Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux Series #8)

Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux Series #8)

by James Lee Burke

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Reissue)

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Overview

The Fontenot family has lived as sharecroppers on Bertrand land for as long as anyone in New Iberia, Louisiana, can remember. So why are they now being forced from their homes? And what does the murder of Della Landry—the girlfriend of New Orleans fixer Sonny Boy Marsallus—have to do with it?

Marsallus's secrets seem tied to those of the Fontenots. But can Detective Dave Robicheaux make sense of it all before there is more bloodshed? In James Lee Burke's intense and powerful new bestseller, Robicheux digs deep into the bad blood and dirty secrets of Louisiana's past—while having to confront a rag-tag alliance of local mobsters and hired assassin.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780786889044
Publisher: Hachette Books
Publication date: 08/28/1996
Series: Dave Robicheaux Series , #8
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 464
Sales rank: 105,550
Product dimensions: 6.58(w) x 11.02(h) x 1.09(d)
Age Range: 13 - 18 Years

About the Author

James Lee Burke was born in Houston, Texas, in 1936 and grew up on the Texas-Louisiana gulf coast. He attended Southwestern Louisiana Institute and later received a B. A. Degree in English and an M. A. from the University of Missouri in 1958 and 1960 respectively. Over the years he worked as a landman for Sinclair Oil Company, pipeliner, land surveyor, newspaper reporter, college English professor, social worker on Skid Row in Los Angeles, clerk for the Louisiana Employment Service, and instructor in the U. S. Job Corps.

He and his wife Pearl met in graduate school and have been married 48 years, they have four children: Jim Jr., an assistant U.S. Attorney; Andree, a school psychologist; Pamala, a T. V. ad producer; and Alafair, a law professor and novelist who has 4 novels out with Henry Holt publishing.

Burke's work has been awarded an Edgar twice for Best Crime Novel of the Year. He has also been a recipient of a Breadloaf and Guggenheim Fellowship and an NEA grant. Two of his novels, Heaven's Prisoners and Two For Texas, have been made into motion pictures. His short stories have been published in The Atlantic Monthly, New Stories from the South, Best American Short Stories, Antioch Review, Southern Review, and The Kenyon Review. His novel The Lost Get-Back Boogie was rejected 111 times over a period of nine years, and upon publication by Louisiana State University press was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.

Today he and his wife live in Missoula, Montana, and New Iberia, Louisiana.

Hometown:

New Iberia, Louisiana and Missoula, Montana

Date of Birth:

December 5, 1936

Place of Birth:

Houston, Texas

Education:

B.A., University of Missouri, 1959; M.A., University of Missouri, 1960

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

HER hair is curly and gold on the pillow, her skin white in the heat lightning that trembles beyond the pecan trees outside the bedroom window. The night is hot and breathless, the clouds painted like horsetails against the sky; a peal of thunder rumbles out an the Gulf like an apple rolling around in the bottom of a wood barrel, and the first raindrops ping against the window fan. She sleeps on her side, and the sheet molds her thigh, the curve of her hip, her breast. In the flicker of the heat lightning the sun freckles on her bare shoulder look like brown flaws in sculpted marble.

Then a prizing bar splinters the front door out of the jamb, and two men burst inside the house in heavy shoes, their pump shotguns at port arms. One is a tall Haitian, the other a Latin whose hair hangs off his head in oiled ringlets. They stand at the foot of the double bed in which she sleeps alone, and do not speak. She awakes with her mouth open, her eyes wide and empty of meaning. Her face is still warm from a dream, and she cannot separate sleep from the two men who stare at her without speaking. Then she sees them looking at each other and aim their shotguns point-blank at her chest. Her eyes film and she calls out my name like a wet bubble bursting in her throat. The sheet is twisted in her hands; she holds it against her breasts as though it could protect her from twelve-gauge deer slugs and double-aught buckshot.

They begin shooting, and the room seems to explode with smoke and flame from their shotgun barrels, with shell wadding, mattress stuffing, splinters gouged out of the bedstead, torn lampshades, flying glass. The two killers aremethodical. They have taken out the sportsman's plug in their shotguns so they can load five rounds in the magazine, and they keep firing and ejecting the smoking hulls an the floor until their firing pins snap empty. Then they reload with the calmness of men who might have juststood up in a blind and fired at a formation of ducks overhead.

The sheet is torn, drenched with her blood, embedded in her wounds. The men have gone now, and I sink to my, knees by my wife and kiss her sightless eyes, run my hands over her hair and wan face, put her fingers in my mouth. A solitary drop of her blood runs down the shattered headboard and pools on my skin. A bolt of lightning explodes in an empty field behind the house. The inside of my head is filled with a wet, sulphurous smell, and again I hear my name rise like muffled, trapped air released from the sandy bottom of a pond.

It was four in the morning on a Saturday and raining hard when I awoke from the dream in a West Baton Rouge motel. I sat on the side of the bed in my underwear and tried to rub the dream out of my face, then I used the bathroom and came back and sat on the side ofthe bed again in the dark.

