A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

His hands formed a pyramid; he tapped the ends of his fingers together. I realized his face was heavily made up. I knew that at some point I would pay a price for the beating I had given him.

“Fine, Mr. Robicheaux,” he said. “And you? Seen my wife lately?”

“Cut the cutesy routine, Adonis,” Clete said. “We just had Gideon Richetti on the phone. I think you and him and Mark Shondell and Eddy Firpo are all hooked up. I also think Richetti is just a guy, a world-class creep but flesh and blood, not some evil spirit delivering telegrams from a pizza parlor run by Leonardo da Vinci or whoever.”

The eyes of the two bodyguards took on a muddy, troubled look, as though an element had entered the situation that they were not prepared to deal with. “How about it, fellas?” Clete said. “You capisci who Gideon Richetti is?”

Both men looked at Adonis like sentinels waiting for the go-ahead.

“My employees aren’t part of this, Mr. Purcel,” Adonis said.

“You pimped out your stepdaughter,” Clete said. “Do these guys know that? How do you say ‘pimp’ in greaseball?”

“Time for you to leave our table, sir,” Adonis said.

“You tell Eddy Firpo I’ll be dialing him up,” Clete said.

“I have nothing to do with Firpo, and neither do Isolde and Johnny Shondell,” Adonis said. “They got out of their contract with him.”

“So that puts you in control?” I said.

“I own restaurants and fisheries and an olive oil company in Italy,” Adonis said. “Ta-ta, gentlemen.” He jiggled his fingers at us.

I cupped my hand around Clete’s bicep. It felt like concrete. “I talked with Richetti tonight, Adonis,” I said. “He showed concern for our safety. That means his alliances have changed. I don’t know if that’s of interest to you or not.”

A single strand of oily mahogany-dark hair hung on his forehead. He touched a place on his cheekbone where I had kicked him. “Would you repeat that, please?”

“I like your threads,” I said. “Keep fighting the good fight.” I gave him a thumbs-up and went back to the bar.

Clete joined me seconds later. He was wheezing with laughter. “You pissed in his brain. The guy won’t sleep for a week.” He kept laughing and snorting at the same time.

“You want some gumbo?” I said.

“These guys got gumbo?”

“You bet,” I said.

“Maybe there’s some sunshine in all this.”

That was Clete.

* * *

TEN MINUTES LATER, Clete finished his gumbo and washed it down with a Bud and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Do you know Louisiana has the highest rate of heart and vascular disease in the country?”

“You’re carrying on the tradition?”

“It beats a bowl of cornflakes in North Dakota.”

Isolde and Johnny invited people from the dance floor and tables to come up on the bandstand and join them in singing Danny & the Juniors’ signature song, “Rock ’n Roll Is Here to Stay.” Isolde danced with a former governor. A black man with taps on his shoes walked on his hands across the bandstand. Someone in back climbed on a table and let go with his own tenor sax. The entire building was shaking. But inside all the celebration and the innocence and happiness of the crowd, I saw the players in our medieval tale moving about like characters marked for death, distracted by a tolling of bells that only they heard.

I saw Mark Shondell and Eddy Firpo go to the men’s room; Fath

er Julian disappeared in back also; then Adonis’s two men left their table and walked through the crowd as though searching for someone.

“I got to hit the head,” Clete said.

“I just saw Firpo and Mark Shondell go in there.”