A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“I went to law school in the Dominican Republic,” Eddy said.

“Can I use your bathroom?” Clete said.

“Through the hallway,” Eddy said. “Make sure you flush.”

But I knew the bathroom wasn’t on Clete’s mind. He had been glancing at the two men in cargo pants at the bar. He walked down the hallway and into the bathroom, then came back out and stood at the bar next to the two men, studying the bay through a picture window, his back to the men.

Johnny rejoined his musician friends and hung a Gibson Super Jumbo acoustic guitar from his neck, then went into Larry Finnegan’s “Dear One.” The keyboard and the rumble of the drums and the resonance of the Gibson and the four/four beat created a throbbing combination reminiscent of Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound. When Johnny finished singing, the room went wild. Johnny was way beyond good. He was painted with magic. His voice, his lack of pretense, his obvious love of music for its own sake, and his appreciation of Larry Finnegan’s tribute to the 1950s were like an invitation into a cathedral you never wanted to leave.

Isolde’s eyes were damp. Eddy had gone into the back of the house. Isolde and I were alone.

“You okay?” I said.

“I don’t want it to ever end,” she replied.

“The song?”

“All of it. I don’t want it to end.”

“Why should it end, Isolde?”

“Because we’re not meant to be.”

“Not meant to be? Who’s not meant to be?”

“We’re supposed to live our lives for others. Me and Johnny.”

“This is still the United States,” I said. “You can be whatever you want and tell other people to kiss your foot.”

“I’m scared, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“Call me Dave. Scared of what? Of whom?”

“The people who are going to take it away from us.”

“Nobody is going to take anything away from you. Not if Clete and I have anything to do with it.”

She wasn’t buying it. In the meantime, something had happened at the bar. I should have known it. William Blake called it the canker in the rose.

* * *

CLETE HAD OBVIOUSLY changed his mind about having a drink. He was leaning against the bar, wearing his Panama hat, a bottle of tequila and a shot glass and a salt shaker and a saucer with sliced limes in front of him. As I walked toward him, he poured a shot and knocked it back, then sucked on a salted lime. He wiped his fingers and began talking to two men in paramilitary drag as though continuing a lecture he’d had to interrupt in order to put some more fuel in the tank. “See, I know a little Vietnamese and a little Japanese, but I never took up the study of European languages. So you got to tell me what those words on your medallions mean. They look like artworks. I might want to join your organization.”

“What’s happening, Cletus?” I said.

“No haps,” he said. “I just dig these guys and their medallions. There’s a torch on them, like at the Olympics. What looks like German writing, too. I’m correct, aren’t I? It’s German?”

One man stared at me boldly, then went back to his beer. He was either a pro who knew when to disengage or a man who didn’t like even odds. The second man’s body was as stiff as coat-hanger wire. A tiny swastika was tattooed at the corner of one eye. His face had the angularity of an ax blade, like he was wired on meth or fear.

“You guys mercs?” I said.

“Security,” said the man with the ink.

“Let’s get some food, Cletus,” I said.

“Absolutely not,” Clete said. He poured into the shot glass until it brimmed, then knocked half of it back. He sucked on the lime, then set down the glass and wiped his mouth. “Come on, buddy, don’t leave me in the dark. I know what Juden means. How about the rest of it? You guys work for the Israeli government?”

The man drinking beer laughed to himself, looking out the window at the rain. He was unshaved and had a cleft chin with a scar across it, like a piece of white twine. I put my arm across Clete’s shoulders. “Time to dee-dee.”