Burning Angel

  She limped into the living room with the tray; her eyes followed mine to the trunk. She lowered the tray down on the coffee table, then reset the wood compartment inside the trunk and closed the lid.

  “Why you dislike Moleen so much?” she said.

  “He thinks it’s natural for other people to pay for his mistakes.”

  “If you’re talking about the abortion, it was me went over to Texas. Moleen didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Moleen ran down and killed the little boy out by Cade, not his wife.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  I leaned forward with my forearms on my thighs and rubbed my palm idly on my knuckles.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this,” I said. “But I believe Julia Bertrand may try to do you grave injury. Maybe with Moleen’s consent.”

  “You cain’t forgive him for the world he comes from, Mr. Robicheaux. It’s not his fault who he was born.”

  I was at a loss.

  “Do you have a gun?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Her face made me think of a newly opened dark flower about to be burned by a severe light.

  “You’re an admirable lady, Ruthie Jean. I hope you’re going to be all right. Call me if I can ever help you in any way.”

  “That’s why you sent that other man?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The one with the red hair and the skin look like milk. He was standing outside in the rain. I axed him what he was doing in this neighborhood at night. He said he was your friend and you were worried about me. He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I think he probably is.”

  “Think?”

  I started to explain, but I didn’t. Then I simply said, “I’d better be going now.”

  Her turquoise eyes, gold skin, the mole by her mouth, her thick black hair that curved on her cheek were framed as though in a lens by the curtains that puffed and danced behind her head. Her eyes moved up to meet mine.

  “You’re a very good man,” she said.

  “Good-bye, Ruthie Jean,” I said, and took her hand in mine. It was small and dry and I wanted to hold it a long time. I knew in a way that words could not explain that this was much more than a casual farewell.

  We pulled into the circle drive of the yacht club and parked not far from the practice green. The yacht club was sparkling white in the sunlight, with flagstone terraces and tinted, glassed-in dining areas and fairways that looked like corridors of velvet between the oak trees. When we got out of the truck, Clete pulled his shirt down over the front of his slacks, smoothed it with his fingers, adjusted his belt with his thumb, looked down at his shirt again.

  “How does a prick like Johnny Carp get in a joint like this?” he said.

  “They recognize a closet Republican when they see one.”

  “How do I look?” he said.

  “Lean and mean, not a bump on you.”

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “You got to do something for kicks,” I said.

  “I’m starting to worry about you, big mon.”

  We walked in the shade of the building toward the entrance. Sailboats were rocking in their slips out on Lake Pontchartrain. The maître d’ stopped us at the door to the dining room.

  “Do you gentlemen have reservations?” he said. His face and accent were European, his closed-shaved cheeks ruddy with color.

  I opened my badge holder. “We’re here to see Polly Gee,” I said. He looked at me blankly. “That’s Johnny Carp ... John Giacano. His secretary said he’s having lunch here.”

  His facial skin tightened against the bone. His eyes involuntarily glanced at a glass-domed annex to the main dining room. He cleared his throat softly.

  “Is there going to be a problem, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “We’ll let you know if there is. Bring me a double Jack, with a Dixie on the side, and put it on Johnny’s tab. He told me to tell you that,” Clete said.

  The domed annex was empty, except for Johnny Carp and his crew, who were eating from gumbo appetizer bowls at a long linen-covered table set with flowers and pitchers of sangria. Johnny lowered his spoon from his mouth, his face dead. A scar, like a piece of black string, was crimped into his lip where I had hit him. One of Johnny’s crew, a one-thousand-dollar-a-hit mechanic named Mingo Bloomberg, started to rise from his chair. He was a handsome, copper-haired man with ice blue eyes that were totally devoid of moral light.

  “The man with the badge has a pass. You don’t, Purcel,” he said.

  “Don’t get up on my account,” Clete said.

  “A guy’s got to try. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Put your hand on me and you’re going to wear a metal hook, Mingo.”

  “So we see how it shakes out,” Mingo said, and began to stand up.

  Clete fitted his hand on Mingo’s face and shoved him back down in his chair. Then he hit him twice with the flat of his hand, like a man swinging a fielder’s glove filled with cement.

  “You want another one?” he said. “Tell me now, Mingo. Go ahead, open your mouth again.”

  I cupped my palm around Clete’s bicep. It felt like a grapefruit.

  “I’m fed up with this shit. Somebody get security in here,” Johnny said.

  “You’re looking good, John,” I said.

  “You’re a lucky man, Dave.” He pointed his fork at me. “You ought to burn a few candles at your church.”

  “That’s not quite how I see it, John,” I said. “You don’t want to queer your people’s action in Iberia Parish by killing a police officer, but then again you’re not always predictable. That means I need to do something about you, like maybe squeeze Patsy Dapolito until he gives you up. You think Patsy will give you up, John?”

  “What’s to give? He don’t work for me no more. He never really did.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “That’s right, he’s a malignant geek, a short-eyes, a freak. You gonna nail me with the testimony of a child molester? You know what my lawyer would do with a guy like that on the stand? When he gets excited he drools. Hey, you guys, picture star witness Patsy Bones drooling on the stand.” Johnny stretched his face out of shape and let his tongue roll wetly in his mouth while all his crew laughed. “You two twerps get out of here.”

