A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“You get any prints at the church?”

“Yeah, same as inside the cab, so many we might as well be doing the Superdome. I haven’t slept in over thirty hours.”

“You’re a good cop, Dana.”

“Tell Clete he can get in touch with me or see how he likes one of our new holding cells. I’ve got a question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your colleague LeBlanc says Penelope Balangie came to your department looking for you. He also says she was seen at your house. Please tell me it’s not what I think.”

* * *

DANA HAD BROUGHT up a major problem of conscience for me. Celibacy and I had never been very compatible. I tried, certainly, but at best usually ended up with a C-minus. Through my encounter with Penelope Balangie, I had managed to involve myself with people whose thinking powers were probably locked inside the sixteenth century. On top of it, I had trouble keeping her out of my thoughts.

Also, I was worried about Clete Purcel, and the innocence and naïveté and false optimism that often blinded him to the pernicious nature of the people with whom he surrounded himself. And if that sounds like an indictment of myself as well, you’re right.

What are your choices in a situation such as this? What would a great philosopher of ethics such as Jeremy Bentham probably say? I suspect something like “Search me, pal.”

Anyway, I knew where to find Adonis Balangie on midweek nights and Sunday mornings. I checked an unmarked car out of the department Wednesday afternoon and headed for New Orleans.

* * *

HIS TENNIS CLUB had the best clay courts in the city. At sunset the lights clicked on with a loud swatch, glowing with humidity against a sky that was the color of torn plums, tall palm trees with slender trunks creating an additional ambiance that could have come from The Arabian Nights.

I parked my car in the shadows and wandered over to a court where Adonis was playing doubles with three women, the metal eyelets on the nylon screens clinking softly in the breeze. A woman at the net swung her backhand four feet from his face and almost took off his head. Gentleman that he was, Adonis grinned and said, “Fine shot, Leslie. My God, you could rip off a man’s head.”

She seemed to beam in response, although I wasn’t altogether convinced of her sincerity. I watched them walk off the court and sit at a table under the palms. In the center of the table, a magnum of champagne was nestled in an ice bucket sweating with frost. I knew Adonis had seen me approach, but he gave no sign, instead listening keenly to one of the women. It was hard to tell them apart. They seemed designed the way a brand-name product was, each with coarse bleached yellow hair pulled straight back, each suntanned, each with a lean and hungry look. I walked into the light.

“What’s the haps, Adonis?” I said.

“Didn’t know you were a member, Detective Robicheaux,” he replied, his gaze resting playfully on the three women as though I were part of a humorous script.

“Can we take a walk?” I asked.

“I think not,” he said. He removed the foil from the champagne bottle and twisted the key on the wire cage and dropped it on the table, then gripped the cork and twisted the bottle from it without spilling a drop. “Like to join us? Here, I’ll pour you a glass.”

I pulled up an iron chair and sat down. I was pretty sure Adonis knew I was in the program, and I believed he was taunting me. My feelings were strange, though. I wasn’t angry with him; I felt disappointed.

Then I saw a thought swim into his eyes. He tapped himself o

n the forehead. “Sorry, Dave. I forgot you have a problem with sugar or something. You want some hot tea?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “How are you ladies tonight?”

They smiled but didn’t speak. Their eyes didn’t seem to match their faces, as though each was wearing tinted contact lenses.

“Y’all don’t mind giving me five minutes, do you?” Adonis said.

As the women walked toward the clubhouse, the one named Leslie turned and looked at me and put one finger in her mouth and sucked it while crossing her eyes. There was a scar on her cheek she had covered with makeup. I had seen her before, but I couldn’t remember where. Adonis followed my line of sight. “Leslie has a rough edge or two, but live and let live, right?” he said. “What brings you to my club?”

“Know a guy with a harelip and no nose who likes to hurt people?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.” He poured into a champagne glass and drank from it. The tips of his hair were sun-bleached and glistening with moisture. “He’s somebody I should be concerned about?”

“You tell me. I hear Johnny Shondell is in a treatment center in Baton Rouge.”

“I wouldn’t know.”