“Penelope Balangie’s tom-toms. For a minute or two I thought my magic twanger was shifting into overdrive.”
“Will you stop that?”
“No normal guy can see a set of bongos like that without his pole going on autopilot, so stop pretending. Before it’s over, she’ll have Adonis sticking a gun in his mouth. She’s the kind that promises you a ride, then ties your schlong to a car bumper.”
“Do you have to say everything through a bullhorn?”
“Adonis isn’t going to let anything happen to the girl. Time for us to bow out.”
“You’re right.”
He raised his eyebrows, surprised at my reaction, and adjusted the sling on his left arm. He bit his lip.
“You still have pain?” I said.
“No,” he said, obviously lying. “By the way, you got to Adonis when you told him LaForchette was working for Shondell.”
“I don’t feel too good about that,” I said.
“Quit it. He treated us like shit. What I don’t get is why a broad with money and education and tatas like that would marry a greaseball notorious for following his stiff one-eye.”
“Earlier you said he wasn’t a greaseball.”
“I said he went to college. You’re always twisting things around. You know your problem? I mean your real problem?”
“No, tell me.”
“You think you can save people from themselves. That’s why you went to see LaForchette in Huntsville.”
“That’s not why I went to see him.”
“So why did you?”
“I’ll tell you one day,” I said.
He put a chunk of bread in his mouth and chewed. “Know what?”
“What?”
“The Bobbsey Twins from Homicide are forever.”
“Until one of us gets shot.”
“So don’t make the wrong choices with the wrong broad and get us into trouble. Face it, big mon. If I wasn’t around, your life would be a toilet. Am I right or wrong? It’s not an easy job, either. Show a little gratitude.”
When we got back to the Caddy, all four tires were slashed, the taillights in the fins broken by a brick that lay on the asphalt. A note under the windshield wiper read, “This is for openers, queer-bait. I hope your arm hurts like a motherfucker. If you need a wrecker service this time of day, dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT.”
“Shondell’s PIs? I said.
“Who else?” Clete said. He crushed the note in his palm and tossed it at a sewer grate. “I should have popped both of them. How’d we get into this?”
I pretended not to hear him.
* * *
I WAS EXHAUSTED WHEN I got home. My daughter, Alafair, was away, and the house creaked with wind and emptiness when I opened the bedroom window and lay down in the dark. I could hear tree frogs singing on the bayou and see the lights of the sugar mill reflected in the clouds. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep, hoping that in the morning I would free myself of the Shondells and the Balangies. But rather than find a degree of nocturnal peace, I dreamed of a dark sea on which galleons with either black or white sails slid down waves twenty feet high, the oars manned by half-naked convicts chained to the handles, foam exploding on the bows. The ships pitched with such ferocity that sometimes the oar blades struck in empty air. The expressions on the faces of the convicts could have been taken from paintings depicting the souls of the damned.
I was awakened by the phone on the kitchen counter at 2:14 A.M. I put on my slippers and went into the kitchen without turning on the light; I looked at the caller ID. I didn’t recognize the number. I answered anyway. “Hello?”