Dixie City Jam (Dave Robicheaux 7)

'He's a good kid. I hope he does all right here, Tommy.'

'I'm a bad influence?'

'He shouldn't be going up against pros.'

'He got in the ring with that white kid, the one with the dragon tattooed on his belly?'

'Yes.'

'No kidding? That's not bad for a kid whose mother was probably knocked up by a marshmallow.'

'You know how to say it, Tommy.'

'Step into my office,' he answered, smiling. 'I want to talk.'

'I'm on my way out of town.'

'I'll buy you a beer. You want a pastrami sandwich? I got your pastrami sandwich. Forget about the other night. I had too much to drink. Come on, don't be a hard-ass.'

'What's on your mind?'

'On my mind? Somebody hurts your wife, and the next thing I know you're beating up people in my fucking driveway. Hey, it's all right. The Caluccis are scum. I just want to talk.'

I went inside his glassed-in office and sat down in front of his desk. The walls were covered with old prizefight posters and newspaper clippings about fighters that Lonighan had owned or managed. Above a shelf filled with boxing trophies was an autographed photograph of President Reagan, with two crossed American flags tucked behind the frame.

'How did you kno

w about my wife, Tommy?' I said.

'Because Clete Purcel's been all over town, threatening to jam a chain saw up the butt of anybody with information who doesn't pass it on.' He took a long-necked bottle of beer out of a cooler by his feet, wiped off the ice, set the cap on the edge of his desk, and popped it off with the heel of his hand. He offered it to me.

'No, thanks.'

He poured it into a schooner, took a deep drink, and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his wrist.

'Let me cut to it, Tommy,' I said. 'You're right, a man came to our house and harmed my wife. It was right after you tried to discourage me from working for Hippo Bimstine.'

'I got a hard time believing this, Dave. You think that's how I operate, I got to send degenerates around to hurt the wives of people I respect?'

'You tell me.' I looked directly into his eyes. The cast in them reminded me of light trapped inside blue water. They remained locked on mine, as though wheels were turning over in his brain. Then he looked out the window with a self-amused expression on his face and picked up a sandwich from a paper plate in front of him.

'Is there a private joke you want to share with me, Tommy?'

'Dave, you insulted me at your table, in front of people, then you beat the shit out of a guy with a shovel in my driveway. Then you come to my place of business and tell me I'm sending perverts over to New Iberia to bother your family. What did I do to deserve this? I offered you a fucking business situation. You don't see the humor in that?'

'I remember a line a journalist for The Picayune used about you once, Tommy. I never forgot it.'

'Yeah?'

'You're a mean man in a knife fight.'

'Oh yeah, I always liked that one.' He leaned forward on his elbows. His curly white hair hung across his forehead. 'I want that fucking sub. Anything the mockie's paying you, I'll double.'

'See you around, Tommy.'

'I don't get you. You act like I got jock odor or something. But it doesn't bother you to do business with a fanatic who gets people fired from their jobs.'

'I don't follow you.'