Page 1 of Blood Moon

Chapter 1

Saturday, March 8

The poignant lyrics of “Desperado” filtered through the cobwebs crocheted across the scratchy speaker in the ceiling.

The ballad seemed a fitting soundtrack for his entrance.

Two steps inside, he stopped and stood silhouetted in the wedge of midday sunlight that shrank as the tufted leather door swished closed behind him and returned the barroom to the simulated nighttime in seedy watering holes on every continent.

This one hunkered near the line that separated Larouche Parish from Terrebonne. Neither parish would be proud to claim it, but the liability fell to Terrebonne. There wasn’t a town close enough to have any significant attachment to the place, but it shared a zip code with Auclair.

He took off his sunglasses, folded the stems, and hooked one of them into the placket of his chambray shirt above the third pearl snap.

The bartender stopped thumbing through a magazine that appeared to have been thumbed through frequently, took his customer’s measure, then said, “Is it raining yet?”

“Not yet, but I wouldn’t bet against it by nightfall.” He walked over to the bar and mounted a stool.

“Cold beer?”

“Coke, please. Lots of ice.”

“Coming up.”

Then, from the outer reaches of the room: “Dude comes into a bar and orders a Coke. Ain’t that what Dairy Queens are for?” The remark elicited a round of guffaws.

The newcomer at the bar looked over his shoulder toward the row of billiard tables. The only one currently in use was lighted by a fixture suspended from the ceiling. It hung low above the felt and shed light on a grungy foursome.

The one who’d scoffed at him was propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, knee raised, left foot flat against the concrete blocks. He was grinding a matchstick between his teeth. Another was idly chalking a pool cue. The other two were leaning against the table, slurping from their bottles of beer.

All were eyeing the “dude” with insolent challenge.

But after being on the receiving end of a prolonged and unflinching stare, the spokesman of the four anchored the matchstick in the corner of his mouth beneath a droopy mustache, let his foot slide to the floor, pushed himself away from the wall, and said to the one preparing the cue, “You gonna shoot, or what?” Still muttering with amusement among themselves, they resumed their game.

The bartender, having watched the exchange withinterest, opened a can of Coca-Cola and poured it over a glassful of ice. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Bartender, add that to my tab, please.”

She was seated in a dim corner booth, chosen because it had an unobstructed view of the entrance, allowing her to see him when he arrived, which she’d wished to do. She’d been early; he’d been right on time.

She’d observed everything that had transpired without having been observed herself. The bit he’d done with his sunglasses had looked casual enough, something one would naturally do when coming from daylight into a darker interior. But she deduced that it had also given him time to let his eyes adjust, take in the scene, and get an idea of the bar’s layout and what he was walking into. She’d escaped his notice only because her booth was in a section of the bar where only meager light relieved the gloom.

As he’d walked from the entrance over to the bar, his tread had been loose-limbed, his demeanor nonchalant. His exchange with the bartender, although not effusive, had been friendly enough. But it had taken nothing more than a look from him to squelch the derision of the men playing billiards.

At the time, he’d been facing away from her. But she knew that he must have fixed on them the calculating gaze that now zeroed in on her as he picked up his drink and walked over.

When he reached the booth, he tipped his head toward the vacant bench. “This seat taken?”

She shook her head.

He slid in across from her. They appraised each other with undisguised interest but without comment until he said, “Thanks for the Coke.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dunking the drinking straw in and out of her glass of club soda, she continued her assessment of him. He’d gone to no trouble whatsoever to impress her. He was unshaven and had bed head. His shirt was wrinkled and worn tail out.

His jeans were clean but faded, worn to near white at the knees. They had a hole in the left front pocket and stringy hems. They seemed to be one with him, fitting his form and sauntering tread too well to have been purchased that way, already fashionably distressed. The aging had come from actual wear. Years of it.