"Let's eat first. Wow, what a scorcher. You could fry eggs on the sidewalk."
I began to regret we'd come to New Orleans. We'd revisited the underside of the city, a world of avarice, use, and deceit, even enlisting the aid of a pimp in order to interview a child prostitute, gaining nothing of value in turn except the cynical knowledge that no vice flourishes without sanction. I wanted to take a shower and burn my clothes. I wanted to be back in New Iberia with Molly Boyle.
Clete finished eating and pinched a paper napkin on his mouth, then studied his convertible, his jaw cocked thoughtfully. Some black teenagers had been parked by Clete's vehicle for a few minutes, their radio blaring, but they had driven away and now the Caddy sat by itself in the warm shade of the oak tree. Clete stuffed our trash in a barrel and hefted up his ice cooler. "Let's rock," he said.
He fished his keys out of his slacks, but walked to the rear of the Caddy rather than to the driver's door. He propped one of his two-tone shoes on the bumper and brushed dust off it with his handkerchief. "You going to behave now?" he said to the car trunk.
Inside, I could hear muffled cries and feet kicking against a hard surface. "Who's in there?" I said, incredulous.
"Jigger Babineau. I forgot it was Sunday. Jigger always visits his wife's tomb on Sunday. The little bastard tried to stab me with the file on his nail clippers."
Clete slipped the key in the lock and popped the hatch. The smell of body odor and urine mushroomed out of the trunk. Jigger Babineau sat up, blinking at the light, then tumbled onto the grass, gasping for cool air.
Jigger had facial features like a stick figure. He had sprayed hair remover on his eyebrows, for reasons he had never explained, and now daily re-created his eyebrows with black eye pencil so that he looked perpetually surprised or frightened. He was short, pear-shaped, and wore double-soled shoes and suits with padded shoulders and some said a roll of socks stuffed inside his fly. His hands were white and round and as small as a ten-year-old child's. He was plainly disgusted with his circumstances and the indignity that had been visited upon him. "I figured if elephant-ass was back in town, you weren't far away," he said.
"Comment la vie, Jigger?" I said.
"He's good. Throw him a beer," Clete said.
"How'd you hear about a cop wanting to pop me?" I asked.
"Why should I tell you anyt'ing?" he said.
"Because we don't mind riding you around in my car trunk some more," Clete said.
"Do it, you fat fuck. I couldn't care less. I already pissed myself,"' he said.
"Not a good choice of words. Jigger," Clete said.
"Try these — bite my pole. Also, teach your sister to be a little more tidy. She left her diaphragm under my bed again," Jigger said.
I cracked a beer and handed it to him. "You could have taken the bounce on that armored car job, Jigger, but we got you into Witness Protection and let the Giacanos go down for the robbery. They're dead, you're on the street, and you never did time. Tell me, you really think you got a raw deal?"
But Jigger was still noncommittal. I tried again, this time using his birth name. "You're a family guy, Apollo. Clete and I knew that. That's why you got slack and the Giacanos got back-to-back nickels in Angola," I said.
He lifted his shirt off his chest and smelled himself. "You got any salt?" he asked.
"Hang on," I said.
I went back to the trash barrel by our picnic table and dug a tiny pack of salt from our take-out box. Clete could hardly hide his impatience. Jigger sprinkled his beer can and drank from it, then cut a grateful belch. "The word was out somebody had a kite up on an Iberia Parish detective. But no pro in New Orleans is gonna hit a cop. So they didn't get no takers."
"Who's 'they'?" I said.
"Like they hand out business cards wit' their names on them?" he said.
"How'd you like the side of your head kicked in?" Clete said.
"That's it, Purcel. Tell your sister she's glommed my magic twanger for the last time," Jigger said.
I thought Clete was going to hit him, but this time he couldn't help but laugh. Jigger drank again from the can and looked at me. "I heard the juice was coming down from some people who used to own some cathouses. That's how come the work went to this cop. He was tight with the people running these cathouses."
"Why did thes
e guys want me out of the way, Jigger?"
"I didn't try to find out. It's amateurs who's messed up this city. I stay away from them," he said. "You got another brew in there?"
I squatted down, eye-level with him. "You're not giving us a lot of help here, partner," I said.