James Burke - Dixie City Jam

'Two cops used the same words-"a big blond guy."'

'I'm going to fax y'all a composite. Would you send me everything you have on the Mervain case?'

'Sure. Look, there's one other thing. A couple of days after the death was ruled a suicide, the desk clerk called and said Mervain's coat was on the back of a chair in the lobby. He wanted to know what he should do with it.'

'Yes?'

'There was a napkin from a gay bar in one of the pockets. Mervain had written a note on it. Somebody stuck it in the case folder. I'll read it to you. "Schwert… Schwert… Schwert… His name is Schwert. I have become his fool and slave. I know he's out there now, flying in the howling storm. No one believes, I see no hope." Sounds kind of sad, doesn't it? You have any idea what it might mean?'

'What was Mervain's educational background?'

'Let's see… Bachelor's in liberal arts, a master's degree in administration of justice. Why?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Maybe we blew this one.'

'It's a big club. Thanks for your time, sir.'

Early the next morning I drove to New Orleans and, after going to the bail bonds office that fronted points for the Caluccis, I found Max at his mother's in an old residential neighborhood off Canal, not far from Mandina's restaurant. The house was late Victorian, with a wide gallery, a fresh coat of gray and white paint, and rose-bushes blooming all over the lawn.

The family was celebrating the birthday of a little boy and eating lunch on redwood picnic tables in the backyard. Balloons were tied to the trees and lawn furniture, and the tables were covered with platters of pasta and cream pastry, bowls of red sausage, beaded pitchers of lemonade and iced tea. Max Calucci sat in the midst of it all, in undershirt and slacks, the pads of hair on his brown shoulders as fine as a monkey's.

I had to hand it to him. His expression never changed when he saw me at the garden gate. He cut pieces of cake and handed them to the children, continued to tell a story in Italian to a fat woman in black and an elderly man on a thin walking cane, then excused himself, rubbed a little boy on the head, and walked toward me with a glass of lemonade in his hand.

'You got business with me?' he asked.

'If you've got business with Clete Purcel, I do.'

'He can't talk for himself?'

'You better hope he doesn't, Max.'

'Is this more hard guy stuff? You got your shovel with you?'

'Nope.'

His eyes were as black and liquid as wet paint.

'You got some kind of deal you want to cut? That why you're here?' he said.

'Maybe.'

He drank from his lemonade, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he pushed opened the short iron gate with his foot.

'It's a nice day, a special occasion. I got no bad feelings on a nice day like this. Eat a piece of cake,' he said.

'We can talk out here.'

'What, you too good to sit down at my nephew's birthday party?' he said.

I ate a custard-filled eclair in a sunny spot by the garden wall. The air was dry and warm, and the breeze blew through the banana trees along the wall and ruffled the water in an aboveground swimming pool. The guests around the tables were his relatives and family friends-working-class people who owned small grocery stores and cafés, carried hod, belonged to the plumbers' union, made the stations of the cross each Friday in Lent, ate and drank at every meal as though it were a pagan celebration, married once, and wore widow black with the commitment of nuns.

Max combed his hair back over his bald pate at the table, cleaned the comb with his fingers, then stuck the stub of a filter-tipped cigar in his mouth and motioned me toward a gazebo on the far side of the yard. The latticework was covered with purple trumpet vine; inside, the glass-topped table and white-painted iron chairs were deep in shadow, cold to the touch.

Max lit his cigar and let the smoke trail out of his mouth. His shoulders were brown and oily-looking against the white straps of his undershirt.

'Say it,' he said.

'I hear you and Bobo put out an open contract on Clete.'

'You get that from Lonighan?'

'Who cares where it came from?'

'Lonighan's a welsher and a bum.'

I leaned forward and rubbed my hands together.

'I'm worried about my friend, Max.'

'You should. He's got a radioactive brain or something.'

'I'm not here to defend what he does. I just want you guys to take the hit off him.'

'He's the victim? Have you seen my fucking car? It ain't a car no more. It's a block of concrete.'

'Come on, Max. You guys started it when you leaned on his girlfriend.'

'That's all past history. She paid the loan, she paid the back vig. All sins forgiven.'

'Here's the deal. You and Bobo tried to take out Nate Baxter. I think you probably did this without consent of the Commission. What if some reliable information ends up in their hands about a couple of guys in New Orleans trying to cowboy a police administrator?'

'That's what you got to work my crank with?' he said.

'Yeah, I guess so.'

'Then you got jack shit.'

'What's going to make you happy, Max?'

He smiled. I felt my pulse swelling in my throat; I rubbed the top of my knuckles with my palm. I kept my eyes flat and looked at the curtain of trumpet vine that puffed in the breeze.

'I want the two hundred large Tommy Lonighan owes me and Bobo,' he said. 'That fucking mick is gonna die and take the debt to the grave. You twist him right, we get our money, then I don't have no memory about troubles with Clete Purcel.'

'Big order, Max.'

'You know anything easy? Like they say, life's a bitch, then you get to be dead for a long time.'

The ash from his cigar blew on my slacks. I brushed it off, then put on my sunglasses and looked out into the sunlight.

'What, you sentimental about Lonighan or something?' he said.

'No.'

'That's good. Because he's been jobbing you. Him and Hippo Bimstine, both.'

'Oh?'

'That's a surprise? People like you rip me up, Robicheaux. You think Jews are martyrs, the Irish are fun guys singing "Rosie O'Grady" on the corner, and Italians are colostomy bags. Tell me I'm wrong.'

'You were going to say something about Tommy Blue Eyes?'

'Yeah, he got his fat mick mush full of booze and was laughing about how you trust Hippo Bimstine and think he's big shit because he's got all these liberal causes.'

'I see.'

'You see? I don't think you see shit. Lonighan says Hippo stole some stuff out of the public library about that Nazi sub so you wouldn't find out what's inside it.'

'No kidding?'

' Yeah , no fucking kidding.'

I leaned forward and picked at the calluses on my palm. The breeze was drowsy with the smell of chrysanthemums and dead birthday candles.

'You and I have something in common,' I said.

'I don't think so.'

'I went down on a murder beef once. Did you know that?'

'I'm supposed to be impressed?'

'Here's the trade, Max. Take the contract off Clete and I stay out of your life.'

'You ain't in my life.'

'Here's the rest of it.'

'I ain't interested,' he said. 'I tell you what. It's my nephew's birthday, you came out to my mother's house and showed respect, you didn't act like the drunk fuck everybody says you are. That means I'm letting all this stuff slide, and that includes what you done to me out at Lonighan's place. So you can tell dick-brain the score's even, he's getting a free pass he don't deserve, I got businesses to run and I don't have time for this shit. Are we clear on this now?'

'I hope you're a man of your word, Max.'

'Fuck you and get outta here.'

When I opened the gate and let myself out, I noticed a tangle of ornamental iron roses tack-welded in the center of the pikes. The cluster was uneven where one rose had been snapped loose from its base. I rubbed the ball of my thumb over the sharp edges of the broken stem and looked back at Max. His eyes had never left me. He rotated an unlit cigar in the center of his mouth.