Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

“Does the man named Purcel have a boy?”

“You mean Clete Purcel?”

“A boy lives with him?” he said.

“Clete doesn’t have a birth son, but he takes care of an orphan. Is that the boy you’re talking about?”

He cleared his throat but didn’t speak.

“You there, Smiley?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to tell me something?”

“What’s the boy’s name?”

“Homer.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

“Homer Penny is his full name.”

I waited in the silence. I had given up information I normally wouldn’t. But this situation was outside the parameters of any in my career.

“Did you try to hurt Clete, Smiley?”

“This call is a relay. It won’t help you to trace it.”

“I figured. That means we can talk as long as you want. Where’d you get your nickname?”

No answer.

“Know who your accent reminds me of?” I said. “Tennessee Williams. He said ‘New Or-yuns’ just like you. I knew him when he lived in the Quarter.”

I could hear him breathing against the mouthpiece, as though deciding whether or not to hang up. “I don’t care about him.”

“Have you been to Algiers?” I said. “A couple of bad black dudes got their grits splattered over there.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Between you and me, I think they probably had it coming. You hear anything about that?”

“They were bad to a colored lady. Her name was Miss Birdie.”

“Did you smoke these dudes?”

“Maybe,” he said. “If you’re bad or treacherous with me, I’ll smoke you, too.”

“I believe you. But I’d rather be friends with you.”

“I wouldn’t hurt a child,” he said, his voice downshifting.

“I know what you mean. There’s nothing worse than the abuse of children or animals. That’s why Clete takes care of Homer. Clete had a hard upbringing.”

“I’m sorry. Tell him that.”

“Tell Clete?”