10
I PUT DOWN THE lid on the toilet and picked up Robert Weingart and set him on top of it. One of the Brillo pads had already fallen from his mouth; I lifted the second one gently from behind his teeth and dropped it in the wastebasket, then wiped his face with a handful of crumpled paper towels and placed a couple of dry towels in his hand. “Tilt your head back,” I said.
He raised his eyes to mine, then cleared his throat and spat into one of the towels. “You saw what he did,” he said.
“No, I’m not sure what happened here,” I replied. “It looks like a personal dispute that got out of control, maybe.”
Weingart propped his hands on his knees, his gaze still fastened on me, his pupils dilated. He resembled a man who had looked into a great darkness and could not readjust to light. “He almost drowned me.”
“If you like, you can file charges, Mr. Weingart,” I said. “I’ll contact the police reporter at The Daily Iberian and give him the details about what happened here. I’ll also pass on what appears to be the issue between you and Mr. Purcel. If I understand correctly, Mr. Purcel believes you’ve been preying on some teenage waitresses in New Iberia. I’ll call The Daily Advertiser in Lafayette and the Associated Press in New Orleans to get maximum coverage for your situation. Normally, media would blow off a minor beef like this, but a story about a writer with your reputation would probably earn their immediate attention.”
“What do you say, Bobster? Don’t just sit there picking steel wool off your tongue. Show a little respect,” Clete said, slapping him on the side of the head.
“Mr. Purcel, I want you to wait outside on the curb,” I said.
Clete gave me a look.
“Out,” I said.
Clete pulled the polyethylene gloves off his hands and threw them in the waste can. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and blew the smoke in Weingart’s face. “The Abelard family isn’t going to be able to help you. In my opinion, every guy like you I take off the board is a star in my crown. Know that expression about the shit hitting the fan? Your journey through the fan just started. You mentioned Sally Dio. Use your LexisNexis to find out what happened to Sal and his fellow gumballs and the plane they were flying on in western Montana. You ever see pulled pork raked out of a ponderosa tree?”
I wanted to punch Clete in the side of the head.
Ten minutes later we were outside on the sidewalk, Clete with his boxed-up breakfast tucked under his arm, a fresh unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. I pulled it out and threw it in the street. “How much trouble can you get into in one day?” I asked.
“Who told you I was here?”
“Who cares? It doesn’t matter where you go. Five minutes after you arrive, plaster is falling out of the ceiling. You’re like a train trying to drive down a dirt road.”
“Weingart deserves a lot worse than he got.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
We were in the shadow of the building. People were passing us on the sidewalk, glancing away when they heard the tenor of our voices. “I got to go,” he said.
“Where?”
“To check on a lady I was with.”
“You mean last night?”
“Maybe.”
“Who was she?”
“Her name escapes me.”
“You were still drunk this morning. Weingart could have died of a coronary. How long was his head under water?”
“Her name is Emma Poche,” he said. “I got it on with her.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“What’s wrong with Emma?”
“Do I have to tell you? You’re not interested in any woman who doesn’t have biker tats or a history at the methadone clinic.”
“She has a butterfly on her butt. That’s the only one. I think it’s cute.”