  “It’s always a pleasure, John,” I said.

  Clete picked up a bread stick, dipped it in a Sangria pitcher, and snapped it off in his jaw, winking at me while he grinned outrageously.

  Outside in the parking lot, he pulled up his shirt and removed the tape recorder from under his belt, popped out the cassette, and flipped it in his palm.

  “Isn’t life grand?” he said.

  Chapter 34

  I WAS FILLING out my time sheet the next day when Helen Soileau knocked on my office door, then sat on the corner of the desk and looked me in the face, her eyes seeming to focus on words or sentences in her head that would never become the right ones to use.

  “Say it,” I said.

  “I just got off the phone with Fart, Barf, and Itch in New Orleans. Marsallus is dead. They’ve got his body.”

  I returned her stare and didn’t answer.

  “Dave?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you. I don’t believe it.”

  “The body never washed up because it was wedged in the pilings of that collapsed pier.”

  I looked out the window. The sky was thick with lead-colored clouds, the trees filmed with dust, motionless in the trapped heat. The traffic on the street seemed to make no sound.

  “How’d they ID the body?” I said.

  “Dental records.”

  “What dental records?” I said, the irritation rising in my voice. “Sonny grew up in a welfare project. He probably went to a dentist as often as he went to a gynecologist.”

  “The agent says they’re a hundred percent sure it’s Sonny.”

  “He worked
for the Feds. He was an embarrassment to them. They want his file closed.”

  “Do you know what denial is?”

  “Yeah. With me it has to do with booze, not dead people.”

  “You want to go to lunch?”

  “No. Where’s the body?”

  “On its way to a mortuary in New Orleans. Leave it alone, Dave.” She watched my face. “Water and fish and crabs do bad things.”

  I rose from my desk and looked silently out the window until she was gone. Outside, a trusty from the parish lopped a dead banana stalk in half with a machete, revealing a swarm of fire ants that fed off the rotten pulp inside.

  “You sure you want to see it?” the mortician, a middle-aged black man, said. It was late and he was tired. He wore a T-shirt and rumpled slacks without a belt, and there was stubble on his chin. “Okay, if that’s what you want. You say he was a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  He raised his eyebrows and opened the door to a back room where the temperature was twenty degrees lower than the front of the funeral home. It smelled of chemicals, stainless steel, the cool odor of scrubbed concrete.

  Over his shoulder I could see an elevated flat-bottomed metal trough in the center of the room.

  “It’s going to be in a closed coffin. His relatives will never see inside it,” he said.

  He stepped aside, and I saw the bloodless, shrunken form stretched out inside the trough, glowing in a cone of electric light that shone from overhead.

  “There’s morticians won’t work on these kinds,” he said. “I got a government contract, though, so I do everything they send me ... Is that him?”

  “That’s not a human form anymore.”

  “Your friend had red hair?” I didn’t reply. He waited. I heard him put on his glasses, fiddle with a fountain pen. “I’ll show you the bullet wounds. There’re four,” he said. He leaned over the trough, pointing with the pen. “Two through the chest, one in the groin, one through the side. They look like dimples in oatmeal now.”

  “There weren’t any rounds,” I said. “Believe me, Mr. Robicheaux, those are exit wounds. I worked in the mortuary at Chu Lai, Republic of South Vietnam. I took guys out of body bags been in there a long time, get my drift? ... Look, the government doesn’t make the kind of mistake you’re thinking about.”

  “Then how’d we all end up in Vietnam?” I asked. He walked to the door and put his hand on the wall switch. “I’m turning off the lights now. You coming?” he said.

  I dreamed all night, then got up just before dawn and fixed coffee in the kitchen and drank it on the back steps. The sun was still below the treeline in the swamp and the air was moist and cool and smelled of milkweed and the cattle in my neighbor’s field. I kept seeing Sonny’s bloodless face and sightless eyes and red hair, like the head of John the Baptist on a metal tray. I flung my coffee into the flower bed and drove to Clete’s apartment off East Main.

  “You’re starting the day like a thunderstorm, Streak,” he said, yawning in his Jockey underwear, pulling a shirt over his wide shoulders.

  “Alafair and Pogue both saw him. So did Ruthie Jean Fontenot.”

  “People see Elvis Presley. How about James Dean or Adolf Hitler, for God’s sakes?”

  “This is different.”

  “You want to go crazy? Keep living inside your head like that.” He slid a carton of chocolate milk and a box of jelly doughnuts out of the icebox and started eating. “You want some?” he asked. “I want to jump-start Patsy Dap.”

  “How you going to feel if he takes down Johnny Carp?”

  “I won’t feel anything,” I said.

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  “I won’t ever believe Sonny’s dead,” I said. “Don’t talk to me about this stuff anymore.”

  “One way or another, Sonny’s out there, Clete.”

  “I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to hear it,” he said, walking into the bathroom, working one hand into his shorts.

