James Burke - Pegasus Descending

Maybe it was time to piss in the punch bowl, Clete thought. He looked at his watch, then headed for New Orleans.

En route he called his part-time secretary at the office he still operated on St. Ann Street in the Quarter. She was a former nun by the name of Alice Werenhaus, a stolid pile of a woman whose veneer of Christianity belied a personality that even the previous bishop had feared. In fact, I think Nig Rosewater and Wee Willie Bimstine’s bail skips were more afraid of facing Miss Alice than they were Clete. But she and Clete had hit it off famously, in part, I suspected, because the pagan in each of them recognized the other.

She called Clete back by the time he crossed the Atchafalaya and gave him the probable schedule for the rest of Colin Alridge’s day.

“High tea at the Pontchartrain Hotel?” Clete said.

“He entertains elderly ladies there. Actually, he doesn’t seem like a bad man,” she said.

“Don’t let this dude snow you, Miss Alice.”

“Have you gotten yourself into something, Mr. Purcel?”

“Everything is copacetic. No problems. Believe me.”

“The police department keeps calling about this episode at the casino. They say a lot of water damage was done to the carpets.”

“Don’t listen to them. It was just a misunderstanding. Thanks for your help. Got to go now.” He closed the cell phone before she could ask any more questions.

But she called back thirty seconds later. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Purcel!” she said.

He could do worse than have Miss Alice on his side, he thought.

Just before 3 p.m. he drove down St. Charles and parked across from the Pontchartrain. Sure enough, inside the cool, pastel-colored reaches of the hotel, he found Colin Alridge seated at a long, linen-covered table, speaking to a group of ladies who must have been in their eighties. A tea service was set at each end of the table, and Colin sat in the center, turning his head back and forth, his eyes lingering on each face, his sincerity and goodwill like a candle in the midst of an otherwise empty dining room.

It was not the scene Clete had anticipated when he left Lafayette. He had envisioned catching Alridge in a crowded restaurant, perhaps among the monied interests that seemed to find their way into Alridge’s inner circle. Maybe even some of the Giacano minions would be there, he had told himself. But what if they had been there? What would he have done: pull a fire hose out of the wall and create another disaster for himself like the one at the casino? He stopped at the bar and ordered a double Jack with a beer back. “How long does Billy Graham Junior work the crowd?” he asked the bartender.

“Sir?” the bartender said.

“When does Boy Bone Smoker get finished with the ladies?”

The bartender, who wore a white jacket and black pants, leaned forward on his elbow. He had a pencil mustache and black hair that was cut short and parted neatly, like a 1930s leading man. “I happen to be gay myself. You don’t like it, drink somewhere else.”

The afternoon was not working out as Clete had planned. He finished his Jack, ordered another, and left three one-dollar bills as a tip for the bartender. The bartender picked them up and stuffed them in a cup on the bottle counter, not speaking, his face without expression. Clete had not eaten, and by three forty-five he was half in the bag. “Sorry about that crack. It’s been one of those days,” he said.

The bartender poured him a shot and waved off the five Clete put on the bar.

“You know who Whitey Bruxal is?” Clete asked.

“He’s a gambler.”

“Ever see him in here?”

“Yeah, he stays here sometimes.”

“Ever see him with the guy over there at the table?”

“Are you kidding?”

At four o’clock, the group of elderly ladies began filing out of the dining room. Clete picked up his drink and walked over to Alridge, who was just saying good-bye to a lady on a walker. He clapped Alridge hard on the shoulder. “Need to talk to you,” he said.

“Pardon me?” Alridge said, turning slowly.

“We’ve got a big mess over in New Iberia. Your name keeps coming up in it. You know Whitey Bruxal and Bellerophon Lujan, right? Lujan’s boy got blown away with a twelve-gauge and it looks like a gangbanger might ride the needle for it. The gangbanger is a bucket of black whale sperm by the name of Monarch Little. Too bad the Lujan kid got mixed up with him. You need a drink?”

But Clete realized his grandiose manner was manufactured, that he was not in control. His face felt hot and swollen, as though it had been stung by bees; his own words sounded foreign and disconnected, outside himself. He propped one hand on a chair to steady himself. Colin Alridge stared at him in amazement.

“I couldn’t process all that. What was that about the Lujan boy?” Alridge said.

“You know him?”

“I know Mrs. Lujan. Sit down. What is your name?”

Clete had not been prepared for Alridge’s response. “Tony Lujan’s old man is part owner of the casinos you front points for,” he said. “You’re in bed with some nasty guys, Mr. Alridge, so I thought you’d like to get an update on their everyday lives.”

“Who are you?”

“Clete Purcel. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a hole in my shoulder a guy named Lefty Raguza put there. He also poured acid all over my car early this morning. He works for Whitey Bruxal. You and Whitey pretty tight?”

But Alridge seemed to take no notice of the implication in Clete’s question. He pushed a chair out for Clete, then took one for himself. “You have to start over, sir. Tony Lujan was murdered?”

“You don’t watch the news?”

“No, most of the time I don’t. Who did you say killed him?”

“The Lujan kid had a beef with some gangbangers. But what happened later is a matter of debate. Maybe the larger case involves Whitey Bruxal and the Feds. I thought you might have some feedback on that.”

Alridge rested his forehead on his hand, obviously bereaved, his composure lost. Then his eyes climbed up into Clete’s face. “And you think Tony Lujan’s death has something to do with me?”

“You tell me.”

“You can’t begin to comprehend how offensive you are.”

Now it was Clete who felt undone. The pain and the level of insult in Alridge’s face were real. Clete tried to hold his eyes on Alridge’s but felt himself blink. “Whitey Bruxal gave the orders to blow the head off an armored truck guard. The word is you’re backing his play here in Louisiana, so-”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. You deal with your own demons, Mr. Purcel. I have to call Mrs. Lujan,” Alridge said.

He rose from his chair, seeming to tower over Clete. Then he hesitated, his face fraught with concern. “Are you all right to drive?” he said.

“Am I all-”

Alridge gestured to the bartender. “Call a cab for this gentleman, will you, Harold?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Alridge,” the bartender replied.

“You hold on, bub,” Clete said, getting to his feet.

Alridge touched him gently on the shoulder. “You did what you thought you had to do, Mr. Purcel. Rest here a little bit and have a cup of coffee. I’m happy to have met you.”

Clete searched for a dignified response but could think of none. He watched Colin Alridge walk out of the room. His hands felt thick and stiff and useless on top of the linen-covered table. His face was dilated like a balloon, his ears ringing in the quiet, his mouth bitter with the aftertaste of midafternoon whiskey. He wondered if the role of public fool came in incremental fashion with age, or if you simply crossed a line one day and found yourself in a room full of echoes that sounded almost like laughter.