James Burke - Pegasus Descending

The previous night he had pulled a vinyl cover over his Caddy to protect it from bird droppings. But someone had unhooked the elastic loops from the bumpers and folded back the cover in a neat stack on the ground, then had tiger-striped the paint job with acid. There was also a silver indentation the width and flat shape of a screwdriver tip under the gas flap, and Clete guessed the flap had been prized in order to pour sugar or sand into the tank.

He used his cell phone to call Triple A for a wrecker, then called me at the office. “I think Lefty Raguza paid me a visit last night,” he said, and described the condition of his car.

“You should have pressed assault charges against him when you had the chance, Clete,” I replied.

“You know how much business that fire hose situation probably cost the casino? I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to blow the state.”

It was pointless to argue with Clete. Besides, he was right. His history of mayhem and environmental destruction both inside and outside the New Orleans Police Department preempted any chance of his being presumed innocent in a conflict between Clete and a business enterprise that brought millions of tourist dollars into Orleans Parish. “You’ll need an investigative report for your insurance. I’ll send somebody out,” I said.

“Thanks. Raguza didn’t do this on his own. Whitey Bruxal had to give his approval.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Wake up, Streak. These guys have used the state of Florida for toilet paper since the 1920s. You’re spending your time on people at the bottom of the food chain. Fraternity pissants and black street pukes aren’t the problem. The word is Whitey Bruxal has bought juice with a televangelical lobbyist who closes down Bruxal’s competition. Like Trish says, you hurt the big guys in their pocketbook.”

“Stay away from that woman,” I said.

But he had already closed his cell phone.

I HAD ALWAYS BELIEVED Colin Alridge was far too complex a man to be dismissed as a tawdry charlatan. His father had been an insurance executive who mixed pleasure with business in both Fort Lauderdale and New Orleans, his mother a survivor of internment by the Japanese in the occupied Philippines. After the father drank up the family money and shot himself, Colin attended a poor-boy Bible college in South Carolina, wandered around the Upper South as an encyclopedia salesman, then became a regular on a Sunday-morning religious program that was broadcast out of Roanoke, Virginia. Colin quickly learned that his good looks, corn-bread accent, and family-oriented Christian message were a combination that could ring like coins bouncing on gold plate. More important, he discovered that beyond the television camera there was a huge political constituency hungry for conversion and affirmation, provided that it was conveyed by someone they could trust.

It’s inadequate to describe him as handsome. It was the totality of his appearance that charmed his audiences and made him an iconic figure sought out by political and religious groups all over the country. He was clean-cut, immaculately groomed, straightforward, his face marked with an ever present serenity that was obviously born of inner conviction. Working-class women who touched his hand called him “godly.” When he whispered his message of love and redemption into a microphone, their faces crumpled and their eyes swam with tears.

He returned to his birthplace and bought a modest home on Camp Street, in the Garden District, and often appeared at shelters for battered women and the homeless. But there were stories about a second home outside Bay St. Louis, one with a breathtaking view of the Gulf. The deed was in the name of the incorporated ministry that others administered for him, but the rich and the powerful were often seen dining on the deck with Colin at sunset, the blood-streaked skies and rustle of palms a triumphal backdrop to those who had successfully managed to give unto both God and Caesar.

Colin Alridge had remained free of the type of scandals that had brought down many of his predecessors. If there was a repressed libertine inside him, no one ever saw it. He was devoted to his work and I suspect sincere when he often mentioned his mother as the source of his political and spiritual convictions. Even I sometimes wondered if the rumors about his ties to casino gambling were manufactured by his political enemies. Why would anyone who had achieved so much risk it all by involving himself with a Miami lowlife like Whitey Bruxal?

Clete Purcel had his Caddy towed into the shop, then drove in a rental to Whitey Bruxal’s business office on an oak-shaded stretch of Pinhook Road near the Lafayette Oil Center. But Whitey Bruxal was not there and his receptionist said she had no idea where he was.

Clete looked around at the deep carpet and heavy, ornate furniture in the reception area. The office was located next to a motel built of soft South Carolina brick, and through the windows he could see the shadows of the live oaks out on Pinhook Road and the sun winking on the motel swimming pool. “You got a nice location here,” he said. When she didn’t respond, he added, “Whitey just blows in and out but doesn’t tell his employees where he is?”

“Would you like to leave your name and phone number?” the receptionist said. Her hair was platinum, her tan probably chemically induced. She picked a piece of lint off her skin and dropped it in a wastebasket.

“Is Lefty Raguza around?” Clete asked.

“I think Mr. Raguza is at the track.”

“Too bad. Tell Whitey Clete Purcel was by. He doesn’t need to call. I’ll drop by another time. Or maybe catch him at his house. He goes to his house sometimes, doesn’t he, when he’s not blowing in and out of the office?”

Her eyes drifted up into his, her expression as bored as she could possibly make it.

“That’s what I thought. Thanks for your time. Give Lefty my best. Tell him I’ll be getting together with him soon,” he said. “Could I have one of those business cards?”

She nodded her head toward a container on her desk, her attention concentrated on her computer screen.

Clete wrote on the back of the business card and handed it to her. “Give this to Whitey, will you?” he said.

She took the card with two fingers and set it beside her keyboard without looking at it. Then she glanced down at the message written in a tight blue calligraphy across the card. It read:

The guy your people capped in Opa-Locka had the Silver Star and two Purple Hearts. Why don’t you give me a call, shitbag? I’d like to chat you up on that.

The receptionist’s face sagged slightly, then she picked up her purse and walked into the restroom, her eyes focused far out in front of her.

Outside, Clete stood in the shade of an oak, wondering what he had just accomplished. The answer was easy: Nothing. In fact, his behavior had been foolish, he told himself. Contrary to his own admonition, he was once again engaging the lowlifes on their own turf, issuing challenges that brought him into conflict with disposable douche bags like Lefty Raguza.

What was it that guys like Whitey Bruxal wanted? Again, the answer was easy: Respectability. The legalization of gambling throughout most of the United States was a wet dream come true for the vestiges of the old Syndicate. The money they used to make from the numbers racket, money that they always had trouble laundering, was nothing compared to the income from the casinos, tracks, and lotteries they now operated with the blessing of federal and state licensing agencies. In fact, not only had the government presented them with a gift that was beyond the Mob’s wildest imaginings, they had been able to attach educational funding to gambling bills all over the country, which turned schoolteachers into their most loyal supporters. Was this a great country or not?