Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

“You’re asking this of the man you tried to kill?”

“The person running all this is named Angel or maybe Angelle. In French, ange means ‘angel.’”

“I know what it means.”

“You’re not listening. This is bigger than all of us. They ship women from all over the world. Bosnia, Romania, Russia, Africa, Thailand, Honduras, any shithole where things are coming apart. A guy makes a call and gets any kind of woman or combination of women he wants. That’s just part of it.”

“What else are they into?”

“Everything. They own part of everything there is.”

“Who hired you to kill me?”

“You’re not listening. We’re nothing down here, just ants running around on a wet log. I’ve heard about an island they got.” His voice started to break, as though he were afraid to look at the images his mind was creating. “They do stuff to people there you don’t want to know about. They got this big iron mold. I saw a photo of what they did to a guy.”

“Take this to the FBI.”

“I’ll go inside on attempted murder. I’ll be dead in a week. You saw what they did to Ronnie Earl. The guy who showed me the photo played a tape for me. I heard somebody being put into this iron thing they got. The guy going inside was talking in a language I didn’t understand. I didn’t have to understand it. He was begging and crying, then I heard them closing the door on him. It took a long time for them to close the door. He was screaming all the while. I got to hide someplace, man. Five t’ousand dollars, that’s all it’ll take. I’ll give you all the information I got.”

“It doesn’t work that way, partner. Why’d you guys use a freezer truck?”

“Ronnie Earl said nobody would pay attention to it. Why you axing about the truck we drove? I’m telling you about people who aren’t like anybody you ever knew, and you’re worried about a truck? There’s a girl involved, a singer, a Creole girl who was on that island. That’s what Ronnie Earl said. She was big stuff in the zydeco clubs. I don’t remember her name.”

“Tee Jolie Melton,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s it. Her sister got grabbed, too. You gonna help me or not?”

“Where can we meet?”

“You’ll get me the money?”

“We have funds to help out confidential informants or friends of the court,” I said, wondering at my own willingness to make promises that perhaps I couldn’t keep. “One way or another, we’ll get you out of this.”

“What’s that iron thing? What do they call it? It’s like from the Middle Ages. I could see part of it in the photo. I could see pieces of the guy on it. It’s got big spikes inside the door. What do they call that, man?”

“The iron maiden.”

I heard wind in the receiver, as though he had taken the phone from his ear and mouth.

“Are you there, Chad?” I said.

“Oh, man,” he said, the register in his voice suddenly dropping.

“What’s happening?” I said.

“They’re here. Those motherfuckers are here.”

“Stay with me, podna. Who’s there?”

“It’s them,” he said. “Them.”

I heard him drop the phone and sounds of scuffling and furniture being knocked over, and then I heard Chad Patin squealing like a pig on its way to slaughter.

ALAFAIR ENTERED CLETE’S New Iberia office on Main at nine A.M. on Friday, expecting to see Clete’s regular receptionist, Hulga Volkmann, behind the desk in the waiting room. Instead, she saw a thick-bodied woman in her mid- or late twenties, with reddish-blond hair cut Dutch-boy-style, sitting behind the desk in jeans, with one foot propped on an open drawer and cotton balls wedged between the toes while she painted lavender polish on each nail. The floor was unswept and littered from the previous day, newspapers and auto-mechanic magazines spilling off the metal chairs. “Mr. Purcel is across the street at Victor’s Cafeteria,” the woman said without looking up. “You need something?”

“Yeah, who are you, and where is Miss Hulga?”

“She’s on vacation, and I’m her replacement. Who are you?”