“Let’s back up a little bit,” Clete said. “Jimmy Nightingale told Dave he didn’t know you.”
“He’s a liar.”
“That’s what I thought,” Clete said. “I told Dave you were no yardman, either.”
“I was the chauffeur.”
“You delivered dope and girls to Nightingale’s house?” I asked.
“I’m supposed to answer that question? To a cop? What’s with all this Nightingale stuff?”
“The Jeff Davis Eight,” I said.
“Oh, boohoo time again,” he said. “Those whores got themselves killed.”
“How do you figure that?” I said.
“They’re skanks. They’re stupid. They go out on their own. Independence and the word ‘whore’ don’t go together.”
“They need a pimp?” I said.
“No, they need plastic surgery. Why you keep looking at me like that?”
“You’re an interesting guy.”
“What’s with this guy, Purcel?”
“Dave is all right, Kev.”
“Yeah? This stuff about the cousin? She ain’t Jimmy’s cousin. She’s his sister or half sister.”
“Let’s stick to the subject,” I said. “In your opinion, who killed the eight women?”
“They were in the life, man.”
“Why’d Jimmy’s secretary fire you?” I said.
“She came on to me. I told Jimmy. Who cares about any of this?”
There was a dull intensity in his eyes that’s hard to describe or account for. You see it in recidivists or in lockdown units where the criminally insane are kept, although you are never sure they are actually insane.
“I like your accent,” I said. “Did you grow up in New Orleans?”
“I’m from New York.”
“Want to give us the name of the company bank account you were using as a drop?” I said.
But I had lost his attention. “What you got in your slacks, Purcel? A blackjack? You’re shitting me?”
“I always carry one. Take it easy.”
“I’m done talking. I’m gonna finish my dinner.”
“You see Tony Squid around?” Clete asked.
“At the aquarium.”
“Is Tony doing more than pour concrete for Jimmy Nightingale?” Clete said.