Louisiana Lament

business.
    Talba knocked but got no answer. But she knew perfectly well he was home, because she’d first checked to see if his car was in its assigned garage slot. She knocked again, this time following up with a little speech, delivered with dignity, “Mr. Robineau, I have some bad news for you.”
    Still no answer. Very well then. Another knock, another speech, louder: “Mr. Robineau, I’m sorry to tell you your ex-wife has passed away. I’m Talba Wallis of E. V. Anthony Associates, and I need to talk to you about the will.”
    This time he answered. He was unshaven, wore only a pair of jeans pulled on over a pair of jockey shorts, the frayed waistband of which showed underneath. He was tall, thin, superficially a lot like Jason. But cruder. A whole lot cruder.
    His hair was coarse and a little dirty. His features, despite his name, seemed more Irish than French. He did have the blue eyes Babalu was fond of, but this pair was small and mean. The most arresting thing about him was his tattoos—nasty black and green ones all over his chest, right shoulder, and arms. Talba had disliked Babalu’s tattoo because of what it seemed to mean, but these she hated on aesthetic grounds. They were the carnival-art type—grotesque heads and skulls; swords and spiderwebs. She had no idea what would cause a person to want such things on his body, unless it made him feel tough. Likelier, it was just an outer reflection of the inner man. She wondered if the pictures were metaphors for what went on in this man’s head, his own dark form of poetry. It was a chilling notion.
    The man was looking at her sleepily, obviously having answered the door for no other reason than to keep her from entertaining his neighbors at further length. She didn’t give him a chance to speak: “Robert Robineau?”
    He said, “You say something about somebody dying?” She nodded solemnly. “Clayton Robineau. I’m sorry.”
    “Clayton?” he asked.
    “May I come in?”
    She couldn’t tell if he was really rattled or just pretending to be. He stepped aside for her.
    The whole apartment smelled of smoke so stale it nearly made her gag. Ashtrays everywhere were filled to capacity. Empty beer cans were all over the floor and coffee table, along with plates of half-eaten food and a greasy pizza carton. The furniture looked like salvage.
    “Maid’s day off,” he said. “Sit down.”
    “No thanks. This won’t take long.” It might, but she wasn’t about to sit in this place.
    “Clayton’s my ex-wife,” he said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes and shaking one out. “She get in an accident or something? Clayton’s young. She wouldn’t just die.”
    “Have you been in touch with her lately?”
    He finished lighting the cigarette. “No, I—” Then he turned to her, shaking the match. “You tryin’ to tell me somethin’? She was using again, right?”
    Talba’s eyes flicked to the man’s arms. Sure. Track marks. He looked like a druggie, he smelled like a druggie, and he was one. She said, “Are you telling me Clayton was an addict?”
    But she knew the answer before he spoke—it fit with the Big Book, it fit with this man, and it fit perfectly with the suicide theory. Her family would have told the police she was a former druggie—thus, the cops probably would conclude that heroin had been her death of choice; at the very least, that she knew how to score some. The thing made beautiful sense if you looked at it that way. But you could turn it around just as easily—it perfectly explained why Babalu’s killer would choose such a cumbersome method.
    Because if that was her history, it was just about the only kind of death you could name that would really look like suicide. Far from the ignorant protestations of Jason—and of Talba herself—it actually would be in character. Bablau owned neither prescription pills nor a gun and had no history with either. But Talba was willing to bet her license she did with heroin.
    Robineau made a guttural noise that may have been what he used for a laugh. “Yeah, she was an addict. Big time. ’Zat how she died?”
    “What kind of addict?”
    “Heroin. What else?”
    Talba said, “You, too, Mr. Robineau?” She looked pointedly at his track marks.
    He didn’t even take the bait. “We had a grand old time, the rich bitch and me. Hey, sit down, why don’t you? I’m gonna get a beer. Want one?”
    By now it was nearly eight a.m., about eleven hours too early for a beer, in