James Burke - Pegasus Descending

“You don’t have the right to talk about him like that,” I said.

“You still don’t get it, do you? I work with a few people who aren’t as charitable as I am. They wouldn’t be totally unhappy if Whitey decided to have your friend clipped. Of if Whitey decided to put up a kite on an Iberia Parish detective who’s known for his hostility toward the Bureau.”

“You’re a rough bunch.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said.

Then I saw a look in her face that every veteran police officer recognizes. It was the look of a cop out of sync with her peers, her supervisors, and the political and bureaucratic obligations that had been dropped on her. There may be room in government service for the altruist and the iconoclast, but I have yet to see one who was not treated as an oddity at best and at worst an object of suspicion and fear.

“I talked with Monarch Little last night,” I said. “He admitted he called Tony Lujan and tried to shake him down just before Tony was killed. They were supposed to meet out by the Boom Boom Room, but Monarch claims he decided not to go.”

“So?” she said.

“I believe him. I think Monarch is an innocent man.”

She bit off a piece of her thumbnail and looked down the street. “Who do you think did it?”

“Right now I’d bet money on Slim Bruxal.”

“Could be,” she said. “Tell Purcel to keep his wick dry and stay away from casinos. One other thing-”

“I don’t know if I can handle it.”

“I talked to the sheriff before I came over here. She seems to be very protective toward you. I’d thank my stars I had a boss like that.”

I decided not to comment on her ongoing inventory of my personal life. I wrote my cell number on a slip of paper and handed it to her. “Call me with anything you get on Trish Klein. I’ll do the same,” I said.

“I hope you’re telling me the truth.”

“I don’t want to offend you, but I think you should give some serious thought to the way you talk to other people, Agent Mossbacher.”

“No shit?” she replied.

After she stuck my number in her shirt pocket, she backed into my garbage can and mashed it between her bumper and an oak tree. “Oh jeez, I can’t believe I did this again,” she said, twisting the steering wheel, bouncing over the curb in a shuddering scrape of steel against concrete.

I was convinced they grew them special in Chugwater, Wyoming.

ON SUNDAY, Molly and I went to Mass at the university chapel in Lafayette, then ate deep-fried crawfish at Foti’s in St. Martinville and took an airboat ride on Lake Martin. It was a wonderful afternoon. The lake was wide, the water high from the storm, the shoreline bordered with flooded cypress and willow trees whose leaves riffled in the breeze. Strapped into the elevated seats on the airboat, roaring across the lily pads, ear protectors clamped down on our heads, we had an extraordinary view of the Edenic loveliness that at one time characterized all of Louisiana. Each time the airboat tilted into a turn or swerved across a slough that was little more than wet sand, Molly hugged my arm like a teenage girl on a carnival ride.

But I couldn’t get my mind off my conversation with Betsy Mossbacher. Obviously she had learned through a phone tap that Whitey Bruxal believed he was about to be taken down by the daughter of a man he had ordered killed. It was probably true he had ice water in his veins; indeed, he had probably been respected for his intelligence and mathematical talents by Meyer Lansky, the financial wizard of the Mob. But I believed that Whitey, like his mentors in Brooklyn and Miami, was driven by avarice, and like any man addicted to the love of money, his greatest and most abiding fear was not the loss of his life or even his soul.

“What are you thinking about?” Molly asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

We were walking from the airboat landing to her car. The sun hung just above a line of willow trees on the far side of the lake, and a long, segmented line of black geese wended its way across it. Molly took my hand in hers. “You still thinking about that incident the other night?” she said.

“A little bit.”

“You took Communion, didn’t you?”

“I was drunk when my friend Dallas Klein died. If I hadn’t been drinking, I could have taken a couple of those guys out.”

“Let the past go, Dave.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“What doesn’t?”

“We’re the sum total of what we’ve done and where we’ve been. I still see Dallas ’s face in my sleep. It’s no accident Whitey Bruxal ended up here,” I replied.

I saw a look of sadness come into her eyes that I would have cut off my fingers to remove.

I should have been happy with all the gifts I had. Actually, I was, more than I can describe. But I had figured out a way to pay back Whitey Bruxal for Opa-Locka, Florida, and the slate was about to get wiped clean, one way or another.

THE BRUXAL HOME looked like it had been airlifted from Boca Raton and dropped from a high altitude onto a rolling stretch of white-railed horse country fifteen miles north of Lafayette. It was three stories, built in a staggered fashion of pink stucco, with a tile roof and heavy oak doors and scrolled-iron balconies. In the side yard was a turquoise pool surrounded by banana trees, trellises heavy with trumpet vine, potted palms, and the overhang of giant live oaks. Immaculate automobiles that could not have cost less than seventy thousand dollars were parked in the driveway and the porte cochere, almost as though they had been posed for a photographic display demonstrating the munificence of a free-market system that was available to rich and poor alike.

Beyond the barn a red Morgan, a mare, galloped in a field. I thought of the winged horse emblazoned on the T-shirt worn by Yvonne Darbonne the day she died. I thought of her young life destroyed by rape at the hands of Bellerophon Lujan, and I thought of the boys who had gangbanged her in a fraternity house when she was stoned, and I thought of the innocent people all over the world who suffer because of the greed and selfishness of the few.

These were not good thoughts to entertain as I pulled an unmarked departmental car next to the SUV Slim Bruxal had driven the afternoon he busted up Monarch Little at the McDonald’s on East Main in New Iberia.

I had called Whitey earlier, at his office, and had asked to see him. Most criminals of his background would have hung up or told me to talk to their attorney. But Whitey was an intelligent man and had done the unexpected, inviting me to his home at lunchtime. If I was to have any degree of success with him, I needed to empty my mind of all residual anger about him and his friends, even my conviction that they had murdered Dallas Klein, and concentrate on one objective only, and that was to leave in Whitey’s head a tangle of snakes that would eat him alive.

When he opened the door, he stepped out on the porch and looked in the yard, virtually ignoring my presence. “You seen the gardener?”

“No,” I said blankly.

“That’s all right. Come on in. I got this new gardener. He chopped up the hose in the lawn mower. What are you gonna do? People don’t want to work for a living anymore.”

I had to hand it to him. Dressed in white slacks and a black short-sleeved shirt with a silver monogram on the pocket, his white hair clipped and neatly combed, he was the image of an athletic, self-confident man in his prime. The fact I had stomped the shit out of his right-hand man seemed inconsequential to him. He hit me on the shoulder and told me to come into the living room with him.

“So what’s on your mind?” he said, walking ahead of me.

“I’ve got a dilemma,” I said.