Last Car to Elysian Fields (Dave Robicheaux 13)

"Where?"

"Walking down off the levee. He's carrying a briefcase. Look for yourself. He's got a bandage around his throat," Caesar said.

Tito went to the window, then pulled a curtain across it. "You ever seen a priest around here?" he asked.

"Yeah, lots of priests hung out at Frank's old fuck pad."

"His fuck pad was up the road. Our father used to take us fishing here. It ain't a fuck pad," Tito said.

"Enough, already. It's a priest carrying a pro-life petition around or something. It ain't a big deal," Caesar said.

"Get outside."

"Do it yourself. The mosquitoes out there eat cows for lunch." Caesar peeked through the side of the curtain. "See, he's gone."

Just as he dropped the curtain back in place someone in heavy shoes walked up on the porch and banged hard on the door. Tito and Caesar looked at each other. Then the visitor on the porch banged even harder, shaking the entire cabin. "I'll get rid of him. Stay with asshole," Caesar said.

He removed a .2 5 caliber automatic from his side pocket, snicked a round into the chamber, set the safety, and replaced the gun in his pocket. He opened the door and stepped into the front room. Tito Dellacroce stood behind me, one huge hand resting on my shoulder, the lower portion of his stomach touching the back of the chair. I could hear him breathing and smell the food he had eaten for supper on his skin. Caesar had left the door between the rooms ajar so Tito could listen.

"What can I do for you, Father?" I heard Caesar say.

The reply was muffled, a wheezing sound, like a man speaking through a rusty clot in his windpipe.

"What's that?" Caesar said.

The priest tried again, his voice barely a whisper.

"You're signing up people for a retreat?" Caesar said. "No, we belong to a church in Florida. We're just doing some fishing. Here's five bucks for your missions or whatever. No, I don't need no holy card."

The priest spoke again.

"We ain't got a bathroom. Just a privy out back no white person would want to slap his keester on. Try the filling station up on the state road. Okay, vaya con dios. That's Latin for 'see you around," right?"

A moment later Caesar came back through the door that separated the two rooms of the cabin.

"So?" Tito said.

"So nothing. The guy had a tracheotomy or something. He sounded like all his gas was coming out the wrong end," Caesar said.

"Check."

"On what?"

"On where he is. I got to draw a picture on your forehead?"

"You worry too much," Caesar said irritably, and jerked the window curtain aside again. Then he froze. "I told him not to go back there."

"Go back where?" Tito said.

"To our privy. I told him not to do that."

"Give me your piece. Get away from the window," Tito said.

The wind gusted off the water, stressing the tin roof against the joists. Then someone stepped onto the back porch. Tito jerked the .25 caliber automatic from his brother's hand and clicked the safety off with his thumb. "Is that you, Father? "Cause if it is this is getting to be a headache we don't need "

The door burst open and, framed against the light, dressed in a black suit and Roman collar and black rabat, was a compact, well-groomed man with a 1911 U.S. Army model .45 automatic in each hand.

"Oh, it's a darling pair we have here. Suck on this," he said. He began firing with both guns, shooting Tito in the mouth and through the throat, hitting his brother Caesar Dellacroce in the sternum and thigh.