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it for decoration. A flight of five stone steps led up to the door.
When he was certain the street was quiet, Elliot backed the GMC into the yard
to the right of the doorway. I heard the sound of the doors opening, then
footsteps as Atys and Elliot entered the house from the rear. Drake seemed
largely empty apart from two small kids playing ball by the railings of the
school. They remained there until it began to rain, the raindrops glittering
in the glow of the street lamps that had just begun to shine, then ran for
shelter. I waited ten minutes, the rain falling hard on the car, until I was
certain that we hadn t been followed, before I too headed into the house.
Atys I was forcing myself to think of him by his first name in an effort to
establish some kind of connection with him sat uncomfortably at a cheap pine
kitchen table, Elliot beside him. By the sink, an elderly black woman with
silver hair was pouring five glasses of lemonade. Her husband, who was a lot
taller than she was, held the glasses as she poured, then passed them, one by
one, to their guests. His shoulders were slightly stooped, but the strength of
his deltoid and trapezius muscles was still apparent from their definition
beneath his white shirt. He was well over sixty years old, but I guessed that
he could have taken Atys easily in a straight fight. He could probably have
taken me.
Devil and wife fighting, he said, as I shook the rain from my jacket. I must
have looked puzzled, because he repeated himself then pointed out the window
at the rain and sunlight mingling.
De wedduh, he said. Een yah cuh, seh-down.
Elliot grinned at the incomprehension on my face. Gullah, he explained.
Gullah was the term commonly used to describe the language and the people of
the coastal islands, many of them the descendants of slaves who had been given
island land and abandoned rice fields to settle in the aftermath of the Civil
War.
Ginnie and Albert used to live out on Yonges Island, but then Ginnie got sick
and one of their sons, Samuel, the one who s taking care of my car, insisted
they move back to Charleston. They ve been here ten years now, and I still
don t get some of what they say, but they re good people. They know what
they re doing. He s asking you to come in and sit down.
I accepted the lemonade, thanked them, then took Atys by the shoulder into the
small living room. Elliot seemed like he was about to follow me, but I
indicated that I wanted a minute or two alone with his client. Elliot didn t
look too happy about it, but he stayed where he was.
Atys sat down on the very edge of the sofa, as if he were preparing to make a
break for the door at any moment. He wouldn t meet my eye. I sat opposite him
in an overstuffed armchair.
You know why I m here? I asked.
He shrugged. Cause you bein paid to be here.
I smiled. There s that. Mostly, I m here because Elliot doesn t believe that
you killed Marianne Larousse. A lot of other people do, though, so it s going
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to be my job to maybe find evidence to prove them wrong. I can only do that if
you help me.
He licked his lips. There was sweat beading on his forehead. They goan kill
me, he said.
Who s going to kill you?
Larousses. Don t matter if they do it theyselves or get the state to do it,
they still goan kill me.
Not if we can prove them wrong.
Yeah, and how you goan do that?
I hadn t figured that out yet, but talking to this young man was a first step.
How did you meet Marianne Larousse? I asked.
He sank back heavily into the sofa, resigned now to speaking of what had
occurred.
She was a student in Columbia.
I don t see you as the student type, Atys.
Shit, no. I sold weed to them motherfuckers. They like to score.
Did she know who you were?
No, she didn t know shit about me.
But you knew who she was?
S right.
You know about your past, about the problems between your family and the
Larousses.
That s old shit.
But you know about it.
Yeah, I know.
She come on to you, or did you come on to her?
He blushed and his face broke into a shit-eating grin. Oh man, y know, she
was smokin and I was smokin and, s like, shit happened.
When did this start?
January, maybe February.
And you were with her all that time?
I was with her some. She went away in June. I didn t see her from end of May
until week, maybe two weeks before& His voice trailed off.
Did her family know she was seeing you?
Maybe. She didn t tell them nothin , but shit gets out.
Why were you with her?
He didn t answer.
Because she was pretty? Because she was white? Because she was a Larousse?
There was just a shrug in reply.
Maybe all three?
I guess.
Did you like her?
A muscle trembled in his cheek.
Yeah, I liked her.
I let it rest. What happened on the night she died?
Atys s face seemed to fall, all of the confidence and front disappearing from
it like a mask yanked away to reveal the true expression beneath. I knew then
for certain that he hadn t killed her for the pain was too real, and I guessed
that what might have started out as a means of getting back at some
half-sensed enemy had developed, at least on his side, into affection, and
perhaps something more.
We was screwing around in my car, out at the Swamp Rat by Congaree. Folks
there don t give a shit what you do, long as you got money and you ain t a
cop.
You had sex?
Yeah, we had sex.
Protected?
She was on the pill and, like, I been tested and shit but, yeah, she still
like me to use a rubber.
Did that bother you?
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What are you, man, stupid? You ever fucked with a rubber? It ain t the same.
It s like& He struggled for the comparison.
Wearing your shoes in the bathtub.
For the first time he smiled and a little of the ice broke.
Yeah, cept I ain t never had a bath that good.
Go on.
We started arguing.
About what?
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