Pegasus Descending (Dave Robicheaux 15)

Her eyes drifted up into his, her expression as bored as she could possibly make it.

“That’s what I thought. Thanks for your time. Give Lefty my best. Tell him I’ll be getting together with him soon,” he said. “Could I have one of those business cards?”

She nodded her head toward a container on her desk, her attention concentrated on her computer screen.

Clete wrote on the back of the business card and handed it to her. “Give this to Whitey, will you?” he said.

She took the card with two fingers and set it beside her keyboard without looking at it. Then she glanced down at the message written in a tight blue calligraphy across the card. It read:

The guy your people capped in Opa-Locka had the Silver Star and two Purple Hearts. Why don’t you give me a call, shitbag? I’d like to chat you up on that.

The receptionist’s face sagged slightly, then she picked up her purse and walked into the restroom, her eyes focused far out in front of her.

Outside, Clete stood in the shade of an oak, wondering what he had just accomplished. The answer was easy: Nothing. In fact, his behavior had been foolish, he told himself. Contrary to his own admonition, he was once again engaging the lowlifes on their own turf, issuing challenges that brought him into conflict with disposable douche bags like Lefty Raguza.

What was it that guys like Whitey Bruxal wanted? Again, the answer was easy: Respectability. The legalization of gambling throughout most of the United States was a wet dream come true for the vestiges of the old Syndicate. The money they used to make from the numbers racket, money that they always had trouble laundering, was nothing compared t

o the income from the casinos, tracks, and lotteries they now operated with the blessing of federal and state licensing agencies. In fact, not only had the government presented them with a gift that was beyond the Mob’s wildest imaginings, they had been able to attach educational funding to gambling bills all over the country, which turned schoolteachers into their most loyal supporters. Was this a great country or not?

Maybe it was time to piss in the punch bowl, Clete thought. He looked at his watch, then headed for New Orleans.

En route he called his part-time secretary at the office he still operated on St. Ann Street in the Quarter. She was a former nun by the name of Alice Werenhaus, a stolid pile of a woman whose veneer of Christianity belied a personality that even the previous bishop had feared. In fact, I think Nig Rosewater and Wee Willie Bimstine’s bail skips were more afraid of facing Miss Alice than they were Clete. But she and Clete had hit it off famously, in part, I suspected, because the pagan in each of them recognized the other.

She called Clete back by the time he crossed the Atchafalaya and gave him the probable schedule for the rest of Colin Alridge’s day.

“High tea at the Pontchartrain Hotel?” Clete said.

“He entertains elderly ladies there. Actually, he doesn’t seem like a bad man,” she said.

“Don’t let this dude snow you, Miss Alice.”

“Have you gotten yourself into something, Mr. Purcel?”

“Everything is copacetic. No problems. Believe me.”

“The police department keeps calling about this episode at the casino. They say a lot of water damage was done to the carpets.”

“Don’t listen to them. It was just a misunderstanding. Thanks for your help. Got to go now.” He closed the cell phone before she could ask any more questions.

But she called back thirty seconds later. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Purcel!” she said.

He could do worse than have Miss Alice on his side, he thought.

Just before 3 p.m. he drove down St. Charles and parked across from the Pontchartrain. Sure enough, inside the cool, pastel-colored reaches of the hotel, he found Colin Alridge seated at a long, linen-covered table, speaking to a group of ladies who must have been in their eighties. A tea service was set at each end of the table, and Colin sat in the center, turning his head back and forth, his eyes lingering on each face, his sincerity and goodwill like a candle in the midst of an otherwise empty dining room.

It was not the scene Clete had anticipated when he left Lafayette. He had envisioned catching Alridge in a crowded restaurant, perhaps among the monied interests that seemed to find their way into Alridge’s inner circle. Maybe even some of the Giacano minions would be there, he had told himself. But what if they had been there? What would he have done: pull a fire hose out of the wall and create another disaster for himself like the one at the casino? He stopped at the bar and ordered a double Jack with a beer back. “How long does Billy Graham Junior work the crowd?” he asked the bartender.

“Sir?” the bartender said.

“When does Boy Bone Smoker get finished with the ladies?”

The bartender, who wore a white jacket and black pants, leaned forward on his elbow. He had a pencil mustache and black hair that was cut short and parted neatly, like a 1930s leading man. “I happen to be gay myself. You don’t like it, drink somewhere else.”

The afternoon was not working out as Clete had planned. He finished his Jack, ordered another, and left three one-dollar bills as a tip for the bartender. The bartender picked them up and stuffed them in a cup on the bottle counter, not speaking, his face without expression. Clete had not eaten, and by three forty-five he was half in the bag. “Sorry about that crack. It’s been one of those days,” he said.

The bartender poured him a shot and waved off the five Clete put on the bar.

“You know who Whitey Bruxal is?” Clete asked.