A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“It’s an invitation-only party, baby doll,” Eddy said.

Baby doll?

“Come on, Mr. Robicheaux is one of the gang,” she said.

“What can I say? Come in, fellows. Don’t steal my ashtrays.”

Then we were inside, the door closed behind us. Through the picture windows, I could see the bay striped with foam, electricity dancing on the horizon, which was growing darker by the minute. At the bar, I saw two men who didn’t fit with the others. They wore green cargo pants and black T-shirts emblazoned with crossed white M-16s and military-style boots that were part leather and part canvas. Their stomachs were as flat as boards inside their belt buckles, their heads shaved.

Isolde gripped my upper arm with both hands. “I want to apologize for saying ‘fuck you’ on the pier,” she said.

“I considered it a compliment,” I said. “This is Clete Purcel.”

She touched his arm, too, as though sharing a secret message. I had the feeling Johnny Shondell wouldn’t be delivering Isolde to his uncle’s home. “It’s all so wonderful,” she said.

“What is?” Clete said.

“Everythi

ng,” she said. “We recorded an album at Muscle Shoals. I sing on three of the songs. Eddy’s company is going to sell them all over the country. Isn’t that right, Eddy? We’re signing the contract today.”

“Yeah, we better get on that,” Eddy said. “You fellows get yourself a drink.”

“You from the Bronx?” I said, smiling.

“Miami,” he said.

“Nothing for me,” I said.

“Same here,” Clete said.

Eddy circled his fingers around Isolde’s wrist as though he were picking up a dog leash. “Let’s get on it, doll. I got to get back to Fort Lauderdale tonight.”

Johnny Shondell waved at us from the bar, then headed toward us. He was sure a good-looking kid, the kind who seemed to float through a crowd of his peers rather than walk. It was no wonder the girls loved him, but I had a feeling he was a one-woman man. His eyes never left Isolde, even when he was shaking hands with us. Eddy was trying to get his attention. “Johnny, I got a business to run, here. Hey, what am I, a fire hydrant waiting for somebody to piss on? Look at me.”

“I got you covered, Eddy,” Johnny said. “We’re about to play a couple of numbers. Get the marimbas. You can play along.”

“The marimbas can wait,” Eddy said. “These guys can wait. The whole fucking world can wait. But the banks in the Islands do not wait. You hearing me, here?”

“Calm down, Eddy,” Isolde said.

“I’m telling you, I don’t got time for this,” he said.

“Put an ice cube in your mouth,” she said. “It’ll help you think.” Then she saw the look on his face. “You’re adorable, Eddy. Don’t be sensitive.” She kissed him on the cheek. His eyes were lumps of coal focused on nothing, his nostrils dilating.

“You own a record company?” Clete said to him.

“Do I own a record company?” Eddy said. He turned up his palms, as though he couldn’t fathom the question. “My house looks like I drive a bread truck?”

“Johnny, don’t you need a lawyer when you sign contracts?” I said.

“I’m the lawyer,” Eddy said.

“You?” I said.

“I don’t look or talk like a lawyer?” he said.

“Ole Miss?” Clete said.