Dixie City Jam

and psychological insanity that characterized your own life.

Only one speaker makes use of euphemism. That's because he's told his story before and he knows that not everyone in the room will be able to handle it. He was eighteen years old, ripped on reefer and pills, when he pushed a blindfolded VC suspect out the door of a Huey at five hundred feet; he so impressed the ARVN and American officer onboard that they had him do it twice more the same afternoon.

Bootsie's eyes are filled with hidden thoughts. I slide my hand down her forearm and take her palm in mine. Her eyes move to the doorway and the darkened stairway at the front of the room. Her breath catches in her throat.

'What is it?' I ask.

Her eyes close, then open, like a doll's.

'A man at the door. Dave, I think-'

'What?'

'It was him.'

I get up from the folding chair and walk across the oak floor to the front of the room. I step through the open door, walk down the darkened stairway. The door to the street is open, and rain is blowing out of the trees onto the lawn. The violet air smells of wet stone and burning leaves.

I go back upstairs, and Bootsie looks at me anxiously. I shake my head.

Before the meeting ends, it's obvious she wants to speak. She raises her chin, her lips part. But the moment passes, and she lowers her eyes to her lap.

Later the room is empty. I turn out the lights and prepare to lock up. In the hallway downstairs she puts her arms around me and presses her face into my chest. I can feel her back shaking under my hands. A loose garbage can lid is bouncing down the street in the darkness.

'I feel so ashamed,' she says. Her face is wet against my shirt.

I went in to work early and looked at the notes I had taken during my conversation with the lieutenant at the Toronto Police Department.

It was time to try something different. On my yellow legal pad I made a list of aliases that Will Buchalter might have used. As a rule, the aliases used by a particular individual retain similarities in terms of initials or sound and phonetic value, or perhaps even cultural or ethnic identification, in all probability because most career criminals have a libidinal fascination with themselves.

I tried W. B. Kuhn, William Coon, Will Kuntz, Bill Koontz, then a dozen other combinations, making use of the same first and last names, in the same way that you would wheel pari-mutuel numbers in trying to hit a quiniela or a perfecta at the racetrack.

But more than a name it was a literary allusion written by the dead Canadian detective on the barroom napkin that gave me a brooding sense I almost did not want to confirm.

I began writing out the word Schwert with the combinations of first names and initials that I had already listed. The sheriff walked into my office with a cup of coffee in his hand and looked over my shoulder.

'That looks like alphabet soup,' he said. 'You going to run that through the NCIC?'

'Yeah, I want to go through the feds in New Orleans, too.'

'It can't hurt.' He gazed through the window at a black trusty in jailhouse issue sawing a yellowed palm frond from the tree trunk.

'You don't sound enthusiastic,' I said.

'I've got bad news. The tail we put on your girlfriend… She went through the front door of a supermarket in Lafayette, then out the back and poof… Gone.'

'Who was the tail?'

'Expidee Chatlin.'

I pressed my fingers into my temples.

'I didn't have anybody else available,' the sheriff said. 'I don't think it would have come out any different, anyway, Dave. Your gal's mighty slick.'

'I'd really appreciate your not calling her my gal or girlfriend.'

'Any way you cut it, she's one smart broad and she took us over the hurdles. That's just the way it plays out sometimes.'

'Too often.'

'Sir?'

I tried to concentrate on my legal pad.

'You and Bootsie have had a bad time. I don't think you should blame others for it, though,' he said.

'That wasn't my intention, Sheriff.' I could hear his leather gunbelt creak. I wrote the words William B. Schwert on the pad. He started to walk out of the room, then stopped.

'What've you got there, exactly?' he said.

'A Toronto cop wrote something on a napkin before he was found hanging by his ankles with a nine-millimeter round through his eye.' I glanced back at my notes. ''I know he's out there now, flying in the howling storm.''

'So?'

'It's from a poem by William Blake. It's about evil. As I remember it, it goes 'O Rose, thou art sick.

The invisible worm

That flies in the night

In the howling storm.

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy,

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.''

'No, you misunderstood me, Dave. I was looking at the name you just wrote down there… Schwert. You never took any German at school?'

'No.'

'It means 'sword,' podna.'

He drank from his coffee cup and tapped me lightly on the shoulder with the flat of his fist.

But before I would get anything back from the FBI or the National Crime Information Center in Washington, D.C., Clete Purcel would write history of the New Orleans mob Purcel.

a new chapter in the and outdo even Clete Purcel.

chapter twenty-five

Clete had been eating breakfast in Igor's on St. Charles, his porkpie hat tipped down over one eye, when two of Max Calucci's bodyguards came in and sat at the table next to him. They were in a good mood, expansive, joking with the waitress, relaxed in Clete's presence. One of them accidentally knocked his chair into Clete's.

'Sorry, Purcel. Don't be getting the wrong signal. It ain't that kind of day,' he said.

Clete chewed his food and looked back at the men silently.

'I'm saying we got the word, okay?' the man said. He grinned.

Clete wiped his mouth with his napkin.

'There's some kind of comedy act here I don't know about?' he said.

'Cool your ovaries down. You want to join us? Your breakfast is on me.'

'I'll eat at that table after it gets scrubbed down with peroxide.'