“Maybe you’ll be part of the entertainment. That would be quite a surprise, wouldn’t it?” Alexis said to her. “Did you know that Caligula did that to his dinner guests?”
“What?” she said angrily.
“I wanted to see if you were paying attention,” Alexis said.
The fat man and the man with greased hair were putting on rubber boots and long rubber gloves. The fat man was looking with anticipation at the cell where Alafair and Gretchen lay bound in the corner.
“Pierre?” said the man with the greased hair.
“What is it?”
“I got a problem. I ate some garlic shrimp for supper. I’m about to download in my pants.”
“Then go to the bathroom. We’ll wait.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man with the greased hair lumbered toward a bathroom in the rear of the building, duck-footed, clutching his stomach.
“Make sure you close the door and turn on the ventil
ator,” said the man with the Bugs Bunny tattoo.
“That isn’t funny, Mickey,” Pierre said.
“Sorry, sir.”
It was Clete Purcel who seemed to reveal a side that no one had ever seen in him. “I can’t take this, Dave. I’d thought I’d be up to it, but I’m not. I got to sit down.”
“Act with some dignity, Mr. Purcel,” Pierre said.
“It’s my chest. I’ve got some lead in there. I think it’s next to my heart. I need a chair. I can’t stand up.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Varina said.
Clete gagged and spat blood on his hand. “I’m going to hit the deck if I don’t sit down.”
“Get him a chair,” Alexis said.
“Don’t get near him! Don’t trust this man!” Varina said.
Clete swayed from side to side, then fell against the wall. Mickey held him up and slapped his cheek. “Hang on, big man,” he said. “You were in the Crotch, right? Time to man up.”
Clete bent over, his hands on his thighs, as though about to be sick. “I’m going down, Dave. You’ll be on your own. I’m sorry,” he said.
He crumpled to one knee, his shirt splitting down his spine, his love-handles hanging over his belt, his giant buttocks spreading like an elephant’s.
“This man is pitiful,” Alexis said.
“I didn’t sign on for this,” Clete replied, shaking his head.
“This is the legendary New Orleans badass who capped our guys in the shootout on the bayou?” Mickey said. “What a joke.”
With his left hand, Clete pulled his trouser leg up and unsnapped the KA-BAR strapped on his calf. He pulled the blade from its scabbard. “Chug on this, bubba,” he said.
CLETE CLENCHED ONE arm around the throat of the man who had Bugs Bunny on his forearm, and drove the knife into his chest not once but twice, holding him up, using him as a shield. “Dave! The AK!”
He didn’t have to tell me. I was already running for it. It was propped against the wall by the stairwell, painted with green and black tiger stripes, the banana-shaped magazine dull gray, nicked silver on the edges with wear. As I ran toward the stairwell, I was trying to count inside my head the number of men in the room. How many were there?