filled two bowls with Grape-Nuts, strawberries, and sliced bananas, and set them on the table. He put a big spoonful in his mouth, the milk dripping from his lips. The overhead light reflected off his crewcut scalp.
"That's righteous, brother," he said.
"Why am I late to work this morning?" I sat down at the table with him.
"One of those shells you picked up had a beautiful thumbprint on it. Guess who New Orleans P.D. matched it with?"
"You tell me, Minos."
"Victor Romero is shooting at you, podna. I'm surprised he didn't get you, too. He was a sniper in Vietnam. I hear you shot the shit out of his car."
"How do you know New Orleans matched his print? I haven't even heard that."
"We had a claim on him a long time before you did. The city coordinates with us anytime his name pops up."
"I want you to tell me something, with no bullshit. Do you think the government can be involved in this?"
"Be serious."
"You want me to say it again?"
"You're a good cop. Don't fall for those conspiracy fantasies. They're out of style," he said.
"I went down to Immigration in New Orleans. That fellow Monroe is having some problems with personal guilt."
"What did he tell you?" His eyes were looking at me with new interest.
"He's one of those guys who wants to feel better. I didn't let him."
"You mean you actually think somebody in the government, the INS, wants you hit?"
"I don't know. But no matter how you cut it, right now they've got shit on their noses."
"Look, the government doesn't knock off its own citizens. You're sidetracking into a lot of claptrap that's not going to lead you anywhere."
"Yeah? Try this. What kind of Americans do you think the government uses down in Central America? Boy Scouts? Guys like yourself?"
"That's not here."
"Victor Romero sure is."
He let out his breath.
"All right, maybe we can stick it to them," he said.
"When's the last time you heard of the feds dropping the dime on each other? You're a laugh a minute, Minos. Finish your cereal."