First light was still two hours away, but I knew I would not sleep again. I put on my raincoat and hat and drove in my pickup truck to an all-night café that occupied one side of a clapboard roadhouse. The rain clattered on my truck cab, and the wind was blowing strong Out of the southwest, across the Atchafalaya swamp, whipping the palm and Oak trees by the highway. West Baton Rouge, which begins at the Mississippi River, has always been a seedy area of truck stops, marginal gambling joints, Negro and blue-collar bars. To the east you can see the lighted girders of the Earl K. Long Bridge, plumes of smoke rising from the oil refineries, the state capitol building silhouetted in the rain. Baton Rouge is a green town full of oak trees, parks, and lakes, and the thousands of lights on the refineries and chemical plants are regarded as a testimony to financial security rather than a sign of industrial blight. But once you drive west across the metal grid of the bridge and thump down on the old cracked four-lane, you're in a world that caters to the people of the Atchafalaya basin -- Cajuns, redbones, roustabouts, pipeliners, rednecks whose shrinking piece of American geography is identified only by a battered pickup, a tape deck playing Waylon, and a twelve-pack of Jax.

The rain spun in the yellow arc lights over the café parking lot. It was empty inside, except for a fat Negro woman whom I could see through the service window in the kitchen, and a pretty, redheaded waitress in her early twenties, dressed in a pink uniform with her hair tied up on her freckled neck. She was obviously tired, but she was polite and smiled at me when she took my order, and I felt a sense of guilt, almost shame, at my susceptibility and easy fondness for a young woman's smile. Because if you're forty-nine and unmarried or a widower or if you've simply chosen to live alone, you're easily flattered by a young woman's seeming attention to you, and you forget that it is often simply a deference to your age.

I ordered a chicken-fried steak and a cup of coffee and listened to Jimmy Clanton's recording of "Just a Dream" that came from the jukebox next door. Through the open doorway that gave onto the empty dance floor, I could see a half-dozen people at the bar against the far wall. I watched a man my age, with waved blond hair, drink his

I whiskey down to the ice, point to the glass for the bartender to refill it, then rise from...

Table of Contents

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Burning Angel 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I am so intrigued with the series of Dave Robicheaux novels that my wife and I leave in 2 days to visit New Iberia for a week. James Lee creates such a vivid picture of the countryside and the people in all his novels that we have to see it for ourselves.
macha on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Beautifully written. And the subject matter is fearsome: Dave Robicheaux's way of treating with his world here clashes, even in dream, with a whole lot of forces, mores, and assumptions that pervade the world he lives in. 'Even inside the dream I know I'm experiencing what a psychologist once told me is a world destruction fantasy. But my knowledge that it is only a dream does no good; I cannot extricate myself from it.' He lives in a beautiful and deadly world, in which the great chain of being operates on the principle of 'eat or be eaten'. But in the waking world at least Dave has to find a way to go on living in it. So he begins to make his choices, essays small interventions. He quickly finds himself in more than one another country, where nothing is as it seems and he must risk everything he loves to right imbalances, until his whole world makes sense to him again. And meanwhile, everything he is and loves remains at risk. At every turn he must decide what to let go of, what he needs to keep. 'It was all that quick, as though a loud train had gone past me, slamming across switches, baking the track with its own heat, creating a tunnel of sound and energy so intense that the rails seem to reshape like bronze licorice under the wheels; then silence that's like hands clapped across the eardrums, a field of weeds that smell of dust and creosote, a lighted club car disappearing across the prairie.' A little masterpiece, this one, and maybe the only pure magic realism novel in the whole series too..
andyray on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The theme can be stated without spoiling the book. i.e.,, WE MUST BE CAREFUL HOW E TREAT PEOPLE, FOR THERE MAY BE ANGELS AMONG US. Burke is wonderful at characterization and hooking us into his world with awesome paintings (that are not always beautiful). Here paints a question mark around Sonny Boy. Look for this in other novels as well. It is part of his signature.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I felt he had trouble completing this story and use "filler" to lengthen the story. But you can be sure I will read the next in the seried.
Andrew_of_Dunedin More than 1 year ago
I sometimes wonder why I enjoy James Lee Burke's Dave Robicheaux series?  I mean, Dave seems to be a pretty decent guy, and he has a nice family.  However, it seems that virtually everyone that Dave knows is through his law enforcement profession, and excepting the minority who hold a badge, they come off as slimy untrustworthy lowlifes that I would not want to spend any personal time getting to know. Then, after completing the next one in the series, I remember why I do it – because Burke is one h-ll of a storyteller. Burning Angel has a few intertwining mysteries running through it – or, are they merely separate aspects of the same conspiracy?  (No spoilers, I leave this to the reader to determine for his or herself.)  As mentioned, I don't like most of the supporting characters.  I don't like the way our lead character acts when he's around these other characters, either.  BUT … when I get to the end, I think “wow – that was a pretty decent story”. RATING: 4.5 stars, rounded down to 4 stars.
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