James Burke - Crusader's Cross

On a Wednesday in July I was cleared by I.A. But I could not shake a pall of depression that seemed to have descended upon me. There were too many shootings and too many dead people in my jacket. With age I had come to believe that each of us is diminished by the death of another. No one is God and no one should have the power of life or death over his brother. Those who say otherwise may have their point of view, but I just don't share it anymore.

But I also knew enough about depression and Sigmund Freud to understand that insomnia, guilt, and night sweats are forms of impotent rage aimed at the self.

Time to change the target, I thought.

Somebody had contracted Bad Texas Bob Cobb to take me and, if necessary, Clete Purcel off the board. Why should I carry Cain's mark because of what others had wrought? There was no mystery about where all this started. One way or another, the Chalonses were connected with the story of Ida Durbin, and that connection was one they did not want the world to know about.

On the day IA. cleared me I checked out a cruiser and headed to Lafayette and the television station and offices of Valentine Chalons. I kept it at eighty all the way up the four-lane, my flasher on, my chest and arms pumped with an adrenal-like energy, a martial band playing in my head. In AA it's called a dry drunk. Some just call it terminal assholeitis. The bottom line is it bodes well for no one.

I hung my badge holder on my belt and went past Valentine's secretary into his office, thrusting back the door without knocking. His office was huge, done with white furniture and a lustrous black floor and a full glass wall that looked onto an atrium containing a live oak tree circled by a bed of pink and gray caladiums. Several men and women in business suits were sitting in plastic chairs, listening to Valentine Chalons speak to them from behind his desk. Their faces made me think of ceramic that had been painted with flesh tones.

"I've got a story you can put your investigative reporters on, Val," I said. "The guy I dusted, Robert Cobb? He was a disgraced state police officer who killed eight escaped convicts and used to get free blow jobs at Vicki Rochon's cathouse in Baton Rouge. Then he ended up doing security work at a casino your family has money in. Is that just coincidence? What do you think about doing a human interest story on ole Bob?"

"I think you're out of your mind, is what I think," he replied.

"All your news stories featured my name as the shooter. The stories also mentioned I'd shot several suspects in the past. I think you also worked in the fact I'd been canned by NOPD. Is that standard procedure with you guys?"

"Excuse me," Val said to his friends. He picked up his telephone and called for security.

"This is about Ida Durbin, Val," I said. "Get used to hearing that name. She was a decent country girl who fell into the hands of white slavers. Ida Durbin was her name. Your family had money in Galveston whorehouses. She tried to get out of the life, then something happened to her. Ida Durbin, Val. You recognize the name. I can see it in your eyes. Ida Durbin and I are going to take you and your father down, partner. You're going to see Ida Durbin's name on your bedroom ceiling."

He rose from his chair and faced me. He wore a pink tie and a pale blue shirt with white cuffs. His hair was styled so that it was long on top and trim on the sides, which accentuated both his height and the leanness of his face. "Under that veneer of the blue-collar knight errant, you're a vulgarian and a bully, Robicheaux. You're tolerated around New Iberia because you've overcome some serious difficulties in your life, but in truth most people consider you an object of pity."

Two uniformed security men had entered Val's office and were now standing behind me. "On the job, fellows," I said.

"No, not on the job. You have no jurisdiction here," Val said. "You either walk out of here like a gentleman or you'll be escorted to the front door. Why not make a reasonable choice and stop degrading yourself?"

"Before I shot Bad Texas Bob, some guy in the Florida Keys called me and tried to warn me off an investigation into Ida Durbin's disappearance. I couldn't figure out who that guy was. But the voice was of a kind that sticks in your memory, like a dirty moment in your life you can never scrub out of your head. I think the guy was a Galveston pimp named Lou Kale. The name Lou Kale clang any bells for you, Val?"

He tried to hold his eyes impassively on mine, but I saw an indentation in his cheek, a twitch, as though an invisible fish hook had pricked his skin and pulled at it. Got you, you bastard, I thought.

"Take this man out of here," he said, lifting his chin.

But this time Val wasn't speaking to his security personnel. Three uniformed street cops had just walked through the door. They were Cajuns like myself, basically decent men who pumped iron at Red Lorille's Gym and had families and worked extra jobs to make ends meet. Their hands rested awkwardly at their sides, their eyes avoiding mine. Val Chalons waited for my removal from his office, as though it were a foregone conclusion. In the silence I was sure I heard my watch ticking. "Hey, Robicheaux, come have coffee wit' us," one of the cops said.

"Sounds great," I said.

"Yeah?" he said.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," I said.

He and his two colleagues were relaxed and confident as we left the building. A potentially embarrassing moment had come and gone, they had not had to arrest one of their own, and their world had become a comfortable place again. They told me they were glad my "IA. beef" had not jammed me up.

" 'Cause that was a righteous shoot, huh? That old dude tried to cap you and you smoked his sausage. You done what you had to do, wasn't no choice about it?" one of them said. His eyes searched mine as he waited for my answer.

That evening the sky was full of birds, the oaks deep in shade, and out on the bayou white ducks were wimpling the water among the reeds. I could smell meat fires in City Park and hear kids playing Softball. I thought I was through with Valentine Chalons for the day. But I should have known you don't publicly challenge a man whose ego is as tender as an infected gland and simply walk away from it. When the phone rang, I picked it up without glancing at the caller ID. Val began speaking as soon as he heard my voice. "You scum-sucking cretin, if it wasn't for your age, I'd break your jaw."

"Really?" I said.

"Honoria told me about your tryst and the handcuffs and a few other sickening details about your behavior. You don't seem to have any boundaries, do you?"

"Run that by me again?"

"You screwed my sister, you sorry sack of shit. She's an impaired person."

"You listen -"

"You're white trash, Robicheaux, the village fraud constantly presenting himself as suffering victim. You latch on to causes that give your life a legitimacy it doesn't rightfully possess. Now you're trying to drag my family through the mud. People like you should be bars of soap."

My hand was clenched tightly on the telephone receiver, my temples throbbing with a level of anger I was not ready for. I tried to disconnect from his words and speak in a dispassionate tone, but at the moment my only impulse was to hang up the phone and find Valentine Chalons.

"Ida Durbin and Lou Kale," I said.

"Good try, asshole," he said. The line went dead.

The rest of the evening I tried to free myself from my anger. I had already missed the 7:00 p.m. AA meeting at the Episcopalian cottage across from old New Iberia High, and now, left to my own resources, I could not sort through my own thoughts or get Valentine Chalons's words out of my head.

Was there a degree of truth in them? Was that why I was so bothered? The unarguable fact was I had blood on my hands and during most of my adult life I had placed myself in situations that allowed me to do enormous physical injury to others, even taking their lives, without being held legally accountable for my deeds.