Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)

”Shirley Jean,“

”Lawdy Miss Clawdy,“

”I Need Somebody Bad Tonight,“

”Mathilda,“

”Betty and Dupree,“ and ”I Got the Rockin'

Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie, Too.“ I hadn't realized I was staring. ”You like those songs?“ the boy said. ”Sure, you bet,“ I said. ”They're hard to beat.“

”We bought them over on the corner. It's great stuff,“ he said. ”I saw those guys. Cookie and the Cupcakes, Lloyd Price, Warren Storm. They used to play around here.“

They smiled and nodded, as though they were familiar with all those names, too, then tried to return to their own conversation without seeming impolite. I felt suddenly old and foolish. I wanted to drive back home, mark off the day, forget all the faces I had looked into, erase the seared voices that could have been those of William Blake's lost souls on Lower Thames Street. But I knew what I had to do. I was no longer a cop. My family was at risk as long as Johnny Carp thought I was a threat to one of his enterprises. I had told Moleen pride was a pile of shit. I wondered how good I would be at accepting my own admonition. I walked back toward Esplanade, got in my truck, and headed up the entrance ramp to I-io and Jefferson Parish. I thought I saw a chartreuse Cadillac convertible in my rearview mirror; then it disappeared in a swirl of rain. The Giacano family had successfully controlled New Orleans for many reasons, one of which was the fact that they loved the appearance of normalcy and lived in upper-middle-class homes that didn't draw attention to their wealth. Johnny's limo stayed in a garage downtown; when he drove home from work, it was in his Lincoln. Johnny knew if there was one emotion that could overcome fear-which he instilled in his enemies with regularity-it was envy.

When whites began to flee New Orleans for Jefferson Parish and Metairie, the political base of David Duke, Johnny went with them. He joined any club he could buy his way into, pushed a basket around in the supermarket on Saturday mornings, played softball in the neighborhood park, and on Saturday nights threw huge dinners, where the tables with checkered cloths groaned with platters of pasta, sausage, meatballs, and baked lasagna, at a working-class Italian restaurant by the lake. It was a strange evening. The rain was blowing harder now, and the swells in the lake were dark green and dimpled with rain, the causeway haloed with mist and electric lights all the way across the water to Covington, but the late sun had broken free of the clouds on the horizon and filled the western sky with a red glow like flames inside oil smoke. It was a happy, crowded place, with wide verandas and high windows, private banquet rooms, a long railed bar, potted palms and plush maroon sofas by the cash register. I took off my seersucker coat in the men's room, dried my hair and face with paper towels, straightened my tie, tried to brush the powdered sugar from the Cafe du Monde off my charcoal shirt, then combed my hair and looked in the mirror. I didn't want to go back outside; I didn't want to say the words I would have to say. I had to look away from my own reflection.

Johnny was entertaining in a back room, with lacquered pine paneling and windows that gave onto the lake and the lighted sailboats that rocked in the swells. He was at the bar, in fine form, dressed in tailored, pegged gray slacks, tasseled loafers, plum-colored socks, a bright yellow dres

s shirt with bloodred cuff links as big as cherries.

His mar celled hair gleamed like liquid plastic, his teeth were pink with wine. The hood at the door was in a jovial mood, too, and when I said, ”I got no piece, I got no shield, Max,“ he smiled and answered, ”I know that, Mr. Robicheaux. Johnny seen you outside. He wants you come on in and have a good time.“

I ordered a Dr. Pepper and drank it five feet from where Johnny was holding a conversation with a half dozen people. My presence never registered in his face while he grinned and beamed and told a joke, rocking on the balls of his feet, his lips pursed as he neared the conclusion of his story, a clutch of fifty-dollar bills folded in a fan between his ringed fingers.

Again, I could hear a peculiar creaking sound in my head, like the weight of a streetcar pinging through steel track. I looked out the rain-streaked side window and thought I saw Clete Purcel staring back at me. When I blinked and widened my eyes, he was gone.

I finished my Dr. Pepper and ordered another. I kept looking directly into Johnny's face. Finally I said it, gave recognition to his power, acknowledged my dependence on his mood and the enormous control he had over the lives of others: ”Johnny, I need a minute of your time.“

”Sure, Dave,“ he said, and moved toward me along the bar, pointed toward his Manhattan glass for the bartender. ”How you doin'? You didn't bring that Irish ape, did you? Hey, just kidding. Purcel don't bother me. You ever know his mother? She was a wet-brain, used to sell out of her pants when her old man run off. Ask anybody in the Channel.“

”Can we talk somewhere?“ I said.

”This is good.“ Two of his hoods stood behind him, eating out of paper plates, salami and salad hanging off their lips. Their steroid-pumped upper arms had the diameter and symmetry of telephone poles inside their sports coats. ”Don't be shy. What's the problem?“

”No problem. That's what I'm saying, Johnny. I'm no threat to you guys.“

”What am I listening to here? I ever said you were a problem?“ He turned to his men, a mock incredulous look on his face.

”My daughter saw a guy hanging around our house, Johnny. You think I have information, which I don't. They pulled my shield, I'm out of the game, I don't care what you guys do. I'm asking you to stay away from me and my family.“

”You hear this crazy guy?“ he said to his hoods. Then to me, ”Eat some dinner, drink some wine, you got my word, anybody bother you with anything, you bring it to me.“

”I appreciate your attitude, Johnny,“ I said. My palms felt damp, thick, hard to fold at my sides. I was sweating inside my shirt. I swallowed and looked away from the smile on his face. ”I accused you of something that was in the imagination.

I'm sorry about that,“ he said. His men were grinning now. ”Excuse me?“ I said. ”A redheaded guy, looked like Sonny Boy Marsallus, out at my house, walking around downtown, I asked you and Purcel if you'd hired an actor, remember?“ he said. I nodded. ”There he is,“ he said, and pointed to a man in a white jacket busing a table. ”He's Sonny's cousin, a retard or something, I got him a job here. He looks just like him, except his brains probably run out his nose.“

”He looks like a stuffed head,“ one of Johnny's men said. ”He'd make a great doorstop,“ the other man said. ”Why was he at your house?“ I said.

The skin of my face burned and my voice felt weak in my throat. ”He was looking for a job. He'd been out there with Sonny once. Now he's making six bucks an hour and tips cleaning slops. So I done a good one for Sonny.“ One of the men behind Johnny gargled with his drink. ”Salt water's good for the throat,“ he said to me. ”Take a glass-bottom boat ride, Robicheaux, ask Sonny if that ain't true.“

Johnny stripped a folded fifty out of the fan in his hand and dropped it on my forearm. ”Get something nice for your daughter,“ he said. ”You done the right thing here tonight.“ He reached out with one hand and adjusted the knot in my tie. I saw the balloon of red-black color well up behind my eyes, heard a sound like wet newspaper ripping in my head, saw the startled and fearful look in his face just before I hooked him above the mouth,

hard, snapping my shoulder into it, his nose flattening, his upper lip splitting against his teeth. I caught him again on the way down, behind the ear, then brought my knee into his face and knocked his head into the bar.

I kept waiting for his men to reach inside their coats, to pinion my arms, but they didn't move. My breath was heaving in my chest, my hands were locked on the lip of the bar, like a man aboard ship during a gale, and I was doing something that seemed to have no connection with me. He fought to get up, and I saw my shoe bite into his chin, his ear, his raised forearm, his rib cage, I felt Johnny Carp cracking apart like eggshell under my feet.

”Mother of God, that's enough, Dave!“ I heard Clete shout behind me.