Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

“Yeah, you look smart, the way you carry yourself and all.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re a mess,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You want to dance?”

“I’m clumsy when it comes to stuff like that. What do you mean, I’m a mess?”

“You’re too innocent for words.”

She went to the jukebox and began feeding coins into it. In spite of the air-conditioning, he was sweating inside his clothes, blood pounding in his temples. He walked out onto the dance floor and stood inches behind her. He could smell the heat in her skin and the perfume in her hair. She turned around and looked up into his face, her eyes violet-colored in the light. “Something wrong?” she asked.

“I got to go,” he said.

“Buy me a drink?”

“No, I got to take care of some stuff. I’m sorry. It’s been good meeting you,” he said.

“You better get yourself some high-octane tranqs, boss,” she said.

“I really like you. I’m sorry for the way I talk,” he said.

His hands were shaking when he got to his car.

CLETE THOUGHT THE drive back into the city would calm his heart and give him time to think in a rational manner, but he was wired to the eyes when he pulled into the driveway of the garage apartment down by Chalmette that Frankie Giacano was using as a hideout. He didn’t even slow down going up the stairs. He tore the screen door off the latch and splintered the hard door out of the jamb. Frankie was sitting stupefied in a stuffed chair, a sandwich in his hand, food hanging out of his mouth. “Are you out of your mind?” he said.

“Probably,” Clete said.

“What are you gonna do with that blackjack?” Frankie said, rising to his feet.

“It’s part of my anger-management program. I hit things instead of people. When that doesn’t work, I start hitting people,” Clete said. “Let’s see how it goes.”

He smashed a lamp in half and the glass out of a picture frame on the wall and the glass in a window overlooking the side yard. He went into the kitchen and turned the drying rack upside down and broke the dishes across the edge of the counter and began feeding a box of sterling silverware into the garbage grinder.

With the grinder still roaring and clanking, he grabbed Frankie by the necktie and dragged him to the sink. “One of your skanks told me your nose is too long,” he said. “Let’s see if we can bob off an inch or two.”

“Who pissed in your brain, man?”

“When’d you peel Didi Gee’s safe?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple of months ago.”

“Where?”

“In Didi Gee’s old office.”

“Who hired the shooter to cap Golightly and Grimes?”

“How would I know?”

“You’re lying.”

“Yeah, but let me finish.”

“You think that’s cute?” Clete swung Frankie in a circle by his tie and threw him over a chair and against the wall, then whipped the blackjack across the tendon behind one knee. Frankie fell to th

e floor as though genuflecting, his eyes watering, his bottom lip trembling. “Don’t do this to me, man,” he said.