James Burke - Pegasus Descending

“Yeah?” he replied, sitting down in a chair upholstered in red velvet.

Through the front window I could see the driveway, a big live oak in the yard, and the four-lane highway that led to Opelousas. “The Iberia Parish D.A. is an ambitious guy. He wants to wrap up Tony Lujan’s homicide and maybe make a lot of black voters happy at the same time. Get my drift?”

“No, I don’t get your drift.”

“Monarch Little skates. Your boy takes the bounce. I don’t know if Lonnie is going to ask for the needle or not.”

“Say that again.”

“Lonnie Marceaux wants to be governor or a United States senator. He’s not going to get there by convicting a black dirtbag nobody cares about. Lonnie wants to screw you, Mr. Bruxal. By screwing you, he can also bring down Colin Alridge. That will buy him the national attention he needs.”

“Call me Whitey. Slim didn’t kill Tony. Tony was his friend. Where you get off with this?”

“Tony was going to give up Slim on the hit-and-run death of the homeless man. There’s another theory about Slim’s motivation as well.”

“Theories are like skid marks on the bowl. Everybody’s got them. I think you’re here to squeeze my balls.”

I glanced out the window at the highway, then grinned at him. “You’re not going to own anything to squeeze, Whitey,” I said.

For the first time his brow wrinkled.

“The Feds have you and Bellerophon Lujan on racketeering charges. Lonnie wants a piece of you, too. That’s where your son comes in,” I said. “Second in line does the time. From Lonnie’s perspective, your ass is grass.”

“You saying Bello is rolling over on me?”

“I’m saying it’s a done deal. Come on, you’re a smart man. Bello ’s a coonass, born and bred in South Louisiana. You’re from Brooklyn. People here think New York is a place where homosexuals go to get married and every other woman has an abortion.”

“Why you keep looking out the window?”

I ignored his question. “This is the short version. They’re about to freeze your assets. As you probably know, a RICO conviction will allow the Feds to seize everything you own. In the meantime, you’ve got other issues and other enemies to deal with.”

“Issues? I don’t like that word. Everybody is always talking about issues.” Then, paradoxically, he said, “What issues? What enemies?”

He saw me looking out the window again, this time at a vintage Cadillac convertible with a fresh pink paint job coming up the driveway from the four-lane. “Who’s that guy?” he said.

“He does scut work for us. I told him I’d be here. You mind?”

“What’s his name?”

“Clete Purcel.”

“That fat guy is Purcel? Yeah, I do mind. His squeeze is this Trish Klein broad. What are you guys working here?”

I got up and opened the side door to the terrace. “Hey, Cletus, over here,” I said.

“Hey, you answer my question,” Whitey said.

But again I didn’t reply. Clete walked through the dappled shade of the live oak, his face affable and handsome behind his yellow-tinted aviator’s glasses. I could feel the air-conditioned coolness from the living room rushing past me into the heat and humidity of the afternoon.

“Hey, how’s it hangin’?” he said to Whitey as he came through the door, uninvited.

But I had underestimated Whitey. He might have been a creature of his times, his psychological makeup as hard as the concrete he grew up on, but he was nevertheless capable of mustering a level of dignity, even if it was feigned, that men of his background seldom possess.

“It’s lunchtime and I was going to ask Mr. Robicheaux to join me,” he said. “Because you’re his friend, you’re welcome, too. But this is still my home, the place where my family lives. Any guest in my house has to respect that.”

“You got it, Whitey. But I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your employee Lefty Raguza. He’s not a family-type guy,” Clete said.

“What might have happened outside this house has no application inside it, you follow? You want to eat, there’s a spread laid out for us in the dining room. You want to act rude, it’s time for you to go,” Whitey said.

“Here’s a story for you,” Clete said. “We’ve got a congressman here who was asked to describe Louisiana on CNN. He goes, ‘Half of it is underwater and half of it is under indictment.’ Right now, in your case, that means you’re anybody’s hump. Forget the lunch. Let’s talk business.”

“What business I got with you?”

“The word is your kid’s a closet bone smoker. The Iberia D.A. has got the handle he needs to jam him and you both. Dave didn’t tell you?”

The transformation that took place in Whitey’s face was like none I had ever seen in another person. The eyes didn’t blink or narrow; the color in them did not brighten with anger or haze over with hidden thoughts. The jawbone never pulsed against the cheek. Instead, his expression seemed to take on the emotionless solidity of carved wood, with eyes as dull and cavernous as buckshot. I believe I could have scratched a match alight on his face and he wouldn’t have blinked.

“What’d you call my boy?” he asked.

Clete pressed the palm of his hand against his chest. “I didn’t call him anything. That’s his rep in a couple of drag joints in Lafayette. I thought you and Dave had talked. The D.A. thinks the Lujan kid came on to your son and your son blew up his shit. The point is when piranhas smell blood, they clean the cow to the bone. You want your casino interests let alone? Maybe I can make that happen. I’m getting through to you, here?”

“Yeah, you’re both working with this twat Trish Klein,” Whitey said.

Clete looked at me. “You heard the man, Streak. I told you it was a waste of time. Hey, Whitey, this isn’t Miami. Louisiana is a fresh-air mental asylum. Dave knocked a tooth out of the D.A.’s mouth and he’s still got his shield. What does that tell you? You think we’re here to shake you down for chump change? While you’re in the slams, what do you think Bello Lujan is going to be doing-protecting your assets till you get out? He’ll turn your pad into a cathouse and your horses into canned dog food.”

We left Whitey standing in his living room. Outside, as we crossed the thick, carpetlike texture of his St. Augustine grass, I heard the red Morgan running in the pasture. Her neck and flanks were dark with sweat, her mouth strung with wisps of saliva. She clattered against a rail and I would have sworn she nickered at me.

Clete got in his Caddy and headed down the driveway. Just as I started my engine, I saw Whitey come out the front door.

“Hey, Robicheaux, wait up,” he called.

I rolled down the window. “What?” I said.

“What he said about my boy?”

“Yeah?”

“People are saying that, or your friend was just working my crank?”

“Your kid has problems. Homosexuality is probably the least of them.”

“You got a kid?”

“An adopted daughter.”

“How would you like it if somebody talked about her like you talk about my boy? How would you like it if my lawyers came after you through your family?”

“We’re not like you, Whitey. Dallas Klein’s blood is on your soul. On the day you die, I believe his specter will stand by your bedside. Nothing you do from now until then will change that fact. Your son is a monster. I have a feeling you know it, too.”

For a moment I saw a look in Whitey’s eyes that made me believe there are some people who are truly damned. Then the moment passed and he squinted into the haze and pinched the humidity out of his eyes. “I went to school under the Catholic nuns,” he said. “They taught us after we pissed not to shake off more than two times. Know what we did? We all ran down to the john and shook it off three times to see what would happen. Good try, Robicheaux, but you and your friend belong here. Like you say, it’s a place for jerk-offs.”