A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

"I never took it up."

"You think you could take up Kim?"

"I just wonder what she's doing here, that's all."

"She works in one of Tony's clubs. I suspect he probes her recesses. I know that's what Lionel would like to do."

"You know Tony now?"

"You're in the business now, my friend. It's a nice one to be in. Lots of good things to be had. You want to meet him?"

"It doesn't matter to me, as long as I get what I want."

"What is it you want?" There were tiny saliva bubbles between his teeth when he grinned.

"One big score, then maybe I piece off the action and buy a couple of businesses in Lafayette and Lake Charles."

"Ah, you're a Rotary man at heart. But in the meantime, how about all the broads you want, your own plane to fly down to the islands in, lobster and steak every night at the track? You don't think about those things?"

"I have simple tastes."

"How about squaring a debt?" he asked.

"With who?"

"Everybody's got a debt to square. Winning's a lot more fun when you get to watch somebody else lose."

"I never gave it much thought."

"Oh, I bet."

"Fontenot, that's the second time you've given me the impression you know something about me that I don't."

"You used to be a cop. That's not the best recommendation. We had to do some homework, stick our finger into a nasty place or two."

"Okay…"

"I'd be mad at somebody who put a hole in me and left me to die in a ditch."

"You're right. Do you know where he is?"

"I stay away from some people."

"Then you don't need to be worrying about it anymore."

"Of course."

We crossed a bayou on a wooden bridge and drove across a flooded area of saw grass and dead cypress. Blue herons stood in the shallows, and mud hens were nesting up against the reeds out of the wind. In the distance I could see the hard tin outline of a sugar mill. Fontenot opened the compact, balanced some coke on the tip of his knife blade, and took another hit. His face was an oval pie of satisfaction.

"Are you interested in politics?" he asked.

"Not particularly."

"Tony is. He writes letters to newspapers. He's a patriot." He smiled to himself, and his eyes were bright as he looked out at the rain through the front window.

"I thought the mustaches stayed out of politics," I said.

"Bad word for our friends."