A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“Tell me about it.”

“What’s that mean?”

He shook off the question. “Marcel LaForchette was sprung five days ago and is in New Iberia?”

“In all probability.”

“Stay clear of this, Streak. Starting with LaForchette. He was the iceman for the Balangie family.”

“He admits to being the driver on a hit they ordered.”

“Driver, my ass. He was one of the guys who sawed up Tommy Fig and froze the parts and strung them from a ceiling fan. You got the tag on the Olds?”

“I couldn’t get a good look at it.”

“Who’s the missing girl?”

“They didn’t say.”

He was bareheaded and wearing a Confederate-gray suit and a Hawaiian shirt and oxblood loafers. His blond hair was cut short and neatly wet-combed, his cheeks freshly shaved. A scar like a flat pink worm ran through one eyebrow to the bridge of his nose. He picked up a longneck and tilted it against the light, drinking the bottle empty, the foam sliding into his mouth. “You want a soda with lime and cherries?”

“I’ll let you know when I do.”

“I was being courteous. You’re getting played by LaForchette. Why’d you visit a geek like that, anyway?”

“He got a bad break as a kid.”

“So did Thomas Edison. A train conductor slapped him upside the head and broke his eardrum. He invented the lightbulb instead of killing people.”

“Edison provided the electricity for the original electric chair. He did it to drive his competitor out of business.”

“Only you would know something like that, Dave.”

“Why would the two guys in the Olds follow me to the joint? Why are they interested in me at all?”

“Back it up. They saw you talking to the Balangie girl on the pier. Right?”

“That’s my guess. Why else would they be bird-dogging me?”

“Who knows? They sound like ex-cops with bubble gum for brains,” he said.

“The Balangie girl said she was being delivered.”

“You mean like white slavery?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“This has the smell of greaseballs all over it. Don’t go near it. Don’t give me that look, either. ‘Greaseball’ is not a racial slur. It’s a state of mind. The only guy who ever got the upper hand on the Balangie family was Mussolini. He tore their fingernails out.”

I went to the bar and ordered a po’boy sandwich loaded with fried catfish. I got an extra paper plate and cut the sandwich in half and went back to the pool table. I put Clete’s plate on the chair next to his empty beer bottle. “You want a refill?”

“Why do you always make me feel guilty, Dave?”

“It’s a talent I have.”

“You want me to see what I can find out?”

Clete knew almost every street dip, hooker, Murphy artist, button man, crack dealer, low-rent PI, car booster, and dirty vice detective or cop on a pad in Orleans and St. Bernard Parish.