waved bandannas in each hand as though she were on a runway, kicking her waxed calves at an angle behind her, lifting her chin into the air while her eyelids drifted shut and she rotated her tongue slowly around her lips. Then she let her mouth hang open in a feigned pout, pushed her reddish brown hair over the top of her head with both hands, flipped it back into place with an erotic challenge in her eyes, and rubbed a stretched bandanna back and forth across her rump while she oscillated her hips.
At first the other dancers pulled back in awe or shock or perhaps even in respect; then they began to leave the dance floor two at a time and finally in large numbers after Clete backed with his full weight into another dancer and sent him careening into a drink waiter.
The Fat Man finished, wiped his sweating face at the microphone with an immaculate white handkerchief, and thanked the crowd for their ongoing roar of applause. I followed Clete and his girl to their table, which was covered with newspaper, beer bottles, and dirty paper plates that had contained potatoes French-fried in chicken fat. Clete's face was bright and happy with alcohol, and the seams of his Hawaiian shirt were split at both shoulders.
'Martina, this is the guy I've been telling you about,' he said. 'My ole bust-'em or smoke-'em podjo.'
'How about giving that stuff a break, Clete?' I said.
'I'm very pleased to meet you,' she said.
Her face was pretty in a rough way, her skin coarse and grained under the makeup as though she had worked outdoors in sun and wind rather than on a burlesque stage.
'Clete's told me about how highly educated you are and so well read and all,' she said.
'He exaggerates sometimes.'
'No, he doesn't,' she said. 'He's very genuine and sincere and he feels very deeply for you.'
'I see,' I said.
'He has a gentle side to his nature that few people know about. The people in my herbalist and nude therapy group think he's wonderful.'
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Clete study the dancers out on the floor as though he had never seen them before.
'He says you're trying to find the vigilante. I think it's disgusting that somebody's out there murdering colored people in the projects and nobody does anything about it.'
'Clete doesn't seem to give it much credence.'
'Look, mon, let me tell you where this vigilante stuff came from. There's a citizens committee here, a bunch of right-wing douche bags who haven't figured out what their genitalia is for, so they spend all their time jacking up local politicians and judges about crime in the streets, dope in the projects, on and on and on, except nobody wants to pay more taxes to hire more cops or build more jails. So what they're really saying is let's either give the blacks a lot more rubbers or do a little less to stop the spread of sickle-cell.'
Martina had taken a pocket dictionary from her purse. She read aloud from it: ''Credence-belief, mental acceptance or credit.' That's an interesting word. It's related to 'credibility,' isn't it?'
Clete widened his eyes and looked at her as though he were awakening from sleep. Then somebody on the opposite side of the dance floor caught his attention.
'Dave, a guy's coming over to our table,' he said. 'He just wants to talk a minute. Okay? I told him you wouldn't mind. He's not a bad guy. Maybe you might even be interested in what he's got to say. It doesn't hurt to listen to a guy, right?'
Through the layers of drifting cigarette smoke my eyes focused on a man with two women at a table. His solid physique reminded me of an upended hogshead; even at a distance his other features-his florid, potato face, his eyes that were as blue as ice, his meringue hair-were unmistakable.
'You shouldn't have done this, partner,' I said to Clete.
'I provide security at two of his clubs. What am I supposed to say to him, 'Drop dead, Tommy. My buddy Dave thinks you're spit on the sidewalk, get off the planet, sonofabitch'?'
'He's not just an eccentric local character. He was up on a murder beef. What's the matter with you?'
'The guy he did with the fire hose was beating up old people in the Irish Channel with an iron pipe. Yeah, big loss. Everybody was real upset when they heard he'd finally caught the bus.'
'Fire hose?' Martina said, and made a puzzled face.
There was nothing for it, though. The man with the red face and the eyes that were like flawless blue marbles was walking toward our table.
Clete mashed out his cigarette in a paper plate.
'Play it like you want, Dave,' he said. 'You think Tommy Bobalouba's any more a geek than Hippo Bimstine, tell him to ship out.'
'What about Hippo?' I said.
'Nothing. What do I know? I thought I might bring you a little extra gelt. You're too much, Streak.'
Tommy Lonighan hooked two fingers under an empty chair at an adjacent table without asking permission of the people sitting there, swung it in front of him, and sat down. He wore a long-sleeve pink shirt with French cuffs and red stone cuff links, but the lapels were ironed back to expose the mat of white hair on his chest, and the hair on his stubby, muscular forearms grew out on his wrists like wire. He had the small mouth of the Irish, with downturned corners, and a hard, round chin with a cleft in it.
'What d'you say, Lieutenant?' he said, and extended his hand. When I took it, it was as square and rough- edged as a piece of lumber.
'Not much, Mr. Lonighan. How are you this evening?' I said.
''Mr. Lonighan,' he says. I look like a 'mister' to you these days?' he said. The accent was Irish Channel blue- collar, which is often mistaken for a Brooklyn accent, primarily because large sections of New Orleans were settled by Irish and Italian immigrants in the 1890s. He smiled, but the clear light in his eyes never changed, never revealed what he might or might not be thinking.
'What's up?' I said.
'Boy, you fucking cut straight to it, don't you?'
'How about it on the language, Tommy?' Clete said.
'Sorry, I spend all day with prizefighters down at my gym,' he said, glancing sideways at Martina. 'So how much is Blimp-stine offering you to find this sub?'
'Who?' I said.
'Hippo Bimstine, the beached whale of south Louisiana. Who you think I'm talking about?'
'How do you know Hippo's offering me anything?'
'It's a small town. Times are hard. Somebody's always willing to pass on a little information,' he said, and put a long French fry between his lips, sucking it deep into his mouth with a smile in his eyes.
'You're right, there's a Nazi sub out there someplace. But I don't know where. Not now, anyway. For all I know, it's drifted all the way to the Yucatan. The alluvial fan of the Mississippi probably works it in a wide circle.'
He set his palm on my forearm and looked me steadily in the eyes. There were thin gray scars in his eyebrows, a nest of pulsating veins in one temple that had not been there a moment ago.
'Why is it I don't believe you?' he said.
'What's your implication, Tommy?' I said.
'It's 'Tommy' now. I like it, Dave. I don't 'imply' anything. That's not my way.' But his hand did not leave my forearm.
Martina read from her pocket dictionary: ''Alluvial fan-the deposit of a stream where it issues from a gorge upon an open plain.' The Mississippi isn't a stream, is it?'
Lonighan stared at her.
'I'm not sure why either you or Hippo are interested in some World War II junk, but my interest is fading fast, Tommy,' I said.
'That's too bad. Because both Hippo and me are going into the casino business. I'm talking about riverboats here, legalized gambling that can make this city rich, and I'm not about to let that glutinous sheeny set up a tourist exhibit on the river that takes maybe half my business.'
'Then tell it to Hippo,' I said, and pulled my arm out from under his hand.
'
