She’s too young for you. You’re going to get hurt real bad, perhaps irrevocably, I thought.
He stared into my eyes. “Yeah,” he said.
“Yeah, what?” I said, trying to smile innocuously.
“Yeah, keep your thoughts to yourself,” he replied.
It was one of the moments when the truth serves no purpose other than to keep our wounds green. Was Clete right? Were we at the end of our string, flailing at forces that had societal and governmental sanction, convincing ourselves, like fools popping champagne corks aboard a sinking liner, that our violence could extend our youth forever into the future and that the party would never come to an end?
He felt my eyes on the side of his face. “Why you giving me that weird look?”
“Because you’re the best, Clete. Because I love you.”
The trucker down the counter was cutting up a steak on his plate. He glanced sideways at us, then at our reflection in the mirror. Clete leaned over so he could see past me.
“What’s up, bud?” Clete asked.
“Not a whole lot,” the trucker said, returning to his steak. He had created a puddle of ketchup sprinkled with pepper on his plate, and he was dipping each piece of meat in it before he forked it into his mouth.
“That steak looks righteous. You want a beer?” Clete said.
“I got to drive. Another time,” the trucker said.
“I’m Clete Purcel. This is Dave Robicheaux.”
“I’m Joe Vernon Mack.”
“You’re looking at the Bobbsey Twins from Homicide, Joe Vernon,” Clete said.
“Pleased to meet y’all,” the trucker said, chewing contentedly.
Clete picked up both our checks and paid for them at the cash register, then the two of us walked outside into the wind.
I ARRIVED BACK at the department shortly before 3 p.m. A note from Helen on a pink memorandum slip was waiting for me in my mailbox. It said: “See me.” When I walked down to her office, her door was ajar and I could see her standing behind her desk, talking on the phone. She waved me inside.
“He’s here now,” she said into the receiver. “Look, Lonnie, you made some ugly remarks about both him and me. He was defending me and this department as much as himself. You want to make trouble over this, you’ll have me to deal with as well. My advice is that you be a man and accept the fact you shot off your mouth and that you got what you deserved.”
I could hear Lonnie Marceaux’s voice coming out of the receiver like a piece of wire being pulled through a metal hole.
“Stop shouting,” Helen said. “He’s a good cop and you know it. If you want, I’ll contact the Daily Iberian and the wire services in Baton Rouge and we can both make a statement about what happened. It’s your call.”
She held the receiver away from her head and looked at it.
“He hang up?” I said.
“Or shot himself. Except we don’t have that kind of luck around here. Somebody at Lafayette P.D. told him you busted up Lefty Raguza. He thinks you’re running your own program, one that probably conflicts with his. Lonnie wants it all, Dave.”
“All what?”
“He’s going to indict Monarch Little for the Lujan homicide and bring racketeering charges against Whitey Bruxal. He’s also got Colin Alridge in his bomb sights. Alridge is running for lieutenant governor. Lonnie says he’s going to drive a nail through one of his testicles.”
“Why don’t you use a more severe image?”
“Those are his words, not mine.” She placed her hand on the windowsill and gazed out at the cemetery, and I knew she was no longer interested in talking about Lonnie. “I got a call earlier from the sheriff of Orleans Parish. He says a warrant is being cut for Clete Purcel’s arrest.”
“For flooding the casino?”
But my question didn’t register. “The Orleans sheriff says there’re rumors Clete is mixed up with the people who did the savings and loan job in Mobile. This parish isn’t going to be a haven for people who think they don’t have to obey the law.”