“It must have fallen off the shelf,” I said, my skin flexing against my skull. I started to replace the photograph in the dust-free spot at the end of the shelf. But she dropped her cane to the floor, limped forward off balance, pulled the photo from my hand, and hurled the glass of water in my face.
At the front door I looked back at her, blotted the water out of my eyes on my sleeve, and started to say something, to leave a statement hovering in the air that would somehow redeem the moment; an apology for deceiving her, or perhaps even a verbal thorn because she'd both disturbed and bested me. But it was one of those times when you have to release others and yourself to our shared failure and inadequacy and not pretend that language can heal either.
I knew why the shame and anger burned in her eyes. I believe it had little to do with me. In a flowing calligraphy at the bottom of the photo he had written, “This was taken in some God-forsaken place whose name, fortunately, I forget—Always, Moleen.” I wondered what a plantation black woman must feel when she realizes that her white lover, grandiose in his rhetoric, lacks the decency or integrity or courage or whatever quality it takes to write her name and personalize the photo he gives her.
i o 6
Chapter 12
CALLED ME from his office the next day.
“I'll buy you dinner in Morgan City after work,” he said.
“What are you up to, Clete?”
“I'm taking a day off from the colostomy bags. It's not a plot. Come on down and eat some crabs.”
“Is Johnny Carp involved in this?”
“I know a couple of guys who used to mule dope out of Panama and Belize. They told me some interesting stuff about fuckhead.”
“Who?”
“Marsallus. I don't want to tell you over the phone. There're clicking sounds on my line sometimes.”
“You're tapped?”
“Remember when we had to smoke that greaser and his bodyguard in t
he back of their car? I know IAD had a tap on me then. Sounds just like it. You coming down?”
“Clete-”
“Lighten up.”
He told me the name of the restaurant.
It was on the far side of Morgan City, just off the highway by a boat basin lined with docks, boat slips, and tin-roofed sheds that extended out over the water. Clete was at a linen-covered table set with flowers by the window. On the horizon you could see rain falling out of the sunlight like a cloud of purple smoke. He had a small pitcher of draft beer and an ice-filmed schooner and plate of stuffed mushrooms in front of him. His face was glowing with alcohol and a fresh sunburn. “Dig in, noble mon. I've got some fried soft-shells on the way,” he said. “What's the gen on Sonny?” I left my coat on to cover my .45. “Oh, yeah,” he said, as though he had forgotten the reason for our meeting. “These two mules, I know them because they're bondsmen now and handle a lot of the pukes dealing crack in the St. Bernard where I run down about three skips a week. They were flying reefer and coke out of Belize, which was some kind of stop-off place for a whole bunch of runs going in and out of Colombia and Panama. These guys say there were a lot of weird connections down there, CIA, military people, maybe some guys hooked into the White House. Anyway, they knew as swipe and say everybody had him made for DEA.”
“
”Asswipe' is Sonny Boy?“ His eyes fluttered. ”No, I'm talking about a Maryknoll missionary. Come on, Dave, stop letting this guy job you. His parents should have been sterilized or given a lifetime supply of industrial-strength rubbers.“
”You buy what these bondsmen say?“
”Not really. Marsallus never finished high school. The DEA hires college graduates, Notre Dame jocks with brains, not street mutts with tattoos and rap sheets.“
”Then why'd you have me come down here?“ I asked. But even as his eyes were drifting toward the door of the restaurant, I already knew the answer. John Polycarp Giacano had just come through the carpeted foyer, a raincoat draped on his shoulders as a movie actor might wear it. He was talking to a man behind him whom I couldn't see.
”Wait in the car. It's all right,“ he said, his palms raised in a placating way. ”Fix yourself a drink. Then we'll catch some more fish.“
He slipped his coat off his shoulders and handed it to a waitress to hang up, never speaking, as though his intention should automatically be understood. He wore white boating shoes, pleated slacks that were the color of French vanilla ice cream, and a navy blue tropical shirt that was ablaze with big red flowers. He walked toward us, smiling, his close-set eyes, thick brows, nose, and mouth all gathered together like a facial caricature in the center of a cake.
”You shouldn't have done this, Clete,“ I said.
”It's got to be cleared up, Streak. Patsy Dap listens to only one man.
Just let me do the talking and everything's going to be cool.“