The Neon Rain (Dave Robicheaux 1)

I had to look away from his face.

"It's between Purcel and other people, Captain. I didn't deal the play out there," I said.

"I'm sorry to see you take that position, Dave." He opened his palm and dropped his pencil on the top of his desk blotter. "I'll make one other suggestion before you go. Take Purcel with you to some meetings. Also, if you're going to cover for a partner who's going out of control, you'd damn well better be able to take the consequences."

It wasn't the best of all possible mornings.

A half hour later the phone in our office rang.

"Guess who," the voice said.

"The Howdy Doody Show."

"Guess what I'm doing."

"I'm not interested."

"I'm looking at the photographic art on the front page of the Picayune," Fitzpatrick said. "I underestimated your flair for the dramatic. These are the kinds of pictures we used to see in The Police Gazette—grainy black and white stuff, car doors thrown open, bodies hanging out on the street, pools of black blood on the seats. Congratulations, you greased the one solid connection we had."

"If you want to get on my case this morning, you'll have to stand in line. As far as I'm concerned, your meter is already on overtime. In fact—"

"Shut up, Lieutenant."

"What did you say?"

"You heard me. I'm mad as hell right now. You've done a lot of damage."

"You weren't out there, bud."

"I didn't have to be. I had a real strong tingle down in the genitals that it might go like this, and you didn't disappoint me."

"You want to explain that?"

"I'm not sure you can handle it. I thought you were a bright guy. Instead, it doesn't look like you can put one foot after another without somebody painting Arthur Murray dance steps on the floor for you."

I didn't answer. My hand was clenched on the telephone receiver and starting to perspire. Clete was looking curiously at my face.

"Are you where you can talk?" Fitzpatrick said.

"I'm in my office."

"Who's there with you?"

"My partner, Purcel." ;

"Yeah, sure you can talk," he said irritably. "I'll pick you up in front of the Acme Oyster Bar on Iberville in ten minutes. I'll be driving a blue Plymouth rental."

"I don't think so."

"You either be there or I'll come up to your houseboat tonight and knock out your goddamn teeth. That's a personal promise."

I waited ten minutes for him in front of the Acme, then went inside and bought a Dr Pepper in a cup of crushed ice with a sliced lime and drank it outside in the sunlight. I could see the spires of St. Louis Cathedral, where I sometimes went to Mass, shining in the clear morning air. By the time Fitzpatrick drew up to the curb, my anger had subsided to the point that I was no longer going to pull him out of his automobile by his necktie. But when I sat down in the passenger's seat I did reach across and turn off his ignition.

"Before we go anywhere, let's sort out a couple of things," I said. "I don't think you've paid enough dues to be telling people to shut up or making threats to them over the phone. But if you think you're a serious rock-and-roller, we can go over to the Y and slip on the gloves and see what develops."

He nodded and clicked his fingernails indifferently on the steering wheel.

"Don't worry, they've got a first-aid man there in case you're a bleeder," I said.