The Neon Rain (Dave Robicheaux 1)

"Oh, yes you do. I'm the guy you never thought you'd see, just a vague figure in your mind you could laugh about getting snuffed. I've sort of showed up like a bad dream, haven't I?"

"I got nothing against you," he said. "I run a legal business. I don't cause you guys trouble."

"But I'm sitting here on your desk now. It's like waking up with a vulture on your bedpost, isn't it?"

"What are you going to do? Trash the place, knock me around? Big fucking deal."

I took out my five-inch, single-blade Puma pocket knife and opened it. The blade could fillet bass like a barber's razor. It trembled with light.

"Jesus Christ, man, what are you doing?" he said.

I picked up his cigar from the ashtray, sliced off the burning end on the desktop, and put the still-warm stub in Potts' shirt pocket.

"You can smoke the rest of that later," I said.

"What the fuck! Are you crazy, man?" he said. His face had gone white. He swallowed and stared at me, his eyes full of fear and confusion.

"You know who Didi Gee is, don't you?"

"Sure, everybody does. Why you ask about—"

"What's he do?"

"What d'you mean?"

"What's he do? Tell me now."

"Everything. Whores, numbers, unions, y'all know that."

"We're going to have lunch with him and I'm going to tell him what you told me."

"What?"

"He has lunch in Jimmie the Gent's restaurant every Tuesday at two o'clock. You and I are going to sit at the next table and have a chat with the fat boy himself. Believe me, he'll find you an entertaining guy."

"I ain't going."

"Yes you are. You're under arrest."

"What for? I didn't do anything," he said desperately.

"You said something about cash. That sounded like an attempted bribe to me."

His eyes flicked back and forth frantically. Pinpoints of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"I said 'trash.' I said 'trash the place.'"

"I'm hard of hearing. Anyway, I'll think about it on the way over to the restaurant. Do you believe that story about Didi Gee's aquarium, the one full of piranha? I heard he held a Teamster's hand in it for a full minute. Maybe that's just another one of those bullshit Mafia stories, though. Put your hands out in front of you, I'm going to cuff you. You can carry your coat across your wrists if it embarrasses you."

"I don't rattle. You're running a game on me."

"You dealt the hand, Wes. Play it out. But right now you put your wrists in front of you or I'm going to break open your fucking worthless face."

He was breathing loudly now, his hands clenched in fists on the desk blotter.

"Listen, Lieutenant, I heard the other guys say something. Lot of times they're just blowing gas. It don't necessarily mean anything. I didn't hear it from Mr. Segura. You understand that? It didn't come from Mr. Segura. It's just street talk, a bunch of guys' bullshit."