The Tin Roof Blowdown (Dave Robicheaux 16)

“Sorry, you’re busy. Catch you later,” Clete said. He pointed at the top of Bledsoe’s hole cards. “Stomp ass with that hand.” He gave him a knowing wink that everyone at the table could see.

Then he went to the bar and ordered a double Jack straight up and a beer back.

“Slow it down, Cletus,” I said.

“No, no, big mon. We take it to them with tongs,” he said. “We need Rydel in custody. Just go with the flow.”

He knocked back the rest of his Jack and finished his glass of beer. He touched at his mouth with a paper napkin, his face blooming, his eyes lit with a dangerous alcoholic shine.

He went into the men’s room and minutes later came back out, a paper towel folded in his right hand. He located himself behind Bobby Mack Rydel and the woman with white-gold hair. While the dealer put down the flop, Clete placed the folded paper towel between Rydel and his girlfriend, deliberately dropping the two shiny purple-and-black square packets it contained on the floor.

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry,” he said. He bent over and picked up the packets, then replaced them under the paper towel, first making sure that everyone saw them. “I think they’re what you wanted—those hard-ribbed ones, right?”

Rydel used his elbow to rake the two packs of condoms off the table, back onto the floor, never even looking at Clete. Even more dumbfounding was the fact that hardly anyone else at the table paid attention to Clete’s behavior.

Clete shifted gears and went into another mode. He studied the three communal cards that were faceup on the felt, his thumb and forefinger on his chin. “That’s too bad. You should have gotten out before the flop. Looks like you’re screwed, Bobby Mack,” he said.

That did it. Rydel removed his hat and hung it by its leather chin cord on the back of his chair. Then he twisted around so he could see Clete more clearly. His eyes were lead-gray, his sideburns neatly etched, the skin around his mouth drained of blood. “Who are you?” he asked.

“You don’t remember me?” Clete said.

“No, I never saw you before in my life.”

“You remember Courtney Degravelle?”

“No, I don’t. You got me mixed up with someone else.”

The head of security had walked up behind Clete. He was a retired St. Mary Parish sheriff’s detective by the name of Tim Romero. He had salt-and-pepper hair and was dressed in a blue sports coat, knife-crease gray slacks, and shined loafers. “Is there a problem here?” he said.

“Not with me,” Clete said. “But this guy here is on the grift. I already reported him at the door. If he hasn’t switched out cards on you yet, he will.”

“Do you mind stepping over to the bar with me?” Romero asked.

“No, I don’t mind. But that guy is a griffin and his partner there, the guy with the waxed head, is a pervert.”

“That’s it, Mr. Purcel, you either come with me or you’ll be escorted from the casino.”

Clete raised his palms. “You want creeps at your tables, that’s your choice. Tell you what, call your colleagues in Atlantic City or Vegas about these two guys and see what kind of feedback you get.”

I cupped one hand on Clete’s shoulder and looked at Romero. “He’s okay. We’re going to get a cup of coffee,” I said.

“If you say so, Dave. But don’t make me regret I took this job,” Romero said.

Clete and I went to the bar and immediately he ordered a Jack and a beer back.

“Clete—”

“Trust me,” he said. “We’re going to nail those guys. We just need to twist the screw a little tighter.”

“I think we’re firing in the well,” I said.

“Wrong,” he said.

He sipped from the shot glass and touched at his mouth with the back of his wrist, his stare riveted on Rydel’s face. Rydel glanced up at him, then back at his cards. Then he looked up again. Clete’s stare stayed on his face. Rydel fitted his hat back on and slanted the brim down like a man keeping the sun’s glare out of his eyes.

I got out my cell phone and walked to a quiet place at the end of the bar. I scrolled down to Betsy Mossbacher’s cell number and punched the “Call” button.

Please pick up, Betsy, I thought.