Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)

”The one with the red hair and the skin look like milk. He was standing outside in the rain. I axed him what he was doing in this neighborhood at night. He said he was your friend and you were worried about me. He's your friend, isn't he?“

”Yes, I think he probably is.“

”Think?“

I started to explain, but I didn't. Then I simply said, ”I'd better be going now.“

Her turquoise eyes, gold skin, the mole by her mouth, her thick black hair that curved on her cheek were framed as though in a lens by the curtains that puffed and danced behind her head. Her eyes moved up to meet mine.

”You're a very good man,“ she said.

”Good-bye, Ruthie Jean,“ I said, and took her hand in mine. It was small and dry and I wanted to hold it a long time. I knew in a way that words could not explain that this was much more than a casual farewell.

We pulled into the circle drive of the yacht club and parked not far from the practice green. The yacht club was sparkling white in the sunlight, with flagstone terraces and tinted, glassed-in dining areas and fairways that looked like corridors of velvet between the oak trees. When we got out of the truck, Clete pulled his shirt down over the front of his slacks, smoothed it with his fingers, adjusted his belt with his thumb, looked down at his shirt again.

”How does a prick like Johnny Carp get in a joint like this?“ he said.

”They recognize a closet Republican when they see one.“

”How do I look?“ he said.

”Lean and mean, not a bump on you.“

”You sure you want to do this?“

”You got to do something for kicks,“ I said.

”I'm starting to worry about you, big mon.“

We walked in the shade of the building toward the entrance. Sailboats were rocking in their slips out on Lake Pontchartrain. The maitre d'

stopped us at the door to the dining room.

”Do you gentlemen have reservations?“ he said. His face and accent were European, his closed-shaved cheeks ruddy with color.

I opened my badge holder. ”We're here to see Polly Gee,“ I said. He looked at me blankly. ”That's Johnny Carp .. . John Giacano. His secretary said he's having lunch here.“

His facial skin tightened against the bone. His eyes involuntarily glanced at a glass-domed annex to the main dining room. He cleared his throat softly.

”Is there going to be a problem, gentlemen?“ he asked.

”We'll let you know if there is. Bring me a double Jack, with a Dixie on the side, and put it on Johnny's tab. He told me to tell you that,“

Clete said.

The domed annex was empty, except for Johnny Carp and his crew, who were eating from gumbo appetizer bowls at a long linen-covered table set with flowers and pitchers of sangria. Johnny lowered his spoon from his mouth, his face dead. A scar, like a piece of black string, was crimped into his lip where I had hit him. One of Johnny's crew, a one-thousand-dollar-a-hit mechanic named Mingo Bloomberg, started to rise from his chair. He was a handsome, copper-haired man with ice blue eyes that were totally devoid of moral light.

”The man with the badge has a pass. You don't, Purcel,“ he said.

”Don't get up on my account,“ Clete said.

”A guy's got to try. It's nothing personal.“

”Put your hand on me and you're going to wear a metal hook, Mingo.“

”So we see how it shakes out,“ Mingo said, and began to stand up.

Clete fitted his hand on Mingo's face and shoved him back down in his chair. Then he hit him twice with the flat of his hand, like a man swinging a fielder's glove filled with cement.