A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

Jess got out of the car with his palms turned outward, his brow furrowed above his close-set eyes. He set his hands on the convertible roof.

The white limo made a U-turn behind us and drove slowly out of the park, its black-tinted windows hot with sunlight. Baxter's partner came back and stood next to him. He was a muscular, crew-cut man, with a grained, red complexion, who wore shades and a pale blond mustache. Like Baxter, he carried a revolver under his tweed sports jacket in a clip-on belt holster. But in his face, even with his shades on, I could see a question mark about what Baxter was doing.

"Shake them down," Baxter said.

"Come on, Lieutenant, give it a rest. This is bullshit," Tony said.

"I look like bullshit to you?" Baxter said.

"We don't make trouble for you guys. It's a chickenshit roust. You know it is."

Baxter nodded impatiently to his partner.

"I got a piece in my coat pocket. You want the sonofabitch, take it. What the fuck's with you, Baxter?" Tony said.

"Easy, Tony. We don't have a big problem here," Baxter's partner said, his hands gentle on Tony's back and sides. "No, no, look straight ahead. Come on, man, you're a pro."

Then, like a dentist who had just pulled a tooth, he held up Tony's chrome-plated automatic in the sunlight.

"I got a permit for it," Tony said.

"You want to produce it?" Baxter said.

"It's at home. But I got one. You know I got one."

"Good. Your lawyer can bring it down to your arraignment," Baxter said.

His partner pulled Tony's arms behind him, cuffed his wrists, and sat him down on the curb. Then he ran his hands down Jess's sides, back, stomach, and legs. He rose up and shook his head at Baxter.

"Under the seat," Baxter said.

His partner leaned into the car, worked his hand around under the seat, and pulled out the shotgun pistol. He snapped open the breech and removed the two slender .410 shells and dropped them in his pocket.

"You're under arrest for possession of an illegal firearm, Ornella," Baxter said.

"You got to have cause to get in the car, Lieutenant," Jess said.

"You took some law courses up at Angola?" Baxter said.

"You got to have cause," Jess said.

Baxter's partner cuffed him and led him over to the curb. Two squad cars, the backup that Baxter had probably called for, turned into the park. Baxter opened the back door of the convertible and told me to step out.

"It looks like you finally found your element," he said.

"It must be a dull day, Nate."

"How do you like working for the greaseballs?"

"You ought to brush up on your procedure. Probably talk a little bit with your partner. He seems to know what he's doing."

"No kidding?"

"Nobody here was serious. Otherwise you might have gotten your hash cooked, Nate."

"I'm probably just lucky you were along to cool things out," he said, put a filter-tipped cigarette between his teeth at an upward angle, and lit it with a Zippo lighter. He snapped the lighter shut and blew smoke out into the sunlight. Then he said, "I like your threads. They're elegant."

"Get to it, Nate. You're wasting a lot of people's time."