A solitary woman stood on the walkway, her face turned into the sunset, her hair moving in the wind.
“Who’s your lady friend?” I asked, afraid of the answer I would get.
“I love you, Streak, but at some point in your life, can you give me some space?” he said.
Then I saw the woman’s profile against the sky.
“Just keep it in your pants,” I said.
He lifted his tackle box out of the boat and said good-bye to Molly but not to me. He walked toward the restaurant, his big hand gripped tightly on the disconnected sections of his rod, the back of his neck thick and glowing with heat.
“I can’t believe you said that,” Molly said.
“He’s used to it,” I replied.
A few minutes later, as Molly and I walked up to the restaurant for a meal, Clete and the woman drove past us on the rocks to the levee, the moon rising above his pink convertible. The woman’s face was young and radiant and lovely in the glow from the dashboard. She lifted a highball glass to her mouth, never looking in my direction. May the angels fly with you, Cletus, I said to myself.
“Who was that?” Molly said.
“A grifter by the name of Trish Klein. The kind of gal who knows how to break Clete’s heart.”
Chapter 7
I HAD THOUGHT MONARCH might be stand-up, might let the FBI do its worse, even if that meant he had to go down on what recidivists used to call “the bitch,” short for “habitual offender,” which was the old-time term for the Clinton-era equivalent known as the three-strikes-and-you’re-out law.
But on Monday morning Monarch came to the prosecutor’s office with his attorney and filed felony assault charges against Slim Bruxal. It was obvious the previous night had not been an easy one for him. He was raccoon-eyed, morose, and stank of beer sweat and weed. When he tripped on a carpet and knocked his head against a door, two teenage girls snickered.
I suspected Monarch’s life was about to unravel. How badly was up for debate. But there are no secrets in our small city on the Teche. In a short time the word would be on the street that Monarch Little had become a hump for the Feds to avoid taking his own bounce. It wouldn’t be improbable for his peers to conclude that he was not to be trusted and that he might start dimeing the same gangbangers who now hovered around him like candle moths.
In the meantime, he had empowered the Iberia Parish district attorney to go forward with assault charges against Slim Bruxal, by extension giving the FBI enormous leverage they could use against Slim’s father, Whitey Bruxal, in what I guessed was a RICO investigation.
I saw Monarch in the parking lot, on the way to his Firebird.
“You hep set this up, Mr. Dee?” he asked.
“I never jammed you, Monarch. Show a little respect,” I replied.
“Before I come down to the courthouse, I tried to join the army.”
“Really?” I said, my face deliberately empty.
“Guy said I might have a weight problem.”
It was hot and bright in the parking lot, and the crypts in St. Peter’s Cemetery looked white and hard-edged in the light, the weeds wilted and stained yellow by herbicide. Several deputies in uniform walked past us, talking among themselves, their cigarette smoke hanging in the dead air. “I need to talk to you,” I said to Monarch.
“I ain’t feeling so good right now. I’m going home and sleep.”
“Suit yourself,” I said.
“Hey, you the man called me a pimp. I sell dope, but I ain’t no pimp. Maybe you the one need a little humbleness.”
THE PROSECUTOR’S OFFICE lost no time serving the arrest warrant on Slim Bruxal. By lunchtime the same day, two Lafayette city police officers and an Iberia Parish detective were at Slim’s fraternity house, a few blocks from the university campus. Evidently he was not in a cooperative mood. The arrest report stated that after he was hooked up, he fought with officers and fell down a flight of stairs. I recognized the name of one of the arresting officers. His name had a way of appearing in news stories involving the apprehension of suspects who always seemed to resist arrest. The newspaper prose describing this type of event is usually written in the passive voice, which means the journalist copied it from the arrest report and used no other source. The telltale line to look for in this kind of print story is “The suspect was subdued.” Slim Bruxal got subdued and probably had it coming. I also suspected that if Slim stayed in custody, his cookie bag would get stepped on extra hard again.
But I wasn’t a player in Slim Bruxal’s fate and I tried to concentrate on the ebb and flow of petty concerns that constituted most of my ordinary business day. These included a terrorist bomb scare involving a suitcase someone abandoned in front of Victor’s Cafeteria; a sexual battery charge filed by a man who claimed his three-hundred- pound wife was forcing him to have sex with her four times a week; the disappearance from a picnic bench of a roasted pig, which turned out to have been eaten by a nine-foot alligator we found floating contentedly in the family swimming pool; the flight of a homemade airplane down the bayou, three feet off the water, that ended with the crash landing of the plane on a cockfighting farm and the shredding by propeller of at least a dozen roosters; the theft of bones from crypts in St. Peter’s Cemetery by a bunch of kids with rings in their lips and nostrils and pentagrams tattooed on their shaved heads. How the bones could add to what the kids had already done to their faces and heads remained a mystery.
A house creep cut a hole through an attic roof to avoid setting off the alarm system and electrocuted himself when he tapped into a breaker box. A biker blitzed on weed and downers roared through a church picnic in City Park, punched a hole in a hedge, and almost decapitated himself on a wash line. But my favorite caper of the week was a 911 call we received from a meth addict who was outraged that his dealer had shown up at the door without the drugs the caller had paid for, committing fraud, according to the caller, and adding insult to injury by robbing him at gunpoint of seventy-eight dollars and his stash.
It was 3:16 p.m. when I looked at my watch. I couldn’t concentrate any longer on the Pool, my term for that army of merry pranksters and miscreants who wend their way endlessly through the turnstiles of the system. I dropped all the paperwork on my desk into a drawer and headed for Monarch Little’s house, where he lived in a rural black slum paradoxically located on a pastoral stretch of oak-shaded land along Bayou Teche, not far from the sugar mill community where Yvonne Darbonne had died.
I knocked on the screen door. Monarch’s house was made of clapboard, with a peaked tin roof, and was set amid a cluster of water oaks and pecan trees and slash pines down by the water’s edge. An old Coca-Cola machine beaded with moisture throbbed under an improvised porte cochere where his Firebird was parked. He was wearing boxer shorts and a strap undershirt when he opened the door. “What you want now?” he asked.
“Can I come in?”
“Don’t matter to me.”
If Monarch was getting rich in the dope trade, the interior of his house didn’t show it. The furniture was worn, the wallpaper spotted with rainwater, the linoleum in the kitchen split and wedged upward in a dirty fissure. A floor fan vibrated in front of a stuffed couch where he had probably been napping when I knocked.
“I think Slim Bruxal’s old man was mixed up in the murder of a friend of mine,” I said. “That means I want to see Whitey Bruxal brought up on homicide charges. That doesn’t mean I want to see you turned into fish chum.”
“I ain’t buying this, Mr. Dee.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“No, you just got your own reasons for doing what you doing. It don’t have nothing to do wit’ me.”
“I saw my friend shot point-blank in the face with a twelve-gauge. I tried to convince both the Feds and Miami-Dade P.D. that Bruxal or his friends were behind it. But I was a drunk back then and didn’t have much credibility. Now I have a chance to nail him. But I’m not going to do it by feeding a guy to the sharks. It’s not a complicated idea.”
