James Burke: The Glass Rainbow

I walked to the edge of the backyard so I could see through the porte cochere into the front. Kermit was backing into the street, the top down on his convertible, the dappled shade sliding off the hand-waxed surfaces, as though the cooling of the day and the attenuation of the light had been arranged especially for him. Alafair sat next to him on the rolled-leather seat. In back was a man whose face I had seen only on the flap of a book jacket.

I jogged down East Main, under the canopy of live oaks that spanned the entirety of the street, past The Shadows and the bed-and-breakfast that had been the residence of the plantation’s overseer, past the massive old brick post office and the Evangeline Theater, across the drawbridge at Burke Street and into City Park, where people were barbecuing under the shelters along the bayou and high school kids were playing a work-up softball game on the ball diamond.

I jogged for four miles, circling twice through the park. At the end of the second lap I hit it hard toward home, my blood oxygenated now, my breath coming regular, my heart strong, the sweaty glaze on my skin a reminder that once in a while you’re allowed to reclaim a libidinal moment or two from your youth. Then I saw Kermit Abelard’s Saab parked by the tin pavilion, checkered cloth and newspapers spread on a table, a mound of boiled crawfish and artichokes and corn on the cob piled in the center.

I didn’t want to stop, but Alafair and her friends Kermit Abelard and the convict-author whose name was Robert Weingart had seen me, and now Alafair was waving, her face full of joy and pride. I tried to shine her on, to pretend I was committed to my run and couldn’t stop. But under what circumstances do you embarrass your daughter in front of her companions, or indulge your enmity toward them at her expense? Or pass her by when perhaps she needs your presence for reasons she may not be able to acknowledge, even to herself?

I slowed to a walk, wiping my face with the towel I carried.

Kermit was a stocky man of medium height, with vascular, short arms and a cleft in his chin. He was built more like a dockhand than a descendant of local aristocracy. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, his tanned, smooth skin exposed for others to look at. He had wide, square hands and fingers that were blunt on the tips. They were the hands of a workingman, but incongruously, the red stone of a Kappa Sigma ring twinkled on his finger.

“Come meet Robert, Mr. Robicheaux,” he said.

“I’m pretty overheated. I’d better not get too close to you guys,” I said.

Robert Weingart was sitting on top of the wood table, smiling good-naturedly, his alpine-booted feet planted solidly on the bench. He had fine cheekbones, a small mouth, and dark hair that was clipped neatly and wet-combed with a part that created a straight gray line through his scalp. His eyes were hazel and elongated, his cheeks slightly sunken. His hands were relaxed on his knees, his fingers tapered, like a pianist’s. He conveyed the sense that he was a man with no hidden agenda, with no repressed tensions or problems of conscience. He seemed to be a man at peace with the world.

But it was the lack of balance or uniformity in his physiognomy that bothered me. He didn’t blink, the way screen actors never blink. His mouth was too small, too quick to smile, his jaw too thin for the size of his cranium. His eyes stayed fastened brightly on mine. I kept waiting for him to blink. But he didn’t.

“Looks like you’ve been pouring it on,” he said.

“Not really.”

“I thought your speed was pretty impressive.”

“Have I seen you in the movies?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You remind me of an actor. I can’t call his name to mind.”

“No, I’m just a scribbler.” He got up from the table, extending his hand. “Rob Weingart. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s not Robbie?”

“Just call me Rob if you like.”

His handshake was boneless, unthreatening, cool and dry to the touch. There was a white shine on his teeth. He picked up a peeled crawfish and put it in his mouth, his cheekbones working slowly, his gaze never leaving my face. He touched at his lips with a paper napkin, his expression as benign as the weather was temperate, a bit like a man thinking of a private joke. “Is there something on your mind I can help you with?” he asked.

“I got it. It wasn’t an actor. You remind me of Chet Baker,” I said.

“The musician?”

“That’s right. A tragic one, at that. His addictions ate him alive. You like jazz, Mr. Weingart? Have you done any professional performing? I’m sure I’ve seen you in a professional capacity.”

“Let me fix you a plate, Mr. Robicheaux,” Kermit said.

“No, I never was a performer,” Robert Weingart said. “Why would you think that?”

“I just admire people who can teach themselves not to blink. When a person doesn’t blink, you can’t read his thoughts. All you see is one undecipherable expression. It’s like staring into electrified silk.”

“That’s quite an image,” he said to Kermit. “One of us ought to borrow that and give Mr. Robicheaux a footnote.”

“You can just take it and use it in any fashion you choose. It’s free,” I said.

Kermit Abelard touched my forearm with a loaded paper plate.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’d better get back on my run.”

“You’re a police officer,” Robert Weingart said.

“Alafair told you?”

“Usually I can spot a police officer. It used to be part of my curriculum vitae. But in this case I think your daughter told me. I’m almost sure of it.”

“You think? But you don’t know?”

Alafair’s face was burning.

“Is my plate ready? I could eat a whale,” Robert Weingart said, looking around, suppressing his amusement at the situation that swirled about him.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you. Why didn’t you punch him in the face while you were at it?” Alafair said to me after she returned home.

“That’s a possibility,” I replied.

“What did he do? The man was just sitting there.”

“He’s a mainline recidivist, Alf. Don’t be taken in.”

“Don’t call me that stupid name. How can you know somebody five seconds and make judgments like that?”

“Anybody who’s con-wise can spot a dude like that five blocks away.”

“The real problem is you always want to control other people. Instead of being honest about your own self-centered agenda, you go after Kermit’s friend.”

“You’re right, I don’t know him.”

“Why do you blame Kermit for what his family may have done? It’s not fair to him, Dave, and it’s not fair to me.”

“There’s no ‘may have done’ about it. The Abelards are dictators. If they had their way, we’d all be doing their grunt work for minimum wage, if that.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean Kermit is like the rest of his family. John and Robert Kennedy weren’t like their father.”

“What’s with you two? I could hear you all the way out in the driveway,” Molly said, coming through the back door, both arms loaded with groceries.

“Ask Dave, if you can get him to pull his head out of his ass,” Alafair said.

“That’s the second time someone has said that to me today. The other person was a meltdown on a road gang in Mississippi.”

Molly tried to make it to the counter with the grocery bags. But it was too late. One of them caved, and most of our delicatessen supper splattered on the linoleum.

That’s when Clete Purcel tapped on the back screen. “Am I interrupting anything?” he said.

IT WAS THROUGH Clete Purcel that I had been over in Jeff Davis Parish asking about the seven girls and young women whose bodies had been found in ditches and swamp areas since 2005. Two weeks ago the remains of one of his bail skips were found in the bottom of a recently drained canal, her decomposed features webbed with dried algae, as though she had been wrapped in a sheet of dirty plastic. The pathologist said she had died of massive physical trauma. Perhaps she had been struck by a hit-and-run driver. Perhaps not.