Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)
Page 120
”One way or another, Sonny's out there, Clete.“
”I don't want to hear it, I don't want to hear it, I don't want to hear it,“ he said, walking into the bathroom, working one hand into his shorts. We drove in my truck out to Patsy Dapolito's rented cottage on the edge of town, but no one answered the door. Clete shielded the sun's glare from his eyes and squinted through the blinds on the side window. ”Look at the litter in there. I bet this guy takes a shit inside his clothes,“ he said. ”I'll check with the landlord.“
”Patsy's in a trick pad in Lafayette.“
”How do you know?“
”A guy I wrote a bond on said he's got a couple of chippies at Four Corners who aren't too selective.“
”That doesn't mean he's there.“
”When your name is Patsy Dap, you're either thinking about getting laid or blowing out somebody's light. I'm seldom wrong about these guys. That bothers me sometimes.“ I looked at him strangely. ”Be happy you got your badge, Streak. It means you get to walk on the curb instead of in the gutter,“ he said. A half hour later we walked into the office of a motel at Four Corners in Lafayette. Raindrops were tinkling on the air-conditioner inset in the window. I showed my badge and a picture of Patsy Dap to the motel operator.
”Do you know this man?“ I asked.
He crinkled his nose under his glasses, looked vague, shook his head.
”Lot of people come through here,“ he said.
”You want to get your whole place tossed?“ I said.
”Room six,“ he replied.
”Give us the key .. . Thanks, we're putting you down for a good citizen award,“ Clete said.
We walked down to Dapolito's room as the rain blew underneath the overhang. I tapped with one knuckle on the door.
”It's Dave Robicheaux. Open up, Patsy,“ I said.
It was quiet a moment, then he spoke in a phlegmy, twisted voice: ”Leave me alone 'less you got a warrant.“
I turned the key in the lock, nudged the door open with my foot, my hand on my .45.
”Ooops,“ Clete said, peering over my shoulder.
”You guys get out of here,“ Patsy said from the bed.
Clete pushed the door back slowly with the flat of his hand, sniffed at the air as we both stepped inside.
”You paying for your broads to smoke China white? High-grade stuff, my man,“ Clete said.
She was not over sixteen, blond and beautiful in a rough way, with thick arms and shoulders, a heart-shaped face that wore no makeup, hands that could have been a farm girl's. She gathered t
he top sheet around her body. I pulled the bedspread off the foot of the bed, wrapped it around her, then handed her her clothes.
”Dress in the bathroom while we talk to this man,“ I said. ”We're not going to arrest you.“
Her eyes were disjointed, one pupil larger than the other, glazed with fear and Oriental smack.
”Listen, this man kills people for a living. But if he didn't get paid, he'd do it for free. Don't ever come here again,“ I said.
”Why the roust this time?“ Patsy said. He sat with his back against the headboard, his hard, compact body as white as the skin on a toadstool, one hand kneading the sheet that covered his loins. A bluebird was tattooed above each of his nipples.
”I think you might still want to pop me, Patsy. Earn some points with Polly Gee,“ I said.
”You're wrong. I'm going on a trip, all over the world, places I ain't ever got to visit.“
”Really?“ I said.