The Glass Rainbow: A Dave Robicheaux Novel Read Online Free Page A

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