Voodoo River (1995) by Robert - Elvis Cole 05 Crais Read Free Book Online Page B

the block, looking for the Mustang, but as with the house the Mustang was not there. I parked around the corner, then walked back to the little directory. There were five businesses listed, and Rebenack Investigations was the third. You had to shake your head. Jimmie Ray Rebenack in his brand-new Mustang, thinking he wouldn't be noticed as he followed me all over town.
    I crossed the street to a little coffee shop opposite the fish market. There was a counter and a half-dozen Formica tables spread around the place sporting overweight men in thin cotton shirts drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. A napkin dispenser sat on each of the tables, alongside a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I sat at a table in the window, watching the fish market until a sturdy woman with about a million miles on her clock came over with a coffeepot. She poured without asking, and said, "You wan" some breakfast, sugah?"
    "How about a couple of hard poached eggs, toast, and grits?"
    "Wheat or white?"
    "Wheat."
    She walked away without writing anything and left me to sip at the coffee. It was heavy with flavor and about a million times stronger than the coffee people drink in the rest of the world, sort of like espresso that's been cooked down to a sludge. Mississippi mud. I tried to pretend that I enjoyed it, and I think I did a pretty good job. Maybe the Tabasco was on the tables for the coffee. I sneaked glances at the men with their papers. Okay. If they could drink it, I could drink it.
    When the waitress brought the food, I said, "Mm-mm, that coffee's some kinda strong!"
    She said, "Uh-huh."
    I smushed the eggs into the grits and mixed in a little butter and ate it between bites of the toast. The grits were warm and smooth and made the awful coffee easier to drink. I watched the fish market. People came and went, and a couple of times people climbed the stairs, but none of them was Jimmie Ray Rebenack. The front of the fish market was covered with hand-lettered signs saying CATFISH and LIVE CRABS and GASPERGOO $1.89. The people who patronized the fish market came out with brown paper bags that I took to be the catfish and the crabs, and, as I watched them, I wondered what a gaspergoo was and why someone might want to eat it. Another little sign had been painted on the door. WE HAVE GAR BALLS; These Cajuns know how to live, don't they?
    I was halfway along my third cup of sludge when Jimmie Ray Rebenack's Mustang rumbled down the street and pulled into a metered spot outside the clothing store. Jimmie Ray fed some money into the meter, then trotted up the stairs. He was wearing blue jeans and a red western shirt and gray snakeskin boots. His pompadour looked a foot high and must've taken most of the morning to shellac into place.
    I gave it a few minutes, then paid at the counter, left a hefty tip, and crossed the street to Jimmie Ray Rebenack's office.
    The building was dingy and low class, with crummy linoleum floors and water-stained paint. The smell offish was strong, and seemed a part of the fiber of the building. Three offices overlooked the front street, and three overlooked the alley behind the fish market. Rebenack had the middle office over the alley. I listened for a second, didn't hear anything, then let myself in.
    Jimmie Ray Rebenack was sitting behind a plain wooden desk, feet up, staring at some papers when he heard the door. He saw me, then came out of the chair as if somebody had poured hot oatmeal into his lap.
    "Hey."
    "Nice boots, Jimmie Ray. You going for that Joey Buttafucco look?"
    "Who?" Out of the cultural loop, down here in Ville Platte. "What do you want?" He slid the papers into his desk drawer. Surreptitious.
    Jimmie Ray Rebenack had sharp features and pock-marks on his neck and the pink skin of a natural redhead. Maybe an inch shorter than me, but muscular in a rawboned kind of way. Grease from his part-time mechanic's job was embedded in the thick skin of his knuckles and fingers. He'd tried to wash it off, but the