Page 27 of Broken Bayou
I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.” I don’t offer my name.
“I checked for one that day,” she says, following me as I head for the back of the store. “Sorry. No luck.”
I stop at the back shelves.
Dolly watches me. “You might find something else you need, though. I’ve got just about anything and everything. You’d be surprised what grown men with decent jobs think are collector’s items.” She rolls her eyes. “Then they gotta bring ’em here for me to sell.”
Televisions are stacked in rows, a clunky original iPod sits on one shelf, a Polaroid camera next to it, even an old black rotary phone.
“Thanks anyway,” I say, heading for the door.
“Found some old tapes, huh?”
I pause and look back at her. “Excuse me?”
Her thick eyebrows furrow. “VCR.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
“You know,” she says. “VHS tapes deteriorate over time. Not sure how old yours are or how they were stored, but chances are, they’re useless. Just a warning.”
My fingers are trembling by the time I climb back into my car. Time to meet Raymond.
The police station sits one street off Main. I park along the shoulder and hustle to the front door. The only thing I can say about the inside is it’s brown. Brown chairs, brown floor, brown desk. Behind the desk is a woman with a big brown bouffant. Streaks of gray run through it, and the wrinkled eyes beneath all that hair turn to sharp slits when they see me.
She doesn’t look surprised. She, like the ladies in the antique store, looks suspicious.
“No comment,” she says and goes back to reading her crossword puzzle.
I look down at my dress. “I’m not with the press. I’m here to see Raymond.”
When she looks back up, her gaze is even more suspicious. “He’s out back.”
I smile. “Thank you. Oh, and would it be possible to get Travis Arceneaux’s cell number?”
She sets her pencil down, lowers her readers. “No.” She picks her pencil back up and turns her attention to the crossword again.
“Can I leave him a note?”
Without looking up, she says, “Whatever.”
I scribble a note asking Travis to call me or come by, thank the woman I’m assuming is Margie, based on her voice, then hurry backinto the broiling heat. I spot a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire behind the station. I look around, then redirect to the rolling gate in front of it. It’s padlocked and covered with two signs. One readsKEEP GATE CLOSED!The other statesDO NOT ENTER. MUSTBEACCOMPANIEDWITHIMPOUNDPERSONNEL.Several cars sit on the other side. A few are wrecked, but one in particular has my attention. It looks like it was dragged from a bayou.
My palms start to sweat. I rub them together as I move closer to the fence and stare at the old convertible. It’s in bad shape. Rusted and molded, with the passenger door missing. My throat constricts. I work to swallow as I move down the fence to get a better look at the back end. I press my face against the cool metal, crane my neck.
“Can I help you?”
I jump back from the fence as if it shocked me. A baby-faced officer in a brown uniform stares at me from the other side. It’s the same guy I saw on the levee yesterday. The one I couldn’t place.
“Willa Watters, right?”
Shit. I nod.
“Yeah,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Saw you at the bayou yesterday. With Travis.” He studies my face a second. “It’s me, Raymond St. Clair. Remember, we all used to run around in the summers down here. Get into trouble every now and then.” His cheeks go pink.
So this is Raymond. Raymond St. Clair. I do remember him. He was a shy kid who ran with a group of highbrow boys his older brother hung with. They were always acting cool, usually at the expense of someone else. That group taunted Travis, called him bayou trash. Said his family was trouble. Not necessarily wrong, but cruel nonetheless. Sometimes they made fun of Mabry and Eddie, who were usually tagging along beside us. Raymond was always hovering in the background, kicking the dirt. I’d always felt sorry for him.
“Of course, Raymond. It’s good to see you,” I say, even though I wish I hadn’t seen him. Now, I may get asked questions I’m not ready to answer.
