A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“Because I had a run-in with them?”

“Because one of them put a knife in you,” I said.

“I’m keeping myself unavailable. Let’s get back to Penelope Balangie. You’re not letting those lovely tatas get to you, are you?”

“Will you lay off that?”

“I know what you mean. My Jolly Roger never gets out of control, either.”

“I’m not going to have this kind of discussion with you, Clete.”

“I know you, Streak. You run into a broad with her heart on your sleeve, and suddenly, it’s boom-boom time on the bayou. They’re in Bay St. Louis.”

“I can’t keep up with what you’re saying. Who’s in Bay St. Louis?”

“Johnny Shondell and Isolde Balangie. This musician friend of mine says they’re in a rich guy’s place on the beach. The guy is some kind of geek who’s big stuff in the music world.”

“I told Penelope Balangie I’m out. I meant it.”

“Regarding the two fuckheads who ended up Vienna sausage? Somebody wrote down my license number after I busted them up in the motel. NOPD has been knocking on doors and asking around. A couple of them still want to do some payback for a few things I did back in the eighties.”

“Get out of town for a while.” I could hear static on the line but no voice. “Clete?”

“You advise me to hide?” he said. “That’s the best you can do?”

“We need to sit this one out.”

“Stop pretending.”

“About what?”

“We both know what happened to those guys. That was a greaseball hit. It’s the same way Johnny Roselli went out. They cut off his legs and put an ice pick in his stomach so his barrel wouldn’t float up. I bet both those guys took one in the stomach. Right or wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

“Told you,” he said.

“And?” I said disingenuously.

“And nothing,” he said. “See you around.”

“Where are you now?”

“A dump in Holy Cross.”

“Give me the address.”

“I’ll hump my own pack on this one, Dave.”

“You’re really making me mad, Clete.”

He gave me the address of the hotel where he was staying. I knew the place well. He was right: It was a dump, the kind where you paid cash and slept off hangovers when you couldn’t afford a detox unit. “Bring some eats, will you?” he said. “It’s pouring here.”

There was something I wanted to tell him real bad. But I was too embarrassed. It’s funny how Clete could read my mind. “You want to get something off your chest, Streak?” he said.

“I’m having ‘warning dreams.’ Stormy seas, a galleon with convicts chained to the oars. They look like they’re in hell.”

“You just scared the shit out of me.”