“Right.” Clete refilled his cup and wrapped his hand around it and lifted it to his lips, then set it down without drinking. “I didn’t come here to tell you about my suspicions. You’re my friend, and I got to be up front with you about something.”
I felt the moisture in my mouth dry up, even the taste of the coffee disappear.
“The guy who sent the bomber after me didn’t care if he killed Homer or not,” Clete said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s Tony Nine Ball or that punk in St. Mary Parish, the guy behind this is going off the board.”
“I didn’t hear that. You didn’t say it. That thought never crossed your mind.”
“I’m going to cap him, Streak.”
I took the tin cup from his hand and threw the coffee on the ground. “We’re done.”
“What would you do if it was Alafair?” he said. “Think about it. What would you do?”
* * *
LATE THAT NIGHT, a pizza scooter pulled in to the driveway of a rented nineteenth-century home outside Jeanerette, and a short man in a stiff hat with a big bill got out with a pie box and looked around as though unsure of the address. The house was set back from the street and dark with shadow except for a light in the bathroom. A tall figure walked out of the driveway and confronted the delivery man. There was a brief exchange, then the tall figure disappeared and the delivery man climbed the steps to the gallery and twisted the bell.
The man who answered was wearing a brocaded royal blue silk robe. His body was shaped like a pile of inner tubes. “What’s this?”
“Your pizza.”
“I didn’t order a pizza.”
The deliveryman looked at the bill in his hand. “Anthony Nemo?”
“The name is Tony. I didn’t order a pizza. Where’s Robert?”
“Who?”
“My chauffeur.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“You leave your flying saucer on the lawn?”
“He was tired. He went to sleep. Like you.” The deliveryman raised a stun gun and touched it to the center of Tony Nine Ball’s face. Tony hit the floor like a cargo net loaded with salami.
* * *
WHEN TONY AWOKE, all the curtains were closed, the air-conditioning blasting out arctic levels of cold air. A toy man with lips as red as a clown’s was sitting on a chair two feet from him, staring at him with a silly smile. Tony’s arms were pulled behind him.
“Hi, sleepyhead,” the man said. “My name is Chester. Do you want some pizza?”
“I can’t move.”
“You have ligatures on. So you won’t hurt yourself.”
“You almost knocked my head off. I can’t breathe. I got emphysema.”
Chester went into the bedroom and came back with a pillow. He put it under Tony’s head. “Better?”
Tony’s eyes were small and black and buried deep in his face. “You sound like Elmer Fudd.”
“Don’t be impolite. I can make you go back to sleep.”
“You’re the wack job everybody is talking about.”
Chester removed a rolled comic book from his back pocket and tapped it on Tony’s nose. “Bad, bad, bad.”