'And whose Johnson did we just jerk on? It can't hurt to have a talk with Tommy Bobalouba again, can it?'
'I thought he was part of your meal ticket.'
'Not anymore. I don't like the way he acted in front of Martina. You take an Irish street prick out of the Channel, put him in an eight-hundred-thou house by Lake Pontchartrain, and you've got an Irish street prick in an eight-hundred-thou house by Lake Pontchartrain. How about we have a little party?'
'I'm on leave, and I'm out of my jurisdiction.'
'Who cares? If the guy's clean, it's no big deal. If he's not, fuck that procedural stuff. We scramble his eggs.'
The cashier cut his eyes toward us, then turned the floor fan so that our conversation was blown out the open door, away from the other customers.
'Let me call home first,' I said.
'No argument?'
I shrugged my shoulders. He watched my face.
'How much sleep did you get last night?' he asked.
'Enough.'
'You could fool me.'
'You want to go out to Lonighan's or not?'
There was a pause in his eyes, a fine bead of light. He made a round button with his lips and scratched at his cheek with one fingernail.
Lonighan lived a short distance from the yacht club in an imitation Tudor mansion that had been built by a New Orleans beer baron during the 1920s. The grounds were surrounded by a high brick wall, at the front of which was a piked security gate, with heavy clumps of banana trees on each side of it, and a winding driveway that led past a screened-in pool and clay tennis courts that were scattered with leaves. We parked my truck, and Clete pushed the button on the speaker box by the gate.
'Who is it?' a voice said through the box.
'Clete Purcel. Is Tommy home?'
'He's over at his gym. You want to come back later or leave a message?'
'Who are all those people in the pool?'
'Some guests. Just leave a message, Clete. I'll give it to him.'
'When'll he be home?'
'He comes, he goes, what do I know? Just leave a fucking message, will you?'
'Here's the message, Art. I don't like talking to a box.'
'I'm sorry, I'll be down. Hey, Clete, I'm just the hired help, all right?'
A moment later the man named Art walked down the drive with a pair of hedge clippers i
n his hand. He was bare-chested and sweaty and wore grass-stained white shorts and sandals that flopped on his feet.
'Open up,' Clete said.
'You're putting me in a bad place, man. Why'd you have to get Tommy upset?'
'I didn't do anything to Tommy.'
'Tell that to him. Christ, Clete, you know what kind of guy he is. How you think he feels when a broad tells him off in public?'