Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

“I got it. You’ve never had dirty cops here. Those black kids selling dope in their front yards don’t have to piece off their action.”

“I think your source for this nonsense is Pierre Dupree. Maybe it’s time to wise up.”

She looked around as though she could hardly contain her irritation. “I’d really appreciate you leaving me alone,” she said.

“You don’t want the intro to Dixie Lee?”

She brushed at her eyebrow with her thumb, quizzical, as though asking herself a question. I started back toward my seat. “Mr. Robicheaux?” she said behind me.

I stopped and turned around.

“Are you sure this Ardoin broad is straight up?” she said. “I mean really sure? Like you’re willing to bet Clete’s life on it?”

I SAT BACK down as my cell phone vibrated. It was a missed call. I called the number back, but it went to voice mail.

“Who

was that from?” Molly said.

“Catin Segura.”

“She called the house earlier. I didn’t pick up in time. I left a note by the phone. You didn’t see it?”

“No. What did she say on the message machine?”

“She just left her name and asked you to call her. I’m sorry, I thought you saw the note.”

“Did it sound urgent?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said.

“Where are you going?”

“To find Clete.”

It didn’t take long. He and Julie Ardoin were sitting a short distance away from the beer concession. Clete had placed a large red plastic cup foaming with beer between his feet and was adding to it from a silver hip flask. I sat down next to him and rested my hand on his shoulder. Julie was smiling brightly into my face, a purple and gold LSU cap tilted sideways on her head. “Hi, Dave,” she said.

“What’s happenin’, Julie?” I said.

“A little of this, a little of that,” she said, lifting her beer cup.

“See what Clete is doing? We used to call those B-52s. Sometimes we called them depth charges. They’re guaranteed to eat holes in your stomach and give you a hangover from hell.”

“No gloom and doom tonight, Streak,” Clete said. He had a program in his hand. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his wrist and then studied the program. I saw a smear of blood no bigger than a cat’s whisker on his wrist. “This next band is going to do some western swing,” he said. “Bob Wills and Spade Cooley stuff. Did you know Commander Cody got a lot of his style from Spade Cooley?”

“Are you going to drink that?”

“No, I’m going to wash my socks in it,” he replied.

“You want me to get you a cold drink, Dave?” Julie said.

“No, thanks. Y’all going anywhere later?”

“Haven’t thought about it,” Clete replied. “Maybe to Mulate’s for some fried shrimp. What’s up?”

“Nothing. You know Varina Leboeuf very well, Julie?” I said.