A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

"What?"

"I'm addicted. Big-time. On the spike. I got blood pressure you could cook an egg with."

"Maybe you should think about a treatment program."

"One of those thirty-day hospital jobs? What about Paul? What about my fucking wife?"

"What about her?"

"She never dresses him or plays with him. She won't take him shopping with her or to a show. But I kick her out, she'll sue for custody. That's her big edge. And, man, does she work it. I should have used that psycho Boggs to whack her out. Her and that prick over in Houston."

"Who?"

"She makes it with one of the Dio crowd from Houston. They meet in Miami. That's why she's always flying over there. Come on, man. You read a lot of books. What would you do?"

"You're trying to deal with all the monsters at the same time. Start with the addiction."

"I tried. Out at the V.A. I think I'm in it for the whole ride."

"There're ways out, Tony."

"Yeah, and you can scrub the stink out of shit, too. You came home okay, Dave. I blew it."

He turned on his side and faced the wall. When I spoke to him again, he did not answer.

The daytime noise level in any jail is grinding and ceaseless, particularly on a Saturday morning. I woke to the clanging of cell doors, shoes thudding on spiral metal stairs, cleaning crews scraping buckets across the cement floors, shower water drumming on the tile walls, radios tuned to a dozen different stations, someone cracking wind into a toilet bowl or roaring out a belch from the bottom of his bowels, inmates shouting from the windows to friends on the other side of the razor wire that bordered the street—a dirty, iron-tinged, cacophonous mix that echoed down the long concrete corridor with such an ear-numbing intensity that the individual voice was lost in it.

We lined up when the trusties wheeled in the steam carts loaded with grits, sausage, black coffee, and white bread, and later Tony and I played checkers on a homemade board in our cell. Then, because we had nothing else to do, we followed Jess down to the weight room at the end of the corridor. The weather was warm and sunny, so the solitary barred window high up on the wall was open, but the room reeked of the men clanking barbells up and down on the cement. They were stripped to the waist, or wore only their Jockey undershorts or cutoff sweatpants, their bodies laced with rivulets of sweat. They had bulging scrotums, necks like tree stumps, shoulders you could break a two-by-four across. Some of the Negroes were as black as paint, the Caucasians so white their skin had a shine to it. And they all seemed to contain a reservoir of rut and power and ruthless energy that made you shudder when you considered the fact that soon they would be back on the street.

Their tattoos were a marvel: spiders in purple webs stretched across the shoulder blades, serpents twined around biceps and forearms, beret-capped skulls, hearts impaled on knives, swastikas clutched in eagle claws, green dragons blowing fire across the loins, Confederate flags, lily-wrapped crucifixes, and the face of Christ with beads of blood upon his tortured brow.

For a moment we almost had trouble. A tall white man with a black goatee, wearing only a jockstrap and tennis shoes, sat against the wall and wiped his chest and stomach with a tattered gray towel. His eyes focused on my face and stayed there; then he said, "I know that guy. He's a cop."

The clanking of the barbells stopped. The room was absolutely quiet.

Then a big black man, with a nylon stocking crimped on his head, set down his weights and said to me, "What about it, Home?"

"I look like heat? Take a look at my charge sheet," I said.

"No, we don't look at nothing. This guy came in with me," Tony said. He looked down at the tall white man sitting on the floor with his knees splayed open. "You saying I brought a cop in with me?"

The man's eyes met Tony's, then became close-set and focused on nothing.

"He looked like a guy I used to see around," he said. "Some other guy."

The room remained quiet. I could hear traffic out on the street. Everyone was watching Tony.

"So don't worry about it," he said. He laughed, pulled the towel from the man's hand, and rubbed the man's head with it. "Hey, what's with this crazy guy? Y'all made him weird or is that the way they come in from Jump Street these days?"

The man grinned sheepishly; then everyone was laughing, clanging the barbells again, grabbing themselves, nodding to one another in admiration of Tony's intelligence and wit or whatever quality it was that allowed him to charm a snake back into a basket.

Tony walked past me out the door, his smile welded on his face, and nudged me in the side with his thumb. We walked side by side back toward our cell. He kept his face straight ahead. He whistled a disjointed tune and then said, "Do you know who that guy was?"

"No, I don't remember him."

"He did a snitch with an ice pick in Angola for twenty bucks. Let's play a lot of checkers today, hang around the cell, talk about books, you get my drift?"

"You're a piece of work, Tony."