A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

The expression on his mouth was bitter. “Get away from the Balangie family. Spend time with your daughter. Isn’t she coming home for Christmas?”

“She’s on a school trip to Paris.”

“Join her,” he said.

Johnny and Isolde had gone back onstage. Julian was staring across the dance floor at Mark Shondell and Eddy Firpo’s table, his eyelids fluttering.

“What are you thinking?” I said.

“I’d like to tear them both apart. Limb and joint.” He walked away from the bar, swaying slightly, as though his gyroscope had stopped working.

Isolde and Johnny went into Dale and Grace’s version of “I’m Leaving It All Up to You.” When they finished, the crowd went wild.

I couldn’t find Clete. I looked in the restroom and checked the Caddy. It was parked just where we had left it. My mouth was dry, my hands stiff when I tried to close them, my heart racing for no reason; a pressure band was tightening around the right side of my head, a prelude to hitting the deck, getting sloshed, or bursting a vessel in the brain.

Then I saw Clete smoking a cigarette by the side of the club. He was grinning, his teeth as big as tombstones, his porkpie hat slanted on his forehead, the Clete Purcel of old—unafraid, irreverent, always slipping the punch and shining on the worst the world could throw at him.

My cell phone throbbed in my pants pocket. I put it to my ear. “Hello?” I said.

Clete saw my expression when I heard the voice on the other end. The joy went out of his face as though someone had clicked off a light.

* * *

“DO YOU KNOW who this is?” the voice said.

“Your voice is not one people forget,” I replied.

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, sir, I know better than that.”

Clete flipped away his cigarette and began walking toward me. The front door of the bar was open, and I could hear Johnny and Isolde singing “Red Sails in the Sunset.”

“Look, Mr. Richetti—” I began.

“Be quiet,” he said. “I need to ask a favor of you.”

“Sir?”

“Tell the Jewish girl I’m sorry.”

“Which Jewish girl?”

“Her child is crippled.”

“You’re sorry about what?”

“She’ll know,” he said.

“Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

“I’m ashamed. I would frighten her also.”

“Buddy, you’re one for the books.”

“You and your friend Mr. Purcel must leave the nightclub.”

“Why?”