Crusader's Cross (Dave Robicheaux 14)

I walked through the trees, down the grassy slope toward the bayou. The scene taking place below could have been snipped from a magazine depiction of upper-class life in Cuba or Nicaragua prior to an era of Marxist revolution. A group of people I didn't know were gathered in the shade of a candy-striped awning, eating strawberry cake and drinking champagne, while two shooters with double-barrel shotguns took turns firing at live pigeons that a black man released one by one from a wire cage.

A nice-looking man in seersucker slacks, his tie pulled loose because of the heat, his sports coat hooked on his thumb over his shoulder, passed me on the slope. "How are you?" he said.

"Fine. How do you do, sir?"

"It's mighty hot." But the negative content of his reply was countered by a boyish smile. His hair was closely clipped, the part razor-edged, his face youthful and sincere.

"I've seen you on television. You're Mr. Alridge," I said.

"Yes, sir. I am. Colin Alridge," he said, and extended his hand.

A shotgun popped dully inside the breeze. I saw a pigeon in flight crumple and plummet into the water.

The televangelical lobbyist named Colin Alridge cut his head. "That's an ugly business down there. I thought it was time for me to go," he said.

"It's nice meeting you, Mr. Alridge," I said.

"Yes, sir, same here," he replied.

I watched him walk to his car, a bit awed at our age-old propensity for vesting power over our lives in individuals who themselves are probably dumbfounded by the gift that we arbitrarily bestow upon them. But I had a feeling Colin Alridge would rue the day he had chosen to front points for the Chalons family and their casino interests.

Val Chalons disengaged himself from the group under the awning and walked out in the sunlight, shading his eyes from the glare with his hand. "You don't seem to have parameters of any kind," he said.

"Looks like you're doing quite a restoration on your old man's place," I said.

"I don't care to hear my father referred to in that fashion," he said.

"No disrespect meant. I didn't admire the ethos your father represented, but I liked him personally. Please accept my sympathies."

"You're unbelievable," he said.

Val's face was heavily made up to hide the beating I had given him. But cosmetics couldn't disguise the blood clot in his eye and the stitches in his mouth. Actually I felt sorry for him and wondered again at the level of violence that still lived inside me.

"I've got a problem of conscience, Val."

"Thanks for sharing that, but I couldn't care less. I'd appreciate your leaving now."

I heard one of the shooters say, "Pull." Another pigeon broke into flight, its wings throbbing, only to be blown apart above the bayou.

"That's an unlawful activity," I said.

"Not on my land it isn't."

The sun was boiling overhead. The shotgun popped again, like a dull headache that wouldn't go away.

"A friend of mine inadvertently sent the wrong signal to a guy by the name of Jericho Johnny Wineburger. He's a button man who works out of New Orleans. He's now in our area. I think he might try to do you harm."

I tried to hold his stare but I couldn't. I looked across the bayou at the dust blowing out of a cane field.

"Button man?" Val said.

"A contract killer, a guy who pushes the 'off button on people. Jericho Johnny is a mean motor scooter, Val. He and another dude took out Bugsy Siegel's cousin with a shotgun."

"Bugsy Siegel? This gets better all the time. And you've come here as a police officer to tell me that a friend of yours has aimed this person at me?"

"Yeah, I guess that sums it up."

"Have some strawberry cake, Dave. Maybe a glass of non-alcoholic champagne, too. Back at your AA meetings, are you?" he said.