  We drove in my truck out to Patsy Dapolito’s rented cottage on the edge of town, but no one answered the door. Clete shielded the sun’s glare from his eyes and squinted through the blinds on the side window.

  “Look at the litter in there. I bet this guy takes a shit inside his clothes,” he said.

  “I’ll check with the landlord.”

  “Patsy’s in a trick pad in Lafayette.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A guy I wrote a bond on said he’s got a couple of chippies at Four Corners who aren’t too selective.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s there.”

  “When your name is Patsy Dap, you’re either thinking about getting laid or blowing out somebody’s light. I’m seldom wrong about these guys. That bothers me sometimes.”

  I looked at him strangely.

  “Be happy you got your badge, Streak. It means you get to walk on the curb instead of in the gutter,” he said.

  A half hour later we walked into the office of a motel at Four Corners in Lafayette. Raindrops were tinkling on the air-conditioner inset in the window. I showed my badge and a picture of Patsy Dap to the motel operator.

  “Do you know this man?” I asked.

  He crinkled his nose under his glasses, looked vague, shook his head.

  “Lot of people come through here,” he said.

  “You want to get your whole place tossed?” I said.

  “Room six,” he replied.

  “Give us the key ... Thanks, we’re putting you down for a good citizen award,” Clete said.

  We walked down to Dapolito’s room as the rain blew underneath the overhang. I tapped with one knuckle on the door.

  “It’s Dave Robicheaux. Open up, Patsy,” I said.

  It was quiet a moment, then he spoke in a phlegmy, twisted voice: “Leave me alone ‘less you got a warrant.”

  I turned the key in the lock, nudged the door open with my foot, my hand on my .45.

  “Ooops,” Clete said, peering over my shoulder.

  “You guys get out of here,” Patsy said from the bed.

  Clete pushed the door back slowly with the flat of his hand, sniffed at the air as we both stepped inside.

  “You paying for your broads to smoke China white? High-grade stuff, my man,” Clete said.

  She was not over sixteen, blond and beautiful in a rough way, with thick arms and shoulders, a heart-shaped face that wore no makeup, hands that could have been a farm girl’s. She gathered the top sheet around her body. I pulled the bedspread off the foot of the bed, wrapped it around her, then handed her her clothes.

  “Dress in the bathroom while we talk to this man,” I said. “We’re not going to arrest you.”

  Her eyes were disjointed, one pupil larger than the other, glazed with fear and Oriental smack.

  “Listen, this man kills people for a living. But if he didn’t get paid, he’d do it for free. Don’t ever come here again,” I said.

  “Why the roust this time?” Patsy said. He sat with his back against the headboard, his hard, compact body as white as the skin on a toadstool, one hand kneading the sheet that covered his loins. A bluebird was tattooed above each of his nipples.

  “I think you might still want to pop me, Patsy. Earn some points with Polly Gee,” I said.

  “You’re wrong. I’m going on a trip, all over the world, places I ain’t ever got to visit.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yeah, I got an itinerary, everything. A Japanese travel service put it together. They even give you a booklet tells you how to get along with everybody, what things to watch out for. Don’t get on elevators with Iranians ‘cause of the BO they got. Don’t shake hands with Arabs ‘cause they wipe their ass with their bare hand.”

  “Sounds great, except I don’t believe you,” I said. I saw the girl go past the corner of my vision, out the door. “Click on the tape, Clete.”

  Clete set the portable tape player on the desk and snapped the Play button. Patsy’s scarred face l
ooked confused at first as he heard Mingo Bloomberg’s voice, then Clete’s and Johnny Carp’s and mine.

  “What is this?” he said.

  “I’ll start it again. We don’t want you to miss any of this. Particularly when they start laughing at you,” Clete said.

  As Patsy listened, the skin on one side of his face seemed to crinkle like the surface of paint in a bucket. He lit a cigarette, one eye watering with the heat of the flame.

  “You going to do hits for a guy like that?” Clete said.

  Patsy’s teeth protruded above his bottom lip like a ridge of bone. He huffed smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t want you thinking about whacking out Johnny, either. If Johnny gets capped, this tape goes to NOPD,” I said.

  “I can hurt Johnny in ways you ain’t thought about. You’re stupid, Robicheaux. That’s why you’re a cop,” he said.

  Clete and I walked outside and closed the door behind us. The rain was swirling in the wind.

  “What do you think he meant?” Clete said.

  “Who knows?”

  “Dave, you going to be okay? You don’t look too good.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  But I wasn’t. I had no sooner closed the door to the pickup’s cab when I had to open it again and vomit on the concrete. My face was cold with sweat. I felt Clete’s big hand on my neck.

  “What is it, Streak?” he said.

  “The tattoo.”

  “On fuckhead in there?”

  “On Sonny’s shoulder. A Madonna figure. I saw it in the mortuary.”

  Chapter 35

  LATER, I DROVE north of town to the sheriff’s house on Bayou Teche and walked around his dripping live oaks to the gallery, where he sat in a straw chair with his pipe and a glass of lemonade. His house was painted yellow and gray, and petals from his hydrangeas were scattered like pink confetti on the grass; in back, I could see the rain dimpling on the bayou.