the government subsidizes the cottage industries that screen for it. Its influence is systemic and I doubt if there is one kid in our parish who doesn’t know where he can buy it if he wants it. College kids get laid on Ex; black kids carrying nine-millimeters melt their heads with crack; and whores do crystal because it burns off their fast-food fat and keeps them competitive in the trade.
The short version? It’s an ugly business and it dehumanizes everyone involved with it. Anyone who thinks otherwise should do an up-close observation of one day in the life of a crack baby.
“What’s the haps, Monarch?” I said.
He was sitting in the passenger seat of his Firebird, his feet stretched out on the dirt beyond the curb. His mouth was pursed from the thickness of the stitches inside his gums. He drank out of his soda cup, tilting it gently to his mouth, letting the mixture of Coke and melting ice slide over his tongue. “No haps, Mr. Dee,” he said.
“Just call me Dave.”
“Call you Mr. Dee.”
“I need to talk with you in a confidential fashion, know what I mean?” I said.
He seemed to think about my proposal, his gaze wandering to a small grocery on the corner, kids riding their bikes along a trash-strewn ditch, a tattered wisp of rope, which used to support a tire swing, swaying from an oak limb overhead. He nodded at one of his friends, and without saying a word all five of them walked to the grocery store and went inside. Monarch got up from the car seat and positioned himself in front of the weight set under the tree. “This about them UL boys?” he said.
“You going to file on the Bruxal kid?” I said.
“Who?” he replied.
He bent over, hooking his palms under the weight bar, his stomach distended like an overflowing tub of bread dough. Then he lifted what I counted to be at least a hundred and forty pounds of steel plate. He curled the bar into his chest ten times, his back straight, his knees locked, his upper arms tightening into croquet balls. He set the bar down on the ground and stepped back from it, breathing slowly through his nose.
“Don’t try to square your problem with the Bruxal kid on your own. His old man is a gangster, the real article, a Brooklyn wiseguy who uses a hired psychopath to take care of his personal problems.”
“What you saying is he was a hump for them dagos in Miami.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He bent over to pick up the weights again. I put my hand on his shoulder. It felt like concrete under his shirt. “Forget the Mr. Universe routine for a minute. You want to take this kid down, I’ll help you. In the meantime, you watch your back.”
“Since when y’all started going out of your way to jam up rich white boys?”
“Slim Bruxal is a special case.”
“Yeah, he special, all right. That’s why the FBI been trying to plug my dick into a wall socket. They after his old man, ain’t they?”
“Maybe. What’ve they got on you?”
“Some agents come by my house. They say they might be looking at me for t’ree-strikes-and-you-out.”
“How many adult convictions do you have?”
“Two. But right now I’m a li’l warm on a deal wasn’t my fault. My cousin hid his works at my house so his P.O. wouldn’t catch him wit’ them. I didn’t know they was there. A DEA narc busted my cousin and my cousin give me up. His syringe and spoon and a half ounce of tar was under my lavatory. So they say I either flip or I go down for the whole ride. That’s life wit’out no parole, Mr. Dee.”
He hefted up the weight bar and curled it toward his sternum, releasing it slowly so that the tension built unmercifully in his forearms, his face impassive to the pain burning in his tendons.
He put on a good show, but he was caught and he knew it. The Feds would probably squeeze him until blood was coming out of his fingernails. I wondered how stand-up Monarch really was. Enough to do mainline time? If the FBI flipped him, they wouldn’t use him just on the Bruxal case, either. He would become a permanent rat, at the beck and call of the Bureau whenever they wanted him.
Monarch had made his own choices and I couldn’t feel sorry for him. He wasn’t an addict; he was a dealer. He robbed his customers of their souls and profited off the misery of his own people. But he was not without certain qualities, and he didn’t ask for the kind of world he had been born into.
He did ten curls and dropped the weights in the dirt. I tapped his upper arm with my fist. “You take steroids?” I asked.
“You ever see steroid freaks take a shower at the health club?”
“Come to think of it, no,” I replied.
“That’s ’cause they don’t take showers at the health club. That’s ’cause their package usually looks like smoked oysters.”
“Nine months to a year ago, somebody did a hit-and-run on a guy out in the parish. I wondered if you heard of anyone needing body or fender work about that time, somebody who didn’t want to go to a regular shop?”
“I could ax around. That gonna buy me some juice wit’ the t’ree-strikes-and-you-out sit’ation?”
“Probably not.”
“Then don’t hold your breat’.”
I looked at him for a long time. “You’re an intelligent man. You could be anything you want to be,” I said.
“So?”
“Why don’t you wise up and stop taking it on your knees from white people?” I said.
“Say that again?”
“The people you work for live in mansions in Miami and the Islands. While you pimp and deal product on street corners for chump change, they’re depositing millions in offshore accounts. You take the weight and stack the time for white guys who wouldn’t wipe their ass with you.”
“Ain’t nobody talks to me like that. Nobody, Mr. Dee.”
“Somebody better, because you’re about to become a professional snitch or a bar of shower soap in Marion Pen. We’re talking about jailing with the Aryan Brotherhood, Monarch. In Marion, they eat gangbangers for bedtime snacks.”
Even in the deep shade of the oak tree, I thought I saw his pulse beating in his throat.
THAT NIGHT I DREAMED of horses galloping in a large dusty pen, without sound, their muscles rippling like oily rope. In the distance were meadows and softly rounded green hills and a fast-running stream that was bordered by cottonwood trees. In the herd were buck-skins, palominos, piebalds, Appaloosas, Arabian creams, duns, bays, sorrels, and strawberry roans, their mouths strung with saliva, their collective breath like the pounding of Indian war drums. The sky was forked with lightning, the air pungent with the promise of rain. But there was no water inside the pen, only heat and clouds of dust and powdered manure. Then a red mare lifted out of the herd on extended wings, her rear hooves kicking open the pen gate as she rose into the sky. Suddenly, in the dream, I heard the sound of the other horses thundering toward the stream and the shade of the cottonwoods.
In the morning I could not get the dream out of my head. It was Saturday, and Molly, Clete, and I had planned to go fishing at Henderson Swamp that afternoon. But I told Molly I had to run an errand first, and I went to the office and pulled out my file on Yvonne Darbonne. One of the crime scene photos had been taken at an angle to her body, so even though she lay on her side in the position of a question mark, the lens was pointed directly at her face and chest.
A red winged horse was emblazoned on the front of her T-shirt, and through a magnifying glass I could make out the name of a racetrack inside the folds of the fabric under her breasts. It was the name of the new track and casino north of Lafayette where Trish Klein had been switching out dice at the craps table.
I looked at my watch. It wasn’t quite noon. Clete was supposed to meet Molly and me at the house at two. There was still time for a visit to the home of Bello Lujan and his son, Tony.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I was standing on the front porch of the Lujan house, just outside Loreauville, the sun winking at me through a mimosa tree, the wind puffing a fringed pale green canopy by the bayou’s edge, where a buffet table was covered with half-eaten food and empty Cold Duck bottles. Tony answered the door- barefoot, shirtless, a towel hung around his neck, his hair still wet from a shower. Behind him, I saw a college-age girl thumbing through a magazine on a couch. She looked at me uncertainly, then picked up her drink glass and
