Last Car to Elysian Fields (Dave Robicheaux 13)

"I'd show you where to bite me, but I'm holding up the building here," he said.

"Helen, could I have a word with Mr. Dellacroce?" I said.

"Please do," she replied.

Dellacroce took his hands off the wall and watched her and the deputies get back in their cruisers. I told Dellacroce's two friends to go inside their rooms and to keep their doors shut. Dellacroce stared at me, a cautious light in his eyes.

"My house is off-limits to you, Frank. So is Father Jimmie Dolan," I said.

His slacks hung just below his navel. He traced the tips of his fingers up and down the smooth taper of his stomach, almost as though he were caressing a woman's skin. "You were Purcel's partner in the First District?" he said.

"At one time."

"Mind if I get my shirt?" he said.

"No, I don't mind," I said.

He reached inside the door and picked up a long-sleeve pink shirt and began drawing a sleeve up his arm. His hair was tapered, lightly oiled, iridescent on the tips. "Purcel was on a pad for us," he said.

"Yeah?" I said.

"That's all. He made himself a little change."

"What are you saying, Frank?"

"Nothing. Just talking about the history of your friend."

"Tell me, is that story about your infant child true?"

"No," he said. His eyes held on mine, devoid of any sentiment or moral consideration I could see, indifferent to the lie they either contained or did not contain. His mouth was slightly parted and his teeth were wet with his saliva. I could feel his breath puff against my skin like a presence released from a poisonous flower. Involuntarily I stepped back from him.

"Word of caution, Frank. Max Coll was a shooter for the IRA," I said.

"The what?"

"I hope you find Coll. I really do. Have a nice day," I said, and grinned at him.

The sun came out late in the afternoon, the wind died, and the sky was marbled with crimson clouds. When I got home from work Father Jimmie was raking leaves in the backyard.

"Clete and I are going to throw a line in. How about joining us?" I said.

"Not today," he said. He picked up a huge sheaf of blackened pecan and oak leaves and dropped them on a fire burning inside a rusted oil barrel. The smoke rose in thick curds and twisted through the canopy like a yellow handkerchief.

"Never knew you to pass up a fishing trip," I said.

"I saw Max Coll," he said.

"Don't say that."

"I was coming out of Winn-Dixie. He was standing across the street."

"Maybe you're imagining things."

"No, I saw him, Dave."

"Then he'd better not come around here."

"He's a sick man. He needs help."