“That’s Jimmy. He can be humble because he already owns what everyone else wants. What were you doing out there?”
“What I said I was going to do.” Clete kept his eyes on mine.
There was no one within earshot of our table. “You were actually going to bust a cap on him?”
“If I was sure he put the hit on Homer and me.”
“In his front yard?”
“I was going to take down the chauffeur, too. I was going to give them a fair chance, then smoke them.”
“This is madness, Clete.”
The waiter brought the Danish beer. Clete took a long swig, looking at me with a protruding eye. He set the bottle on the tablecloth. “Madness is when you let an innocent boy get maimed or blown apart, the way Nightingale did those Indians. Don’t give me any doodah, Streak.”
“Who’ll take care of Homer if you’re in Angola?”
“Thanks for the help. You really know how to say it.”
“I’ll talk to you in the morning,” I said. I flicked my fingernail on the neck of the Danish beer. “No more of this tonight.”
Clete picked up the bottle and chugged it dry. I got up from the table and squeezed his shoulder, then kept going out the door and down the sidewalk in the summer night, the air heavy with the smell of jasmine, the water high and yellow and coursing with organic debris under the drawbridge. For just a fleeting moment, I wished the year were 1862.
LEVON BROUSSARD WAS transferred from custody in Iberia Parish to Jefferson Davis Parish. I did not believe he was guilty of the Kevin Penny homicide, but nonetheless I was glad he was gone, and I hoped that I would not be entangled with him and his wife for a while.
That wasn’t the way it worked out. Sherry Picard was in my office Thursday morning. I rose from my chair when she entered, but it was hard. “Good morning,” I said. “How are you? What brings you to town? Nice day.”
“You speak like you’re constipated,” she said.
“I have a tumor on my vocal cords,” I said. “It comes and goes. I’ve never understood it.”
“What’s with Levon Broussard? Why do you think he confessed?”
“Haven’t a clue,” I said, my face empty.
“Good try.”
“He’s in your jurisdiction, he’s your problem.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“Right now I’m worried about Clete Purcel. He has a terrible character defect. He’s a bad judge of people.”
I saw the color climb in her face. “I want to speak to Sheriff Soileau.”
“Bang on her door.”
“Listen—”
Then I saw her blink, the breath go out of her throat, a tremble in her chin.
I lowered my voice. “Look at me, Detective.”
“Look at you?” she said.
“Sometimes I get my head on sideways. I’m reactive. I don’t mean it.”
“I’m tired of getting fucked over,” she said.