A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

But secretly, I wondered if I was afraid of Adonis. I don’t mean in a physical way. He bothered me for other reasons. I never knew who Adonis really was. Nobody did. He had qualities. He had been a champion swimmer in high school and college and a paratrooper in the service. Like most mobsters, he was a womanizer, but he never used profanity or was vulgar or lowered himself to the level of his enemies. It was the unreadability of his eyes and his lack of emotion that gave him power. Adonis didn’t rattle.

* * *

THE GROUNDS OF the Balangie estate were comparatively enormous for an urban area, particularly on Lake Pontchartrain, and surrounded by brick walls and piked gates. The grass was chemical-green and without shade trees, spiked with artless statuary that had no visual unity or theme, the mansion itself a parody of Greek revival that could have been transported from Disney World. The concrete pillars on the porch were swollen in the center and resembled giant beer kegs painted with strings of English ivy. The veranda contained a refrigerator and an exercise cycle and a bed frame with a rubber-encased mattress, where the father used to lie in the afternoon with a glass of lemonade propped on his stomach, his body hair oily and slick against his sun-bronzed skin.

The most attractive aspect of the compound was the view of the lake and the yacht club to the south and the sailboats tacking in the chop, and I wondered if Pietro, the Balangie patriarch, believed he was part of it, reborn in the New Country, safe from poverty, forgiven for the sins he committed out of necessity in the service of a capitalistic God.

I had Adonis’s unlisted number from years ago, and I had called before we arrived. Adonis walked out on the porch before we could exit the car, wearing white slacks and sanda

ls and a long-sleeve black shirt with red flowers on it. His hair was the color of dark mahogany, combed straight back, his complexion as smooth and flawless as the skin on an olive. “Please come in,” he said.

“What’s the haps?” Clete said.

I thought I saw a flicker of goodwill in Adonis’s expression, but I suspected I was erring on the side of charity. Adonis weaponized silence, and this moment was not an exception. At the entranceway, Clete removed his hat and offered to take off his shoes.

“No,” Adonis said. “Come in as you are.”

“How have you been, Adonis?” I said.

“My home is yours,” he said, stepping aside, letting my question hang.

The upholstery and curtains and wallpaper were a mixture of lavender and pink and pale green, a combination I would normally associate with seasickness, all of it printed with flowers, creating the affect of a villa in southern Italy. An oil painting of Pietro Balangie and his wife hung over the mantelpiece. She wore a royal-purple brocaded coat with a white brooch on the chest and had beautiful gray-swept hair and a placid expression that could be interpreted as one of either fortitude or acceptance. Pietro wore a three-piece suit and a boutonniere and a plum-colored tie, his neck like a stump protruding from his shirt, his hair combed neatly. Pietro might have had the body of a hod carrier, but in the painting and in real life, there was no denying the regal aspect in his classical Roman features and the quiet confidence that could make ordinary businessmen tremble.

Three bear rugs lay in a semicircle around a stone fireplace, their mouths propped open, their glass eyes staring as though in anticipation of the gas logs igniting. A half-dozen cats were lying or walking on the furniture.

“You giving my home the once-over?” Adonis said.

“Sorry?” I replied.

“The decor in my home. It doesn’t meet your standards? Or maybe you don’t like cats?”

“It’s a fine place,” I said.

“I’m glad you approve.”

“You asked me a question and I’m answering it,” I said. “It’s a fine home.”

His eyes held mine. “My mother and father were proud of it. So am I. That’s why I don’t change anything about it, or invite just anybody inside it.”

I let my eyes slip off his.

“We appreciate your invitation,” Clete said, breaking the silence. “See, we heard maybe your daughter is missing, and we tried to help out. A couple of guys who work for Mark Shondell started a beef with us, and I ended up in the hospital. We thought you could give us a little information.”

“Isolde is my stepdaughter,” he said. “Her father died on a mercy mission to Rwanda.”

“Whatever,” Clete said. “She told Dave on this amusement pier over in Texas that she was being delivered to the Shondells. That’s a little weird, right? I mean the word ‘delivered.’ That’s what I would call deeply weird.”

Adonis’s gaze was focused in neutral space. His eyes seemed to change color, as though either a great sadness or a great darkness were having its way with his soul. “Why do you feel compelled to speak of things like this to me? Are you telling me I’m irresponsible as a parent? That’s why you’ve come into my home?”

“We treated your father with respect when we were at NOPD, Adonis,” I said. “We wouldn’t disrespect either you or your family.”

There was a pause, a silence in which I could only guess at his thoughts, the kind of moment you remember from high school when you stepped on the wrong kid’s foot and you felt an elevator drop to the bottom of your stomach.

“Walk with me,” he said. “I have to feed my animals. Do you know my wife?”

“No,” I said, letting out my breath. “We need to get the issue of your stepdaughter out of the way, Adonis.”

“You don’t wish to meet my wife?” he said.