A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

"But I've got one. Why did you guys cut Cletus from the payroll?"

"I was going to tell you about it. It just happened today. I didn't have any say in it."

"We had a deal."

"I don't control everything here."

"He saved my life out on the salt. I didn't see any DEA guys out there."

"I'm sorry about it, Dave. I'm a federal employee. I'm one guy among several in this office. You need to understand that."

"I think it's a rotten fucking way to treat somebody."

"Maybe it is."

"I think that's a facile answer, too."

"I can't do anything about it."

"Tell your office mates Clete has more integrity in the parings of his fingernails than a lot of federal agents have in their whole careers."

"Drop by and tell them yourself. I'm not up to a harangue tonight. It's always easy to throw baboon shit through the fan when somebody else has to clean it up. We'll pick up the girl in the morning, and we'll get the tape recorder to you at your doctor's office. Good night, Dave."

He hung up the receiver, and I could hear the pinball machine pinging through the plywood wall of the phone booth. Outside the window, the mist and blowing rain looked like cotton candy in the pink glow of the neon bar sign.

* * *

CHAPTER 13

The next morning was bright and clear, and I went to the doctor's office off Jefferson Avenue and had the stitches snipped out of my head and mouth. When I touched the scar tissue above my right eyebrow, the skin around my eye twitched involuntarily. I opened my mouth and worked my jaw several times, touching the rubbery stiffness where the stitches had been removed.

"How does it feel?" the doctor asked. He was a thick-bodied, good-natured man who wore his sleeves rolled up on his big arms.

"Good."

"You heal beautifully, Mr. Robicheaux. But it looks like you've acquired quite a bit of scar tissue over the years. Maybe you should consider giving it up for Lent."

"That's a good idea, Doctor."

"You were lucky on this one. I think if you'd spent another hour or so in the water, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I think you're right. Well, thank you for your time."

"You bet. Stay out of hospitals."

I went outside into the sunlight and walked toward my truck, which was parked under an oak tree. A man in khaki clothes with a land surveyor's plumb bob on his belt was leaning against my fender, eating a sandwich out of a paper bag.

"How about a lift up to the park?" he asked.

"Who are you?"

"I have a little item here for you. Are you going to give me a ride?"

"Hop in," I said, and we drove up a side street toward Audubon Park and stopped in front of an enormous Victorian house with a wraparound gallery. Out in the park, under the heavy drift of leaves from the oaks, college kids from Tulane and Loyola were playing touch football. The man reached down into the bottom of his lunch sack and removed a miniaturized tape recorder inside a sealed plastic bag. He was thin and wore rimless glasses and work boots, and he had a deep tan and liver spots on his hands.

"It's light and it's flat," he said. He reached back in the sack and took out a roll of adhesive tape. "You can carry it in a coat pocket, or you can tape it anywhere on your body where it feels comfortable. It's quiet and dependable, and it activates with this little button here. Actually, it's a very nice little piece of engineering. When you wear it, try to be natural, try to forget it's on your person. Trust it. It'll pick up whatever it needs to. Don't feel that you have to 'point' it at somebody. That's when a guy invites problems."

"Okay."