A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

“He dealt the play,” I said.

“No, Penelope Balangie did.”

“Wrong.”

“Keep telling yourself that. She’ll have you mumbling to yourself.”

“She swears she’s not married to Adonis.”

“You believe her?” he said.

“Yeah, I do.” But I stumbled on my words.

“Why would a broad with her kind of class use up her life as a house ornament for a greaseball? Ask yourself another question: Why would a guy like Adonis not try to nail her? How would you like to look at those knockers every morning and say, ‘Nope, not for me. Hands off.’?”

“Can you stop thinking in those terms?”

“You know I’m telling the truth.”

“You don’t know her.”

“And you do?”

This time I didn’t try to answer. “I’ll see you later.”

“You didn’t ask why I was calling you all day. Li’l Face Dautrieve came to my office. She’s still living in the Loreauville quarters and hooking halftime. A piece of shit named Jess Bottoms fixed her up with some of his friends and paid her with bills that were marked with purple dye.”

“Like the bills given to the hooker in New Orleans by Gideon Richetti?”

“That was my first thought,” he said. “I called Dana Magelli and got him to run the serial numbers. Bingo. Li’l Face’s bills are part of the same series.”

“Who is Jess Bottoms?”

“He manages pit bull fights.”

“Why did Li’l Face bring the bills to you?”

“She thinks there’s a gris-gris on them,” he said. “Bottoms says he’ll give her fresh bills, but he’s got to get the marked ones back. She already spent some of them.”

“So you think Richetti tried to buy another prostitute out of the life, and instead the money got spread around to her friends?”

“Something like that,” Clete said. “Li’l Face is scared of Bottoms. He’s big on beating up women.”

“Where’s Bottoms now?” I asked.

“Sunset,” he said. “Once known as the nigger-knocking capital of Louisiana.”

* * *

WE DROVE IN Clete’s Caddy to a paintless farmhouse south of Opelousas. It was surrounded by burning sugarcane stubble that glowed alight whenever the wind gusted. There was no grass in the yard, no livestock in the pens. I could see the silhouette of a two-story barn in back, and hear dogs barking.

“How do you want to play it?” I said.

Clete cut the engine and killed the headlights. “He was a deputy sheriff in Mississippi.”

“So?”

“Don’t be subtle,” Clete replied.