"What's going on?"
"Val Chalons is behind everything that's been happening. The old man wasn't even an adverb."
"Behind what?" he said. "Are you drinking again?"
But I had no moral authority on the subject of the Chalons family and I didn't try to answer Jimmie's question. At quitting time, I called Molly and told her I'd be late for supper and drove to Clete Purcel's motor court.
"You're saying Valentine Chalons is the son of Lou Kale?" Clete said.
"That's been the engine the whole time," I said.
"No, the engine's money. It's always money, no matter what they say."
"Same thing," I said. "Val Chalons has spent his whole life lying about who he is. What happens to his credibility as a TV broadcaster if he admits he's always known his real father is a pimp? Imagine Lou Kale showing up at Chalons's country club."
Clete studied my face. "You want to salt the mine shaft?" he said.
"You doing anything else?" I asked.
The two of us sat down at Clete's old Smith-Corona portable and composed the following letter. Actually, most of it was Clete's work and in my estimation a masterpiece Ring Lardner would have tipped his hat to.
Dear Mr. Chalons,
A hooker I happened to know by the name of Big Tit Flora Mazaroni just gave me some interesting information about a pimp who is now in Lafayette, one Lou Coyne, a.k.a. Lou Kale. After packing too much flake up his nose, he told Flora he's got an illegitimate son in Jeanerette, a famous TV guy who just inherited between eighty and one hundred million dollars. Guess who this famous TV guy is?
Guess what else? Kale says this TV guy is not only a liar and a phony but also a horny sex freak who is so hard up he had to bop his space-o sister. Flora says Kale is going to milk this particular TV dude for every cent he's got.
I happen to be in the P.I. business. I got a personal score to settle with Kale, but I can also protect your interests if the above material seems to describe anyone in your acquaintance. If you need references, call Nig Rosewater at Bimstine's Bonds in New Orleans. Nig will vouch for my confidentiality and total professionalism.
Have a nice day,
Clete Purcel
But masterpiece or not, Clete and I decided we should not neglect Lou Kale. Clete rolled another sheet of paper into the Smith-Corona and started typing, his porkpie hat cocked at an angle, his stomach hanging over a pair of boxer shorts that were printed with sets of blue dice.
Lou —
You are probably surprised to hear from me after you set me up and your two hired bean-rollers tried to put out my lights. But business is business. Valentine Chalons does not want you and your wife hustling cooze in this area. I get the sense there's a family fight of some kind going on here, but I couldn't care less on the subject and I'm not pursuing it. The point is Chalons is inheriting eighty to one hundred million dollars and indicates he does not need his life and reputation queered by a lot of baggage from a Galveston whorehouse.
The short version is the guy's seriously pissed off and he's hired me to take care of the problem. He says you're a gutless douche bag and you'll squirm back under the rocks with the first shot across your bow. True or not, I'd like to hear a counteroffer.
In my opinion, this guy is not normal and the cops should have taken a lot harder look at him for his sister's murder. This is not a guy who shares the bucks. For some reason he seems to think you and your old lady got a sniff of his m
oney and are going to lay claims on it. Believe me when I tell you his feelings about you are real strong. Did you hurt this guy when he was a kid or something?
Keep a smiley face.
Sincerely,
Clete Purcel, Private Investigator
Clete folded the letters, placed them in envelopes, and addressed each of them.
Twenty minutes later one of his bonded-out clients, a habitual alligator poacher, picked up the envelopes for delivery in Lafayette and Jeanerette.
"Beautiful work, Cletus," I said.
"Not bad. There's only one problem," he said.