Clete sniffed again, as though he were coming down with a cold. He looked back at the doorway into the interior of the house. “You have rats?”
“No, not to my knowledge,” Kermit said. “Mr. Purcel, no one meant to offend you. But what we’re hearing is a bit of a shock. The St. Jude Project isn’t connected with Herman Stanga, no matter what he’s told you.”
“We’re glad to hear that, Kermit,” I said. “But why would you be talking with a man like Stanga to begin with? You think he’s going to help you take his prostitutes off the street?”
“I’ve spoken with Alafair regarding some of these things. I thought maybe she had talked with you. She’s expressed a willingness to help out.”
“You’re trying to involve my daughter with pimps and hookers? You’re telling me this to my face?”
Kermit shook his head, nonplussed, swallowing. “I’m at a loss. I respect you, Mr. Robicheaux. I respect your family. I’m very fond of Alafair.”
I could feel my moorings starting to pull loose from the dock. “You’re almost ten years older than she is. Older men don’t have ‘fond’ in mind when they home in on younger women.”
“Why don’t I walk outside with Mr. Weingart and let y’all talk?” Clete said. “How about it, Bob ? Can you hitch up your robe and tear yourself loose from that fried eggplant? What do you say, Bob ?”
Inside my head I saw an image of hurricane warning flags flapping in a high wind.
Weingart rested his fingertips on the tabletop, his lips pursed, his cheeks slightly sunken, every hair on his head neatly in place. He seemed to be thinking of a private joke, his eyes lighting, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “What would you like to do on our little stroll?”
“Robbie, don’t do this,” Kermit said.
“I just wondered what the big fellow had in mind. He looks like a gelatinous handful.”
I saw the crinkles around Clete’s eyes flatten, the blood draining from the skin around his mouth. But he surprised me. “Time to dee-dee, Streak,” he said.
Weingart repositioned his newspaper and began reading again, detached, wrapped in his narcissism and contempt for the world, indifferent to the embarrassment flaming in Kermit’s face.
“Thank your grandfather for his hospitality,” I said to Kermit.
“Mr. Robicheaux, I want to apologize for anything inappropriate that may have occurred here.”
“Forget the apology. Don’t take Alafair anywhere near Herm
an Stanga or his crowd. If you do, I’d better not hear about it.”
Kermit blanched. “Absolutely. I wouldn’t—”
“Mr. Weingart?” Clete interrupted.
“Yes?” Weingart said, reading his paper.
“Don’t ever call me by my first name again.”
“How about ‘Mr.’ Clete? Do come back, Mr. Clete. It’s been such a pleasure,” Weingart said. “Absolutely it has.” He lifted his gaze to Clete, his eyes iniquitous.
I fitted my hand on Clete’s upper arm. It was as tight as a fire hydrant. We walked back through the living room, past the photos of Timothy Abelard with members of the Somoza family, past a copy of a Gauguin painting, out the door and across the porch and onto the lawn. I could taste the salt in the wind and feel the first drops of rain on my face. Clete cleared his throat and turned to one side and spat. “Did you smell it in there?”
“Smell what?”
“That odor, like something dead. I think it’s on the old man. You didn’t smell it?”
“No, I think you’re imagining things.”
“He sends chills through me. He makes me think of a turkey buzzard perched on a tombstone.”
“He’s just an old man. He’s neurologically impaired.”
“I’ve been wrong about you for many years, Dave. You know the truth? I think you want to believe people like the Abelards are part of a Greek tragedy. Here’s the flash: They’re not. They should have been naped off the planet a long time ago.”