Back to Lazarus

Chapter 11-2

Richard drove a silver late model Toyota sedan, like so many others on the road until you peeked in a window. Then its ownership became unmistakable. Richard’s car was definitely his domain, not his wife’s or his children’s. Empty dry cleaner bags puddled on the floorboard of the back seat, and a slightly wrinkled dark suit hung on the passenger side. Bulging accordion files, yellow legal pads, and other attorney-type detritus fought for space with an illegibly labeled banker’s box. I had to toss a garish Tabasco tie in the back before I could sit down.

“Sorry. Got that in a conference in New Orleans,” he explained. “You ever been there?”

“New Orleans?”

“No, Avery Island. The home of Tabasco. Here it is in the heart of Acadiana, and they’ve got this enormous Buddha statue that looks out over a pond full of alligators. Amazing. No, maybe its back is to the pond. I’m not sure.”

“And maybe the pond isn’t full of alligators?”

Richard laughed. “Yeah, maybe. But I did see a few little ones when I was there. Got this on that trip too.” He reached into the console between us, which was filled with two neat rows of CDs. His hand inadvertently brushed against my bare forearm where I’d rolled my sleeves up, prickling the hairs. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from moving my arm, to pretend I didn’t notice his touch. Or was I just hoping for another jolt? Without looking, he ran his fingers along the spines, withdrew a CD, and placed its jewel case back in the space it had vacated. The lazy voice and nimble fingers of Dr. John filled the car.

“You’ve got an eclectic mix here,” I said, thumbing through them. “Warren Zevon, Greg Brown, Jill Sobule, Talking Heads…”

“I like storytellers,” he said. “Please don’t move them around. It’s one of the few things I’m obsessive about. I know where each one is, so when a mood strikes me I don’t have to pull over or wipe out to indulge.”

Rosalia’s Italian Restaurant was next door to the Good Times bar, and they shared a large parking lot. When we got out of the car, I could only hope that Rosalia’s had good soundproofing. For a Thursday night, Good Times was really hopping.

“Unique name,” I said, nodding toward the whooping and honky-tonk. I could feel Richard’s amusement in the dark. “I’ve been hanging around the Panhandle too long. Some of these guys are starting to look familiar.”

“Have you been to WFC?”

“Yeah, a few days ago, and I’m heading back tomorrow.”

“That explains it. I’ve heard a lot of the guards head over here when they get off work.”

Rosalia’s was a pleasant surprise. The lighting was warm, aided by red-glassed table votives, and it was cozy without being crowded. Our waitress, a cute pony-tailed brunette barely old enough to drive, led us to a table almost immediately. The menus had handwritten addenda, cards with daily specials and notes about availability of regular items.

“What are you having?” Richard asked.

“I’m leaning toward the angel hair marinara,” I said virtuously.

“Her Alfredo sauce is to die for.”

“I think you’re the first man I’ve ever heard use that phrase—‘to die for.’”

“But it is.”

I suspect Fettuccine Alfredo heads most women’s lists of date food don’ts. Fettuccine can be hard to handle if you’re nervous, or just a klutz, slapping against your chin or flinging sauce on the clothes you’ve calculated are most likely to impress. And the Alfredo… why not just get reverse liposuction while you’re at it? You’ll spend the whole dinner wondering if you’ve eaten so little of your entrée he’ll think you’re anorexic or eaten so much he’ll know you’re destined for a life of loose-fitting garments. What neurotic creatures we women are, or at least this woman. Good thing I wasn’t on a date. I ordered the fettuccine Alfredo.

The evening passed pleasantly, with the kind of conversation you enjoy at the time but can’t recall later. The wine was good, the food even better, and I didn’t get a drop of either on my chic clothes. I wore my usual road uniform of a men’s button-down shirt (white) and jeans, but I had put on sandals and pulled my hair back with a scarf to signal my brain that it was off the clock. I guess it didn’t get the message.

We made it to coffee before I reverted to shop talk. I’d reviewed the police reports while waiting for Richard, and now I took the opportunity to ask him about some of the players.

“You know,” he said, “Rudy Nagroski, the lead detective, is retired, but he’s still around. I’m surprised he’s not here at Rosalia’s tonight. He’s a pretty good guy, as cops go. He was a transplant from up north, so he wasn’t brought up with the local politics, and he didn’t take every crime in his jurisdiction as a personal affront. How long are you sticking around?”

“At least tomorrow, probably through Saturday.”

“I’m busy tomorrow, but I’d be happy to go see Rudy with you on Saturday. If I wouldn’t be stepping on your toes.”

“Not at all. Local or not, he might be more relaxed talking to somebody he knows. But are you sure you want to? It’s your day off. Your wife might actually want to see you sometime.”

Richard laughed. “Angela’s used to me working on Saturdays. I’m sure she has her own plans. She’s learned to be very independent, if that doesn’t sound too chauvinistic.”

“How chauvinistic is too chauvinistic?” He looked momentarily stricken so I added, “Just kidding—I know what you mean. The marriages where two people become one unit scare me. Although I have to admit, if my husband were out at all hours with adoring young seconds I may get the teensiest bit jealous.”

“Angela used to in the beginning, but it’s become sort of a running joke with us, which young thing I’m having an affair with now. My wife knows I’ve always been faithful.”

I avoided Richard’s eyes. For the first time all night I felt uncomfortable, but I wasn’t sure why, whether it was because of his thoughts or my own. We left a few minutes later, and I wondered if the timing was a coincidence.

The party was still going at the Good Times, but a few people left as we did, heading home so they could start all over again tomorrow. Just as we would. Tired and slightly wine-sluggish, the thought made it hard for me to move from the car when we arrived fifteen minutes later. The motel I was staying in was an older one, with no interior access. My first floor room opened directly onto the parking lot, and when Richard dropped me off at the motel he insisted on walking me to my door. The lock was a tricky one, the kind that requires you to pull the door toward you and give an appropriate grunt before it opens. A truck’s headlights blinded me as it pulled in the parking lot, and I nearly dropped my keys. Great, was there anything else I could do to add verisimilitude to my impersonation of a drunk person? For some reason it bothered me that Richard might think two glasses of wine with dinner would knock me on my ass.

I finally managed, with the proper profane incantations, to coax my door open. The table lamp was on, as I’d left it, and everything was as it should be. Pulling the door back toward me as I removed the key, my body turned slowly to face Richard. I opened my eyes wide, straining to make out his face as it drifted toward my own in the dark.

His lips hovered near my own—I knew they must—so lusciously close that his head blocked the little bit of light in the parking lot. His features began to take shape, but his expression was still indecipherable. I held my breath until my lungs burned and tiny open circles appeared in my vision. Finally, I feel his breath expelled from his nostrils, a quick sigh, as he tilted his head to kiss my cheek. His warm lips lingered for the space of several heartbeats, but the way my heart was racing, that wouldn’t have been long. He rocked back on his heels and said a soft good night. I responded in kind, and hoped the darkness hid the flush that spread from my cheeks to the base of my neck.

My mind was racing in time with heart, blood, and other organs, and yet a tiny piece of it remained aloof, unaffected, as always. I visualize that fold in my gray matter as a tiny old schoolmarm type, perched on a rocking chair in the back of my skull, muttering an occasional “hmm” and taking notes of things to share with the rest of the class when the time is right. Mrs. Bibbystock, I call her, when I’m feeling whimsical. It was Mrs. Bibbystock who noticed the blinding truck leave the parking lot right after Richard.

Neither of us noticed the note that had been slipped under my door, pushed out of the way with the door’s opening arc, nor did I notice it the next morning.