Sunset Limited by James Lee Burke

I’d say he’s a real candidate.”
    “Pick him up.”
    “What for?”
    “Think of something. Take Helen with you. She can be very creative.”
    Idle words that I would try to erase from my memory later.
----

SEVEN
    I DROVE BACK TOWARD THE office. As I approached the old Catholic cemetery, I saw a black man with sloping shoulders cross the street in front of me and walk toward Main. I stared at him, dumbfounded. One cheek was bandaged, and his right arm was stiff at his side, as though it pained him.
    I pulled abreast of him and said, “I can’t believe it.”
    “Believe what?” Cool Breeze said. He walked bent forward, like he was just about to arrive somewhere. The whitewashed crypts behind him were beaded with moisture the size of quarters.
    “You’re supposed to be in federal custody.”
    “They cut me loose.”
    “Cut you loose? Just like that?”
    “I’m going up to Victor’s to eat breakfast.”
    “Get in.”
    “I don’t mean you no disrespect, but I ain’t gonna have no more to do with po-licemens for a while.”
    “You staying with Mout’?”
    But he crossed the street and didn’t answer.
     
    AT THE OFFICE I called Adrien Glazier in New Orleans.
    “What’s your game with Cool Breeze Broussard?” I asked.
    “Game?”
    “He’s back in New Iberia. I just saw him.”
    “We took his deposition. We don’t see any point in keeping him in custody,” she replied.
    I could feel my words binding in my throat.
    “What’s in y’all’s minds? You’ve burned this guy.”
    “Burned him?”
    “You made him rat out the Giacanos. Do you know what they do to people who snitch them off?”
    “Then why don’t you put him in custody yourself, Mr. Robicheaux?”
    “Because the prosecutor’s office dropped charges against him.”
    “Really? So the same people who complain when we investigate their jail want us to clean up a local mess for them?”
    “Don’t do this.”
    “Should we tell Mr. Broussard his friend Mr. Robicheaux would like to see him locked up again? Or will you do that for us?” she said, and hung up.
    Helen opened my door and came inside. She studied my face curiously.
    “You ready to boogie?” she asked.
     
    SWEDE BOXLEITER HAD TOLD me he had a job in the movies, and that’s where we started. Over in St. Mary Parish, on the front lawn of Lila Terrebonne. But we didn’t get far. After we had parked the cruiser, we were stopped halfway to the set by a couple of off-duty St. Mary Parish sheriff’s deputies with American flags sewn to their sleeves.
    “Y’all putting us in an embarrassing situation,” the older man said.
    “You see that dude there, the one with the tool belt on? His name’s Boxleiter. He just finished a five bit in Colorado,” I said.
    “You got a warrant?”
    “Nope.”
    “Mr. Holtzner don’t want nobody on the set ain’t got bidness here. That’s the way it is.”
    “Oh yeah? Try this. Either you take the marshmallows out of your mouth or I’ll go down to your boss’s office and have your ass stuffed in a tree shredder,” Helen said.
    “Say what you want. You ain’t getting on this set,” he said.
    Just then, Cisco Flynn opened the door of a trailer and stepped out on the short wood porch.
    “What’s the problem, Dave?” he asked.
    “Boxleiter.”
    “Come in,” he said, making cupping motions with his upturned hands, as though he were directing an aircraft on a landing strip.
    Helen and I walked toward the open door. Behind him I could see Billy Holtzner combing his hair. His eyes were pale and watery, his lips thick, his face hard-planed like gray rubber molded against bone.
    “Dave, we want a good relationship with everybody in the area. If Swede’s done something wrong, I want to know about it. Come inside, meet Billy. Let’s talk a minute,” Cisco said.
    But Billy Holtzner’s attention had shifted to a woman who was brushing her teeth in a lavatory with the door open.
    “Margot, you look just like you do when I come in