James Burke - Crusader's Cross

"I busted a couple of lowlifes in North Lafayette last night. They say the word on the street is a husband-wife team out of Florida are setting up a new escort service," he said.

"Lou and Connie Coyne?"

"That's who it sounds like."

"Why now?" I asked.

"Oil is supposed to hit fifty dollars a barrel this year. You know a better local aphrodisiac?" he replied.

So much for the altruism of Ida Durbin, I thought.

Another half hour went by. I went into Helen's office. "I've got to get off the desk," I said.

She pulled on an earlobe. "Really?" she said.

"Chalons is about to make a move. Against me or Molly or Clete. I saw this televangelical character Alridge out at his place. Jericho Johnny Wineburger is around, too. I can't figure any of it out."

I thought she would be angry or at least irritated and dismissing. I knew I looked and sounded like a man waving his arms on the street, prophesying doom to anyone who would listen. Instead, she stood up and, just for something to do, arranged a floating flower in a glass bowl on her desk. "The D.A. is going ahead with felony assault charges against you, Dave. Also, there's that molestation issue. Maybe we ought to count our blessings."

"Roust Wineburger. I think he's got a contract on somebody. But I don't know who."

"Give me an address," she said, picking up a pen.

"I saw him fishing at Henderson Swamp."

She clicked the button on her pen several times, staring wanly into space, afraid to speak lest she hurt me in ways she couldn't repair.

I went back to my office and tried to think. But long ago I had learned that my best thinking usually got me drunk. Through the window I saw a truck sideswipe a car at the train crossing, smashing it into a telephone pole, and was glad for the diversion. I dumped my incoming baskets of accident and domestic dispute reports and payroll requests and time sheets into a large paper sack, stapled it at the top, and dropped it in a corner like a load of bagged-up Kitty Litter.

Then my phone rang. "I just had lunch with Ida," Jimmie's voice said. "There's something real weird going on with Valentine Chalons."

"He wouldn't see Ida?" I said.

"No, she visited him at Iberia General. He was overjoyed. They were supposed to have supper in Lafayette last night. Lou Kale dropped her off under the porte cochere at the restaurant. But Chalons takes one look at her, turns to stone, and has the valet bring up his car. Ida was pretty shook up. What a prick."

"Did Kale try to come in with her?"

"No, he just drove her there."

"Did Chalons see him?"

"I guess. Why?"

"Get away from them."

"What's going on?"

"Val Chalons is behind everything that's been happening. The old man wasn't even an adverb."

"Behind what?" he said. "Are you drinking again?"

But I had no moral authority on the subject of the Chalons family and I didn't try to answer Jimmie's question. At quitting time, I called Molly and told her I'd be late for supper and drove to Clete Purcel's motor court.

"You're saying Valentine Chalons is the son of Lou Kale?" Clete said.

"That's been the engine the whole time," I said.

"No, the engine's money. It's always money, no matter what they say."

"Same thing," I said. "Val Chalons has spent his whole life lying about who he is. What happens to his credibility as a TV broadcaster if he admits he's always known his real father is a pimp? Imagine Lou Kale showing up at Chalons's country club."

Clete studied my face. "You want to salt the mine shaft?" he said.

"You doing anything else?" I asked.

The two of us sat down at Clete's old Smith-Corona portable and composed the following letter. Actually, most of it was Clete's work and in my estimation a masterpiece Ring Lardner would have tipped his hat to.

Dear Mr. Chalons,

A hooker I happened to know by the name of Big Tit Flora Mazaroni just gave me some interesting information about a pimp who is now in Lafayette, one Lou Coyne, a.k.a. Lou Kale. After packing too much flake up his nose, he told Flora he's got an illegitimate son in Jeanerette, a famous TV guy who just inherited between eighty and one hundred million dollars. Guess who this famous TV guy is?

Guess what else? Kale says this TV guy is not only a liar and a phony but also a horny sex freak who is so hard up he had to bop his space-o sister. Flora says Kale is going to milk this particular TV dude for every cent he's got.

I happen to be in the P.I. business. I got a personal score to settle with Kale, but I can also protect your interests if the above material seems to describe anyone in your acquaintance. If you need references, call Nig Rosewater at Bimstine's Bonds in New Orleans. Nig will vouch for my confidentiality and total professionalism.

Have a nice day,

Clete Purcel

But masterpiece or not, Clete and I decided we should not neglect Lou Kale. Clete rolled another sheet of paper into the Smith-Corona and started typing, his porkpie hat cocked at an angle, his stomach hanging over a pair of boxer shorts that were printed with sets of blue dice.

Lou -

You are probably surprised to hear from me after you set me up and your two hired bean-rollers tried to put out my lights. But business is business. Valentine Chalons does not want you and your wife hustling cooze in this area. I get the sense there's a family fight of some kind going on here, but I couldn't care less on the subject and I'm not pursuing it. The point is Chalons is inheriting eighty to one hundred million dollars and indicates he does not need his life and reputation queered by a lot of baggage from a Galveston whorehouse.

The short version is the guy's seriously pissed off and he's hired me to take care of the problem. He says you're a gutless douche bag and you'll squirm back under the rocks with the first shot across your bow. True or not, I'd like to hear a counteroffer.

In my opinion, this guy is not normal and the cops should have taken a lot harder look at him for his sister's murder. This is not a guy who shares the bucks. For some reason he seems to think you and your old lady got a sniff of his money and are going to lay claims on it. Believe me when I tell you his feelings about you are real strong. Did you hurt this guy when he was a kid or something?

Keep a smiley face.

Sincerely,

Clete Purcel,

Private Investigator

Clete folded the letters, placed them in envelopes, and addressed each of them.

Twenty minutes later one of his bonded-out clients, a habitual alligator poacher, picked up the envelopes for delivery in Lafayette and Jeanerette.

"Beautiful work, Cletus," I said.

"Not bad. There's only one problem," he said.

"What?"

"What if Val Chalons is not Lou Kale's kid?"

But other events that evening, involving an anachronistic New Orleans player, would soon take our minds off the letters we had just composed.

Johnny Wineburger had erotic dreams, but not of a kind that he understood. Sometimes he woke throbbing and hard in the morning, and briefly recalled a fleeting glimpse of an undressed woman, a pale, black-haired creature wrapped in mist, but the dream never contained a face or a name. In some instances, the figure kissed his hands, then put his fingers in her mouth. In some instances, she bit down on them, hard, her eyes veiled by a skein of shiny hair. The pain he felt was not entirely an unpleasant one.

Johnny did not know what the dream meant. A friend of his in the life, a kid named Jimmy Figorelli or Jimmy Fig or sometimes Jimmy Fingers, who had been with the First Cav at Khe Sanh, told Johnny to talk to a psychiatrist.