Pegasus Descending

I started to thank him, then thought better of it. Monarch was not given to sentiment. He was also aware that, rightly or wrongly, I would probably never forget the fact he had been a dope dealer. We walked up the grassy slope toward my truck, his shadow merging with mine on the ground. I saw him smile.

“What’s fu

“Ever see that old movie about this hunchback guy swinging on the catee’dral bells?” he asked.

“The Hunchback of Notre Dame?”

“Yeah, that’s it. The two of us together look like the guy swinging on the bells. See?” he said, pointing at our shadows. “Everybody t’ought the hunchback was a monster, but he had music inside his head nobody else could hear.”

“You never cease to surprise me, Monarch.”

If my remark held any significance for him, he didn’t show it.

We drove a few miles back down the bayou to a cluster of shacks behind a parking area for harvesting machines and cane wagons. I had not told Monarch the real reason for my interest in the black man Cesaire Darbo

The bottle-and-can collector was named Ripton Armentor. As Monarch had said, he looked like he had been assembled from a box of discarded spare parts. His shoulders were square, his chest flat as an ironing board, and his torso too long for his legs, so that his trousers looked like they had been taken off a midget. Worse yet, his head was not much larger than a shot put. And as though he were deliberately trying to compete with the physical incongruities fate had imposed upon him, he wore a neatly pressed blue denim shirt with a necktie that extended all the way to his belt, giving him the appearance of an inverted exclamation mark.

He sat on the top step of his gallery and listened to Monarch explain who I was and what I wanted, the cane fields around his house swirling with wind. It was obvious he was retarded or autistic, but paradoxically his expression was electric, one of fascination with the intrigue and sense of adventure that had been brought to his front door.

“You remember that day, Ripton, when the girl died?” I said.

“I ain’t seen her die,” he said, eager to be correct and to please, his words rushed yet syntactical.

“But you know she died that day you were collecting bottles and cans by the mill?” I said.

“Yes, suh. Heard all about it. Seen it on the TV, too. That’s why I come back the next day.”

“I’m not quite with you, Ripton,” I said.

“I gone back by the mill. See, I was way down the street when I heard it. I t’ought maybe it was my bicycle tire. When it pop, it make a sound just like that. In the wind and all, I t’ought it was my tire going pop.”

“You heard the shot?” I said.

“Yes, suh. I heard it. Then I seen a car go roaring by. So I went and knocked on Mr. Cesaire’s do’ and tole him what I seen.”

“You talked to Cesaire Darbo

“Yes, suh, that’s what I’m saying. I went back and tole Mr. Cesaire about it. A silver car went streaking on by. Gone by like a rocket, whoosh.”

“What kind of car was it?” I said.

“A silver one, just like I said.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police about this?” I asked.

“Mr. Cesaire said I ain’t had to. Since I’d already give him the numbers, he was go

A flock of crows rose from the cane field and patterned against the sky. “What numbers, podna?”

“The first t’ree numbers on the license plate. Wrote ’em in down in my li’l book. I keep a li’l book on everyt’ing I pick up from the road ’case the taxman call me in. I still got them numbers inside. You want ’em?”

I could hear clothes popping on a wash line, or perhaps the sound was in my own ears.

Chapter 26

I WENT EARLY to the office the next morning and ran the registration on Tony Lujan’s silver Lexus and looked once again at all my notes concerning Cesaire Darbo

“I’m doing a little background work on Cesaire Darbo

“That’s right,” he replied.

“He was in a duck-hunting accident?”

“Yeah, as I remember. He poked his shotgun barrel into the mud and almost blew his arm off.”

“What did he do with the gun?”

“Pardon?”

“After the barrel exploded, what did he do with it?” I asked.

“How should I know?”

“You told me a couple of guys tried to rob his bar and he ran them off by firing a gun in the air.”

“Yeah, about fifteen years back. Why you pumping me, Dave?”

“You know why.”

“Hasn’t the guy had enough grief?”

“That fact won’t change what happened. What did Cesaire do with the shotgun after it exploded?”

“Ask him. I’m signing off on this.”

“Sorry to see you take that attitude, Mack.”

“The guy is already down for one murder and you want to put Tony Lujan’s on him, too?” He hung up.

I searched the department computer but found nothing on an attempted robbery at the bar run by Cesaire Darbo

“Dave Robicheaux,” I said. “I was with NOPD before I went to work for Iberia Parish. I used to own a bait shop and boat-rental business south of town.”

“The one wit’ drinking problems?” he said.

“I’m your man.”

“How you doin’?” he said.

“You remember an attempted robbery at a bar owned by Cesaire Darbo

“No,” he said.

“You have no memory of it?”

“That wasn’t what I said. It wasn’t fifteen years back. It was seventeen. The spring of 1988.”

“What happened?”

“Wasn’t much to it. A couple of colored men tried to pry the back window while Cesaire was mopping up. He come out the back do’ and chased them out in a cane field. Fired a shell in the air. I think they were after booze instead of money. I don’t think I even wrote it up.”

“You didn’t write it up?”

“No, I don’t think I did.”

“What kind of weapon did Cesaire fire in the air, Mr. Paul?”

“Cain’t hear you. The earpiece on this phone ain’t no good.”

“You said he fired a shell, Mr. Paul. Did Cesaire fire a shotgun over these fellows’ heads?”

“Maybe it was.”

“Was it a cut-down twelve-gauge?”

The phone was silent. “Sir?” I said.

“I’m in my years now. My memory ain’t that good.”

“We’re not talking about an illegal gun charge, Mr. Paul. This is a homicide investigation. Was Cesaire in possession of a sawed-off shotgun?”