"Because even though I was born and grew up in New Orleans, I'm tired of people dumping on me, and nickel-and-dime legal farts trying to make a name by cutting off my cock."
His voice had intensified suddenly, like heat building down in a furnace system, and the others at the table stopped talking and moved their knives and forks softly in their plates.
"I'm not sure what we're talking about," I said.
"I got subpoenaed by the grand jury. Me and some people I'm associated with."
"I didn't know that."
"Businesses I run for thirty years somehow start bothering some people. Their little noses start twitching like there's a bad smell in the air. I'm talking about people that were at my children's baptisms, that always come around at election time for donations. Suddenly I'm like some kind of disease."
"You're a professional, Didi. It comes with the geography."
"They're serious this time. I got it straight from the prosecutor's office. They want me in Angola."
"Like you said, maybe it's time to retire."
"They're not cutting no deals on this one. That means I'm gonna have to break my own rules. I'm gonna have to do some stuff I don't like." His dark eyes were flecked with black electricity.
"I guess I'm not following you."
And I didn't want to follow him, either. The conversation had already grown old. I didn't care about his troubles with the grand jury, and his vague reference to violating his own ethical system seemed at the time like another manif
estation of the self-inflated grandiosity that was characteristic of his kind.
"You're right. It's personal," he said. His glare went from me to the men around the table. They started eating and talking again. "You want this guy Philip Murphy?"
I tapped my fingers on my water glass and looked away from his face.
"No games, partner," I said.
"You think I play games? A guy that run Orleans and half of St. Bernard Parish when you were a schoolboy? You think I brought you out here for games?"
"How is it you have a string on this guy?"
"He's an addict. An addict's one day away anytime you want him. This guy used to be a joy-popper. Now he's a two-balloon-a-day regular. You want him, try this restaurant." He dropped a matchbook on the tablecloth. On the cover was a palm tree and the words gulf shores, fine food, biloxi, Mississippi. "His connection's the guy that runs the valet parking."
"What do you care about Philip Murphy, Didi?"
"I got my reasons, a bunch of them maybe."
"He plays in a different ballpark. He's not a competitor."
"He's screwing up some things over in Fort Lauderdale. There's some people there want him out of the way."
"I know this guy. He's not your crowd."
"That's right, he ain't. But he messes with it. What you don't understand is south Florida's not New Orleans. Miami and Fort Lauderdale are open cities. Nobody's got a lock on the action, nobody gets cowboyed down there. Everybody always respected that. Now there's coloreds, Cubans, and Colombians in everything. They're fucking animals. They'll cowboy you for fifty bucks, they kill each other's children. Then guys like Murphy come around and make political deals with them—plots against Castro or some bullshit down in Central America. People that's cannibals, that was born in a chicken yard, end up working for the government. In the meantime, guys like me are in front of a grand jury."
I picked up the matchbook and put it in my shirt pocket.
"Thanks for the information, Didi. I hope things turn out better for you over at Baylor," I said.
"You ain't eat your lunch. You don't like Italian food?"
"You know how us old-time boozers are, scarred stomach and all that."
"Maybe you don't like eating as my guest, huh?"