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“Take care.”
“So long.”
Wally went out through the doors, which swung back behind him.
“How do you want to enter your plea?” the officer said, his red, square face looking at Avery.
“What are the charges?”
“No license, going the wrong way on a one-way street, and driving while intoxicated.”
“I’m not drunk. I wasn’t drunk in the car.”
“Do you want to plead not guilty?”
“The officer said I would get a test.”
“A test won’t tell us anything now. You might be sober at the station, but that don’t mean you weren’t tight earlier.”
“That man knew I wasn’t tight.”
“You had liquor in your possession.”
“Where did the other officer go?”
“Out on call.”
“If I plead not guilty and he’s not in court, that means I get off, doesn’t it?”
“It will be better for you to plead guilty. You’ll only get a fine that way.”
“I’m not getting caught for a D.W.I.”
“All right, son. Not guilty. Were you ever arrested before?”
“No.”
The officer wrote on the papers held against his thigh.
“Whose car were you driving?”
“My girl’s.”
“What is her name?”
“Is that important?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Suzanne Robicheaux.”
“We’ll have to check you through for a previous violation.”
Avery felt that sick empty feeling in his stomach again. The officer gave the papers to the detective at the desk and asked him to check Avery’s name through their records. The detective was dressed in a pair of unpressed slacks and an open-neck sports shirt, and his undershirt showed at the top of his chest. He had a cold and he blew his nose often on a soiled handkerchief. There were deep pockmarks in the back of his neck, and his skin was coarse with large pores. His eyes squinted as he read the papers on his desk and he held the handkerchief to his nose with both hands and blew. He turned around in his chair and looked at Avery, wiping his upper lip with the handkerchief.
“Are you Broussard?” he said.
“Yes.”
