The Neon Rain (Dave Robicheaux 1)

"Okay, you've made your point."

"You're not too big on hanging tough, are you?"

"I wanted you out of your office. If you'll notice your present geography, you're sitting in my automobile and not a

t the First District. Is it all right if I start the car now?"

"I think you federal guys just have to do everything with three-cushion shots. Wouldn't it be easier for you and me to go into Captain Guidry's office and talk about this stuff in a reasonable way? We don't want guys like Philip Murphy and his trained psychopaths running around New Orleans any more than you do. The captain's a good man. He'll help you if he can."

He started the engine and pulled into the traffic. The sunlight fell across his freckled face and candy-striped Arrow shirt.

"Is Purcel a good man?" he asked.

"He's got some problems, but he's working on them."

"You think he's clean?"

"As far as I know."

"Six weeks ago we had reason to be in a trick pad. His name was in the girl's book. He was a weekly banger. There was no entry about charge, either."

I took a deep breath.

"He's had marital trouble," I said.

"Come off it. We're talking about a compromised cop who started popping caps yesterday on a possible government witness. Which of you nailed Segura?"

"I did. He was trying to get out the door, and he raised up right in front of me."

"I'll bet one of Purcel's rounds was already in him. What did the autopsy say?"

"I don't know."

"Great."

"You're telling me Clete wanted to kill Segura?"

"It's a possibility."

"I don't buy it."

"You don't buy lots of things, Lieutenant. But there's people just like you in my bureau. That's why they're sending me back to Boston next week."

"You're off it?"

"I will be. I haven't made my case and there's other work waiting."

He looked across at me, and for the first time I felt a liking for him. Under all the invective he was a full nine-inning pitcher. We bought a bucket of fried shrimp and two cartons of dirty rice and ate it in a small, shady park off Napoleon Avenue. A bunch of black and white and Chicano kids were playing a workup game in front of an old chicken-wire backstop. They were rough, working-class boys and they played the game with a fierce physical courage and recklessness. The pitcher threw spitters and beanballs; the base runners broke up double plays with elbows and knees, and sanded their faces off in headlong slides; the catcher stole the ball out from under the batter's swing with his bare hand; and the third baseman played so far in on the grass that a line drive would tear his head off. I thought it no wonder that foreigners were awed by the innocent and naive nature of American aggressiveness.

"Does anything about elephants figure in all this?" I asked.

"Elephants? No, that's a new one. Where'd you get it?"

"I heard Lovelace Deshotels was giggling about elephants when Segura's people shot her up. I dropped it on Segura, and his face twitched like a plumber's helper."

"Well, we've got a second chance. I found her roommate, a Mexican girl from the same massage parlor, and she wants to stick it to all these bastards."

"Why is she talking to you instead of me?"