James Burke: Robicheaux

The camp had a rustic exterior with a peaked metal roof and walls made of heavy dark-stained timbers, but the satellite dishes and the propane crab boiler and barbecue pit on the fantail and the sliding glass and gold trim on the doors hinted of the luxury and level of comfort inside.

Chester focused his binoculars through the sliding door on the living room. Emmeline was brushing out her hair in front of a mirror. The chauffeur had put on boxer swim trunks and was sitting in a black leather chair, his legs crossed. A clipboard was propped on his knee. He was writing on an index card. He tilted his head one way, then another. No, he was not writing. He was sketching something on the same kind of cards that told Chester who and where his target was.

Chester removed the binoculars from his eyes and watched the seagulls dipping out of the wind into the froth, scooping up tiny fish with their beaks. The sky was gray, the clouds torn in strips like a ruined flag. Out on the horizon, he saw a sailboat trying to tack against the storm, the mast bending into the waves.

He sat on a block of concrete that knifed into his buttocks, his fists propped on his thighs, his head bowed. He stared at the camp without aid of the binoculars. The building looked like a harmless photo snipped out of a newspaper, without depth or meaning, glued on cardboard. Then he used the binoculars again and saw the face of the chauffeur in the reflection of a desk lamp. The chauffeur was grinning, perhaps laughing at a joke, perhaps laughing at Chester. Emmeline sat in his lap.

Chester pulled back the bolt on the carbine and snapped a round into the chamber.

“What you doin’, mister?” a voice said.

The flesh jumped off his back. He turned and saw a little black girl, no more than ten. She had her pigtails tied on top of her head with a pink ribbon. She wore tennis shoes and floppy shorts and a T-shirt with a laughing octopus on it.

“Hi,” Chester said, his face like stretched rubber.

“Is that an air gun?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You ain’t shooting the gulls, are you?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“You just target-practicing?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Loretta. My mama work for the Vidrines. Up the road there.”

“Do they know where you are?”

“My mama do. Ain’t nobody else there.”

“You should go back home. There’s a storm coming.”

“Then I’ll go inside. What’s your name?”

“Smiley.”

“Hi, Smiley. Do you know somebody here?”

“I have a friend named Miss Emmeline.”

“Look, there’s a flying fish,” she said.

He watched it glide above the waves, its fins extended, its scaled body as sleek as a spear blade. It disappeared, then rose again, defying the laws of nature.

“How come it can fly?” the girl asked.

“It was probably born in a place full of sharks. The sharks were eating all the little fish. So a magic lady who lives under the sea gave them wings. From that day on, they sailed above the water and got away from sharks.”

“Where’s the magic lady?”

“She’s still down there, taking care of little fish that don’t have a mommy or a daddy.”

“I bet you made that up.”

“Not me.”

“You’re smiling.”

“You make me smile,” he said.

“What’s that can on the end of your gun?”

“It stops the sound so when I’m target shooting, I don’t scare people.”

“I got to go now. It was nice to meet you.”

“Good-bye, Loretta.”

She looked back. “Don’t get caught in the rain, no.”

He watched her walk away, then stepped carefully among the chunks of concrete and placed himself on an embankment by a cluster of banana stalks with a clear view of the camp.

Fifteen minutes passed. A line of black clouds veined with lightning had formed on the southern horizon. The chauffeur came out on the deck and propped his arms on the rail, his unbuttoned shirt swelling around him. Chester sighted and pulled the trigger.

The chauffeur seemed to stiffen as though someone had touched him unexpectedly between the shoulder blades. A red flower bloomed against his shirt. He turned in a circle, his fingers splayed across his breastbone, and walked with the concentration of a tightrope performer toward the sliding door.

Chester picked up the ejected shell and drove to the camp and knocked on the door. The carbine hung from his hand.

Emmeline pulled the door open. Her mouth was twitching, her fingers slick with blood that was as thick as paint. “What have you done?”

“Could I have a sandwich, please? I didn’t eat lunch. I need to pee-pee, too.”

He walked past her. She was speechless, her eyelids fluttering, as translucent as a moth’s wings.

Through a door off the living room, he could see a double bed with the coverlet and pillows and sheets in disarray. The chauffeur was sitting on the rug by the sliding doors, one arm hooked over the end of the couch, breathing through his mouth as though he had run up a hill. Emmeline washed her hands in the kitchen sink, looking over her shoulder. The chauffeur began to moan.

“Get the towels out of the bathroom,” she said to Chester. “There’s a first-aid kit in the closet. I have to think.”

“I want a snack, Em.”

“A snack?”

“My tummy is hurting.”

“Why did you shoot Swede?” she said, her voice pulling loose from her throat.

“Who’s Swede?”

“The man you just shot, you stupid shit.”

“I have to talk to you about what I was told to do,” Chester said. “To the man with the convertible.”

The chauffeur moaned again.

“Shut up,” Chester said to Swede.

“Chester, please do what I say. Close the curtains. Get some bandages. I didn’t mean to call you a bad word. I have to plan for us. I always took care of us, didn’t I?”

“Did you know about the boy who lives with the fat man in the motor court?”

“What boy? What are you talking about?”

“The man named Purcel. He has a little boy living with him.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Get the kit out of the bathroom. I’ll have to call 911, and you’ll need to get out of here. Did anyone see you?”

The chauffeur coughed blood on the carpet and began gesturing and making unintelligible sounds. Emmeline was looking out the window at the road.

“I’ll be right back,” Chester said. He went into the living room and pulled up his trouser leg and removed the British commando knife strapped to his calf. A moment later, he came back into the kitchen and rinsed it in the sink and wiped it with a dish towel. Emmeline stared at him. “What did you just do?”

“Not much. Asked him why he was writing on my cards. He didn’t answer. Now he can’t.”

Chester opened the refrigerator and removed a carton of orange juice and drank from it. He heard her go into the living room. “Oh my God,” she said.

He sat down at the breakfast table, a great fatigue draining through his chest and limbs, the fragmented pieces of his life assembling and reassembling before his eyes. He remembered the music of a calliope in Mexico City, the slap of a teacher’s hand, a punishment closet that had no light, a mattress pad soaked with urine.

“Snap out of it, Chester,” Emmeline said. “You have to leave. I’ll call 911 and tell them we had a home invasion. They’ll believe me. They think a killer is after Jimmy. Did anyone see you?”

“Maybe,” he replied.

“Maybe isn’t good enough.”

“A little colored girl named Loretta.”

“She saw you with the gun?”

“I told her it was an air gun. I told a lie.”

“Where does she live?”

“With a family named Vidrine.”