'Sometimes it's better to use visual aids when you're talking to the Calucci brothers,' I said.
'Fucking A,' Tommy said. 'Neither one of those dagos could give himself a hand job without a diagram. But when you got to do business with the oilcans, you got to do business with the oilcans, right?'
'What kind of deals do you have with the Caluccis, Tommy?' I said.
'Are you kidding? Restaurant linen, valet parking, food delivery, carpenters and electricians working on my casino, you deal with the greaseballs or you get a picket line in front of everything you own.'
His house servant came out the back door with a huge, rope-handled wood tray between his hands and began setting silver-topped containers of scrambled eggs, grits, sausage links, bacon, and peeled oranges and grapefruit in front of us. The servant was the same enormous man I had seen on my earlier visit. His Indian face was as expressionless and flat as a cake pan, his brown, skillet-sized hands veined with scar tissue like tiny bits of white string.
'You're staring, Mr. Robicheaux,' Charlotte said.
'Excuse me?'
'At Manuel. It's rude to stare at people,' she said.
'He didn't mean anything,' Tommy said. 'Dave's a gentleman. He's got a college degree. In English literature, right, Dave? We're talking fucking class guy here.'
He winked at me as he spread his napkin.
The house servant named Manuel brushed against me when he poured my coffee. I could smell chemical fertilizer and garden dirt in his clothes. He never spoke, but after he went back inside the house, I saw his face look back at me from a kitchen window.
'Dig this,' Tommy said. 'Manny looks like he just got up out of a grave in Night of the Living Dead, but actually he's a fruit. He's gonna be in a music video called 'She's a Swinging Stud.' Hey, y'all quit looking at me like that. You think I could make up something like that? They show these kinds of videos in those homo joints on Dauphine.'
'Your mother was in the American-German Bund, Tommy,' I said.
'What?' His
face looked as though ice water had been poured on it.
'I guess it's common knowledge in the Channel. That's why you know what's in that sub, isn't it, partner?' I smiled at him.
'You're sitting at my breakfast table…' He cleared his throat and tried to regain his words. 'Right here at my table, at my own house, you're making insults about my mother?'
'That's not my intention.'
'Then clean the fucking mashed potatoes out of your mouth.'
The woman named Charlotte put her hand in his lap.
'It's one way or the other, Tommy,' I said.
'What is?'
'You either know something about the sub through your mother, or you've got a serious personal problem with Hippo Bimstine that you're not talking about.'
His tangled, white eyebrows were damp with perspiration against his red face. I saw the woman named Charlotte biting her lip, kneading her hand in his lap.
'What problem you talking about?' he said.
'You want it right down the pipe?'
'Yeah, I do.' But his face looked like stretched rubber, like that of a man about to receive a spear through the breastbone.
'He says you killed his little brother.'
His breath went in and out of his mouth. His eyes looked unfocused, impaired, as though he had been staring at a welder's electric arc. He pinched his nose and breathed hard through his nostrils, rolled his head on his neck.
But it was the woman who spoke.