Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)

“ The restaurant was almost empty, and a black woman was putting fresh flowers on the tables. Clete folded and unfolded his palms, bit down on the corner of his lip. ”You think Sonny's back?“ I asked. ”Back from what? You don't come back. You're either alive or you're dead.“

”What set you off?“

”Nothing.“

”Look, somebody took a shot at Patsy Dap. Maybe with a nine-millimeter. Pogue says it didn't come from Johnny Carp,“ I said. His green eyes lingered on mine. ”You didn't?“

I said. ”You said it a long time ago. They're all head cases The object is to point them at each other,“ he said. ”You can't orchestrate the behavior of psychopaths. What's the matter with you?“

”I did it when I had a few beers. I told you, nobody fucks my podjo.“

He rolled his fork back and forth on the tablecloth, clicking it hard into the wood. ”What's worrying you?“ I said. ”Pogue's a pro, he's got ice water in his veins. When's the last time a guy like that told you a dead man's trying to cap him?“ I went to a noon AA meeting and tried to turn over my problems to my Higher Power. I wasn't doing a good job of it. I had stomped and degraded Johnny Giacano in front of his crew, his friends and family. Were I still a police officer, I would have a marginal chance of getting away with it. But because of my new status, there was no question about the choices Johnny had before him. He would either redeem himself in an unmistakable, dramatic way or be cannibalized by his underlings. As assassins, the Mafia has no peer. Their experience and sophistication go back to the Napoleonic wars; the level of physical violence imposed on their victims is usually grotesque and far beyond any practical need; the conviction rate of their button men is a joke. The hit itself almost always comes about in an insidious fashion. The assassin is trusted, always has access, extends an invitation for a quiet dinner with friends, an evening at the track, a fishing trip out on the salt. The victim never suspects the gravity of his situation until, in the blink of an eye, he's looking into a face that's branded with an ageless design, lighted with energies that are not easily satiated. I went to two meetings a day every day that week. When I got home Friday evening, Luke Fontenot was waiting for me in the bait shop. He sat at a table in the corner, in the gloom, a cup of coffee in front of him. Batist was mopping down the counter when I came in. He looked back at me and shrugged, then dropped his rag in a bucket and went outside and lit a cigar on the dock.

”Aim Bertie got rid of her lawyer and signed a quit .. . what d' you call it?“ Luke said.

”A quitclaim?“

”Yeah, that's it.“

He looked smaller if I the weak light through the screened windows. His hair grew in small ringlets on the back of his neck.

”They give her twenty-five t'ousand dollars,“ he said.

”Does she feel okay with that?“

”She don't want nothing to happen to me or Ruthie Jean.“

His eyes didn't meet mine. His face was empty, his mouth audibly dry when he spoke, like that of a person who's just experienced a moment for which he has little preparation.

”That lawyer from Lafayette, the one use to work for Sweet Pea Chaisson, Jason Darbonne, and some men from New Orleans come out to the place last night,“ he said. ”They was standing by the gum trees, where the graves use to be, pointing out toward the train track. I went outside and ax them what they want. They say we got to be gone in thirty days, that strip of houses ain't gonna be nothing but broken bo'rds and tore-up water pipe.

“I tole them I ain't heard Moleen Bertrand tell me that, and the last I heard Moleen Bertrand own this plantation.

”One of them men from New Orleans say, “We was gonna copy you on all the documents, boy, but we didn't have your address.”

“I said, ”Moleen Bertrand tole my aunt she can stay on long as she likes.“

”They didn't even hear me. They went on talking like I wasn't there, talking about pouring a foundation, cutting roads down to the train track, doing something with electric transformers. Then one guy stops the others and looks at me. “Here's twenty dollars. Go down to the sto' and get us some cold beer. Keep a six-pack for yourself.”

“You know what I said? ”I ain't got my car.“ That's all the words

I could find, like I didn't have no other kind of words, except to make an excuse for not running their errands. ”So the guy say, “Then go on in the house. You got no bid ness out here.”

“I said, ”Moleen Bertrand done already talked to Aint Bertie. Tall wasn't there, so maybe y'all don't know about it.“

”Then the same guy, he walked real close to me, right up in my face, he was a big, blond guy with hair tonic on and muscles about to bust out of his shirt, he say, like we was the only two people on the earth and he knew exactly who he was talking to, he say, “Listen, you dumb nigger, you open your mouth again and you're gonna crawl back up those steps on your hands and knees.”

“

Luke raised his coffee cup, then set it back down without drinking from it. He looked through the screen window at the line of cypress trees across the bayou, at the sky above it that was like a crimson-streaked ink wash. His face had the lifeless quality of tallow. ”But that's not it, is it?“ I asked. ”What ain't?“

”You've known white men like that before. You were stand-up even in the death house, Luke.“

”I called Moleen Bertrand at his office this morning. His secretary say he's in conference. I waited till eleven o'clock and called again. This time she say let me get your number. At three o'clock he still ain't called back. The next time I tried, she say he done gone for the day. I axed if he gone home. She waited a long time, then she say, No, he playing racquetball over in Lafayette. “I knew where he play at. I was going in the front door when him and three other men was coming out, carrying canvas bags on their shoulders, their hair wet and combed, all of them smiling and stepping aside to let a lady pass. ”Moleen Bertrand shook hands with me and gone right on by. Just like that. Just like I was some black guy maybe he seen around “

”once in a while.“ I got up from the table and turned on the string of lights over the dock. I heard Batist folding up the Cinzano umbrellas over the spool tables. Luke opened and closed his hand on a fifty-cent piece in his palm. Its edges left a circular print almost like an incision in his gold skin. I sat back down across from him.

”I don't think Moleen is in control of his life,“ I said.