Pegasus Descending (Dave Robicheaux 15)

I didn’t pursue it. “Actually, I came out here because of a photo taken of Yvonne before she was put into a body bag. She was wearing a T-shirt with a winged horse on it. Know the one I mean?”

“I gave it to her,” he replied. “It’s a promo shirt from the new casino and track. My dad’s an investor in it. He’s partners with Mr. Bruxal. That’s how I got to know Slim. My dad was going to give Yvonne a job in the restaurant.”

“That’s funny. Your father told me he didn’t know her.”

His face drained. “I thought maybe you were here about those black guys. My dad thinks they might try to file a civil suit and milk us for whatever they can get. That’s why I thought you wanted to talk to my parents.”

Tony Lujan’s attitude toward law enforcement was one that no amount of experience has ever allowed me to deal with in an adequate way. Every police officer who reads this knows what I’m talking about, too. Certain groups of people in our society genuinely believe police agencies have only one purpose for existing, and that is to protect and serve the interests of a chosen few. Guess which income bracket they belong to.

I had gotten what I wanted and probably should have left at that point. But I didn’t. “See, we don’t get involved in civil suits, Tony. In fact, it’s the prosecutor’s office that determines which criminal charges we pursue in a given case. Personally, I don’t think you need to worry about a guy like Monarch Little fooling around with civil suits. The truth is, Monarch Little is one badass motherfucker who swallows his blood in a fight and comes at you right between the lights. He’s not above doing serious collateral damage, either.”

I heard a glass break in the kitchen.

I WAS HOOKING UP my boat trailer to my truck when Clete’s Caddy bounced into the driveway, his spinning rod propped up in the backseat, a Rapala flopping on the tip. “Ready to rock?” he said.

“Almost,” I said.

He got out and watched me load our rods, tackle boxes, and the cooler into the boat. He was wearing shined loafers, cream-colored golf slacks, and a Hawaiian shirt I hadn’t seen before.

“Dressed kind of sharp, aren’t you?” I said.

“Not really,” he replied, ripping the tab on a beer, looking off casually at the thick green arch of oak limbs over East Main. “Where’s Molly?”

“Right there,” I said, nodding toward the porte cochere, where Molly was coming out the side door with an armload of food. “What are you up to, Cletus?”

“Maybe I like to wear some decent threads once in a while. Will you give it a rest?”

Because my pickup truck was not big enough for the three of us, he followed us in the Caddy to Henderson Swamp. In the rearview mirror, I could see he was sneaking sips from a beer can on the floorboards. I thought about stopping and possibly preventing legal trouble on the road, but reason and caution and even common sense held little sway in the life of Clete Purcel. I was even more convinced of that fact when I saw him upend the can, crush it in his fist, and drop it over his shoulder into the backseat, where any cop who stopped him would be able to see it.

“What are you looking at?” Molly said.

“Clete.”

“What about him?”

“That’s like asking about the flight plan of an asteroid.”

She looked at me quizzically, but I didn’t try to explain further.

I backed the trailer down the concrete ramp at Henderson and we slid the boat into the water. It was a perfect afternoon for fishing. The day was hot, the wind down, the water dead-still in the coves. Out on the vast expanse of bays and channels and islands of willow and gum trees that comprised the swamp, I could see other fishermen anchored hard by the pilings of the interstate highway and the desiccated wood platforms of oil rigs that had long ago been torn down and hauled away. The air contained the bright, clean smell of rain in the south, which meant the barometer was dropping and the bass and bream would begin feeding as soon as one raindrop dented the surface of the water.

Molly and I sat in the boat’s stern and Clete sat up on the bass seat by the bow, flicking his Rapala in the lee of the willows that grew along the entrance to a wide bay. He had spread a paper towel over the seat cushion and I noticed that whenever he took a hit off a can of Budweiser or ate one of the po’boy sandwiches Molly had made, he leaned forward to avoid staining his clothes. At six o’clock he looked at his watch, removed his aviator shades and his porkpie hat, and combed his hair. His face was red from beer and sunburn, the area around his eyes still pale. He grinned happily. “Look at that sky,” he said.

Then a bass that must have weighed eight pounds rolled the surface by a nest of lily pads and took Clete’s Rapala with such force it blew water up into the willows. “Jesus Christ,” Clete said, dropping his beer can in his lap.

I got the net from under the seat and Molly swung the electric trolling motor about to keep Clete’s line at eleven o’clock from the bow so the bass would not tangle it with ours. Clete cranked the handle on his reel and jerked the tip of his rod up at the same time, bowing his rod into a severe arch.

“Ease up,” I said. “I’ll get the net under him.”

The bass broke the surface in a flash of gold and green and a roll of its white belly, then it stripped the monofilament off Clete’s drag and dove for the bottom, sawing the line against the boat.

“Pull your line around the bow and let him run,” I said.

Too late. The line snapped and the tip of Clete’s rod sprang back toward his face. “Wow,” he said, wiping at the beer on his slacks with a paper towel.

“Tie on a Mepps. We’ll try the next island up the channel,” I said.

“No, that’s it for me,” he replied.