“He does scut work for us. I told him I’d be here. You mind?”
“What’s his name?”
“Clete Purcel.”
“That fat guy is Purcel? Yeah, I do mind. His squeeze is this Trish Klein broad. What are you guys working here?”
I got up and opened the side door to the terrace. “Hey, Cletus, over here,” I said.
“Hey, you answer my question,” Whitey said.
But again I didn’t reply. Clete walked through the dappled shade of the live oak, his face affable and handsome behind his yellow-tinted aviator’s glasses. I could feel the air-conditioned coolness from the living room rushing past me into the heat and humidity of the afternoon.
“Hey, how’s it hangin’?” he said to Whitey as he came through the door, uninvited.
But I had underestimated Whitey. He might have been a creature of his times, his psychological makeup as hard as the concrete he grew up on, but he was nevertheless capable of mustering a level of dignity, even if it was feigned, that men of his background seldom possess.
“It’s lunchtime and I was going to ask Mr. Robicheaux to join me,” he said. “Because you’re his friend, you’re welcome, too. But this is still my home, the place where my family lives. Any guest in my house has to respect that.”
“You got it, Whitey. But I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your employee Lefty Raguza. He’s not a family-type guy,” Clete said.
“What might have happened outside this house has no application inside it, you follow? You want to eat, there’s a spread laid out for us in the dining room. You want to act rude, it’s time for you to go,” Whitey said.
“Here’s a story for you,” Clete said. “We’ve got a congressman here who was asked to describe Louisiana on CNN. He goes, ‘Half of it is underwater and half of it is under indictment.’ Right now, in your case, that means you’re anybody’s hump. Forget the lunch. Let’s talk business.”
“What business I got with you?”
“The word is your kid’s a closet bone smoker. The Iberia D.A. has got the handle he needs to jam him and you both. Dave didn’t tell you?”
The transformation that took place in Whitey’s face was like none I had ever seen in another person. The eyes didn’t blink or narrow; the color in them did not brighten with anger or haze over with hidden thoughts. The jawbone never pulsed against the cheek. Instead, his expression seemed to take on the emotionless solidity of carved wood, with eyes as dull and cavernous as buckshot. I believe I could have scratched a match alight on his face and he wouldn’t have blinked.
“What’d you call my boy?” he asked.
Clete pressed the palm of his hand against his chest. “I didn’t call him anything. That’s his rep in a couple of drag joints in Lafayette. I thought you and Dave had talked. The D.A. thinks the Lujan kid came on to your son and your son blew up his shit. The point is when piranhas smell blood, they clean the cow to the bone. You want your casino interests let alone? Maybe I can make that happen. I’m getting through to you, here?”
“Yeah, you’re both working with this twat Trish Klein,” Whitey said.
Clete looked at me. “You heard the man, Streak. I told you it was a waste of time. Hey, Whitey, this isn’t Miami. Louisiana is a fresh-air mental asylum. Dave knocked a tooth out of the D.A.’s mouth and he’s still got his shield. What does that tell you? You think we’re here to shake you down for chump change? While you’re in the slams, what do you think Bello Lujan is going to be doing—protecting your assets till you get out? He’ll turn your pad into a cathouse and your horses into canned dog food.”
We left Whitey standing in his living room. Outside, as we crossed the thick, carpetlike texture of his St. Augustine grass, I heard the red Morgan running in the pasture. Her neck and flanks were dark with sweat, her mouth strung with wisps of saliva. She clattered against a rail and I would have sworn she nickered at me.
Clete got in his Caddy and headed down the driveway. Just as I started my engine, I saw Whitey come out the front door.
“Hey, Robicheaux, wait up,” he called.
I rolled down the window. “What?” I said.
“What he said about my boy?”
“Yeah?”
“People are saying that, or your friend was just working my crank?”
“Your kid has problems. Homosexuality is probably the least of them.”
“You got a kid?”
“An adopted daughter.”