DR08 - Burning Angel Read Online Free Page A

says he's moving his relatives to another cemetery.“
    I walked to the driver's door. Sweet Pea squinted up at me against the late sun. His eyes were the strangest I had ever seen in a human being. There were webbed with skin in the corners, so that the eyeballs seem to peep out from slits like a baby bird's.
    ”I don't believe it,“ I said.
    ”Believe it,“ the woman next to him said, disgusted. Her pink shorts were grimed with dirt. She pulled out the top of her shirt and smelled herself.
    ”You think it's Mardi Gras?“ I said.
    ”I don't got a right to move my stepmother?“ Sweet Pea said. His few strands of hair were glued across his scalp.
    ”Who's in the coffin with her?“
    His mouth made a wet silent O, as though he were thinking. Then he said, ”Her first husband. They were a tight couple.“
    ”Can we get out of the car and get something to eat?“ the woman next to him said.
    ”It's better you stay where you are for a minute,“ I said.
    ”Robicheaux, cain't we talk reasonable here? It's hot. My ladies are uncomfortable.“
    ”Don't call me by my last name.“
    ”Excuse me, but you're not understanding the situation. My stepmother was buried on the Bertrand plantation 'cause that's where she growed up. I hear it's gonna be sold and I don't want some cocksucker pouring cement on top of my mother's grave. So I'm taking them back to Breaux Bridge. I don't need no permit for that.“
    He looked into my eyes and saw something there.
    ”I don't get it. I been rude, I did something to insult you?“ he said. ”You're a pimp. You don't have a lot of fans around here.“ He bounced the heels of his hands lightly on the steering wheel. He smiled at nothing, his white eyebrows heavy with sweat. He cleaned one ear with his little finger. ”We got to wait for the medical examiner?“
    he said. ”That's right.“
    ”I don't want nobody having an accident on my seats. They drunk two cases of beer back at the grave,“ he said. ”Step over to my office with me,“ I said. ”Beg your pardon?“ he said.
    ”Get out of the car.“ He followed me into the shade on the lee side of the store. He wore white slacks and brown shoes and belt and a maroon silk shirt unbuttoned on his chest. His teeth looked small and sharp inside his tiny mouth. ”Why the hard-on?“ he said. ”I don't like you.“
    ”That's your problem.“
    ”You got a beef with Sonny Boy Marsallus?“
    ”No. Why should I?“
    ”Because you think he's piecing into your action.“
    ”You're on a pad for Marsallus?“
    ”A woman was beaten to death last night, Sweet Pea. How you'd like to spend tonight in the bag, then answer some questions for us in the morning?“
    ”The broad was Sonny's punch or something? Why 'front me about it?“
    ”Nine years ago I helped pull a girl out of the Industrial Canal. She'd been set on fire with gasoline. I heard that's how you made your bones with the Giacanos.“ He removed a toothpick from his shirt pocket and put it in his mouth. He shook his head profoundly.
    ”Nothing around here ever changes. Say, you want a sno'ball?“ he said. ”You're a clever man, Sweet Pea.“ I pulled my cuffs from my belt and turned him toward the cinder-block wall. He waited calmly while I snipped them on each wrist, his chin tilted upward, his slitted eyes smiling at nothing. ”What's the charge?“ he asked. ”Hauling trash without a permit. No offense meant.“
    ”Wait a minute,“ he said. He flexed his knees, grunted, and passed gas softly. ”Boy, that's better. T'anks a lot, podna.“ That evening my wife, Bootsie, and I boiled crawfish in a big black pot on the kitchen stove and shelled and ate them on the picnic table in the backyard with our adopted daughter, Alafair. Our house had been built of cypress and oak by my father, a trapper and derrick man, during the Depression, each beam and log notched and drilled and pegged, and the wood had hardened and grown dark with rainwater and smoke from stubble burning