Living Dead in Dallas

the back door laughing. Both divorced women in their midtwenties, Danielle and Holly were lifelong friends who seemed to be quite happy working their jobs as long as they were together. Holly had a five-year-old son who was at kindergarten, and Danielle had a seven-year-old daughter and a boy too young for school, who stayed with Danielle’s mother while Danielle was at Merlotte’s. I would never be anycloser to the two women—who, after all, were around my age—because they were careful to be sufficient unto themselves.
    “What’s the matter?” Danielle asked when she saw my face. Her own, narrow and freckled, became instantly worried.
    “Why’s Andy’s car out front?” Holly asked. She’d dated Andy Bellefleur for a while, I recalled. Holly had short blond hair that hung around her face like wilted daisy petals, and the prettiest skin I’d ever seen. “He spend the night in it?”
    “No,” I said, “but someone else did.”
    “Who?”
    “Lafayette’s in it.”
    “Andy let a black queer sleep in his car?” This was Holly, who was the blunt straightforward one.
    “What happened to him?” This was Danielle, who was the smarter of the two.
    “We don’t know,” Sam said. “The police are on the way.”
    “You mean,” Danielle said, slowly and carefully, “that he’s dead.”
    “Yes,” I told her. “That’s exactly what we mean.”
    “Well, we’re set to open in an hour.” Holly’s hands settled on her round hips. “What are we gonna do about that? If the police let us open, who’s gonna cook for us? People come in, they’ll want lunch.”
    “We better get ready, just in case,” Sam said. “Though I’m thinking we won’t get to open until sometime this afternoon.” He went into his office to begin calling substitute cooks.
    It felt strange to be going about the opening routine, just as if Lafayette were going to mince in any minute with a story about some party he’d been to, the way he had a few days before. The sirens came shrieking down the county road that ran in front of Merlotte’s. Carscrunched across Sam’s gravel parking lot. By the time we had the chairs down, the tables set, and extra silverware rolled in napkins and ready to replace used settings, the police came in.
    Merlotte’s is out of the city limits, so the parish sheriff, Bud Dearborn, would be in charge. Bud Dearborn, who’d been a good friend of my father’s, was gray-haired now. He had a mashed-in face, like a human Pekinese, and opaque brown eyes. As he came in the front door of the bar, I noticed Bud was wearing heavy boots and his Saints cap. He must have been called in from working on his farm. With Bud was Alcee Beck, the only African American detective on the parish force. Alcee was so black that his white shirt gleamed in contrast. His tie was knotted precisely, and his suit was absolutely correct. His shoes were polished and shining.
    Bud and Alcee, between them, ran the parish . . . at least some of the more important elements that kept it functional. Mike Spencer, funeral home director and parish coroner, had a heavy hand in local affairs, too, and he was a good friend of Bud’s. I was willing to bet Mike was already out in the parking lot, pronouncing poor Lafayette dead.
    Bud Spencer said, “Who found the body?”
    “I did.” Bud and Alcee changed course slightly and headed toward me.
    “Sam, can we borrow your office?” Bud asked. Without waiting for Sam’s response, he jerked his head to indicate I should go in.
    “Sure, go right ahead,” my boss said dryly. “Sookie, you okay?”
    “Fine, Sam.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but there wasn’t anything Sam could do about it without getting into trouble, and all to no avail. Though Bud gestured to me to sit down, I shook my head as he and Alcee settled themselves in the office chairs. Bud, of course,took Sam’s big chair, while Alcee made do with the better extra chair, the one with a little padding left.
    “Tell us about the last time you saw Lafayette alive,” Bud suggested.
    I thought about it.
    “He wasn’t working last night,” I said. “Anthony was working, Anthony Bolivar.”
    “Who is that?” Alcee’s broad forehead wrinkled. “Don’t recognize the name.”
    “He’s a friend of Bill’s. He was passing through, and he needed a job. He had the experience.” He’d worked in a diner during the Great Depression.
    “You mean the short-order cook at Merlotte’s is a vampire ?”
    “So?” I