The phone rang and I didn't have to answer his question. After I hung up, I turned around and Clete was staring out the screened window at the bream popping the surface among the lily pads on the far side of the bayou. Three long lines, like strands of wire, were stretched across his forehead.
'What's wrong, podna?' I asked.
'Last night I told Barbara I liked her a lot. I also told her maybe she was carrying a torch for a guy I don't have much respect for, but if that was her choice, I could boogie on down the road.'
'How'd she take it?'
'She got mad.'
'Her loss. Blow it off.'
'That's not all of it. She lives in this apartment on the bayou. I'm downstairs, on my way to the parking lot, and here she comes down the staircase. She apologizes. The moon's up, the azaleas and the bougainvillea and wisteria are blooming. She's standing there in her hose, her shoes off, her face like a little girl's. She takes me by the arm and leads backup the stairs again. Dave, stuff like this doesn't happen to guys like me with women like that. I kissed her in the living room and rockets went off in my head.'
'Uh, maybe you don't need to tell me any more, Cletus.'
'There's a knock at the door.'
'LaSalle?'
'No, some peckerwood who sells magazines and Bibles. His name is Marvin something or another.'
'Marvin Oates?'
'Yeah, that's the guy. A real con man. He's got this hush-puppy accent and pitiful look on his face, like the orphanage just slammed the door on his nose. But Barbara laps it up, fixing him a sandwich and pouring a glass of milk for him, asking him if he wants some ice cream and melted chocolate to go with it. It was sickening. She said she'd forgotten she'd told Marvin to drop by, which meant I was supposed to leave.'
I picked up two freshwater rods that were propped in the corner, the Mepps spinners on the lines snugged into the cork handles. I tossed one to Clete.
'Let's entertain the bass,' I said.
'There's more,' he said. His green eyes flicked sideways at me. His face was pink and oily with perspiration under the light, his fresh haircut like a little boy's.
I sat down next to him and tried not to look at my watch. 'So what's the rest of it?' I asked, feigning as much interest as I could.
'I was back at my motel, just about asleep, when a car pulls up in front of Zerelda Calucci's cottage. Guess who?' he said. 'Perry LaSalle again. Like everywhere I go I see Perry LaSalle. Like any broad around here I'm interested in has got a thing with Perry LaSalle. Except this time he's getting his genitalia ripped out.
'Zerelda calls him a douche bag and a brain-dead horse dick, then picks up a flowerpot off the walk and smashes it on the dashboard of his convertible.
'I hear his car leave and I think, Ah, I can get some sleep. Ten minutes later Zerelda taps on my door. Man, she was drop-dead beautiful, with those big ta-tas and pale skin and black hair full of lights and fire-alarm lipstick, and she's holding this big, sweaty bottle of cold duck, and she says, 'Hey, Irish. I've just had the worst fucking night of my life. Feel like hearing about it?'
'And I'm telling myself, Go back to sleep, Clete. Barbara Shanahan waits for you in the morning. Wet dream of the Mafia or not, no Sicilian skivvy runs tonight.
'Those thoughts lasted about two seconds. Guess which podjo of yours got fucked on the ceiling last night and fucked on the ceiling and floor and in the shower and every other surface of the room this morning?'
'I don't believe it.'
'I don't, either. Except I'm having dinner with her this evening.'
'With Joe Zeroski's niece?' I said.
'Yeah. I think I just took Perry LaSalle's place. You and Bootsie want to join us?' He looked at me expectantly.
'I think we're supposed to go to the PTA tonight,' I replied.
'Right. I forgot you were tight with the PTA,' he said. He stood up and put on his hat. 'By the way, I found out where that guy Legion lives. I let him know the Bobsey twins from Homicide are a factor in his life.'
'You did what?'
On Thursday morning the sheriff called me down to his office.
'You know a fellow named Legion Guidry?' he asked.
'I know a man named Legion. I'm not sure if that's his first or last name, though. He used to be an overseer on Poinciana Island.'
'I got a call from the sheriff in St. Mary Parish. A couple of his deputies work at the casino in their off hours. One of them says you went into the lounge and spit in this fellow's food.'
There was a long silence.
'I guess I was having a bad day,' I said.
The skin seemed to shrink on the sheriffs face. 'You're telling me you actually did this?' he said.
'This is a bad guy, Sheriff. A real bucket of shit left behind by the LaSalle family.'
'You want a lawyer in here?'
'What for?'
'Two nights ago somebody slashed all four of this fellow's truck tires. A filling-station operator saw a man in a rattletrap Cadillac convertible leaving the neighborhood.' The sheriff picked up a yellow legal pad that he had written some notes on. 'The filling-station operator said the driver looked like an albino ape with a little hat perched on his head. Sound like anybody you know?'
'No, I don't know any albino apes,' I replied.
'You think this is funny?'
'No, I don't.'
'I think your real beef is with the LaSalle family, Dave. You blame the rich for all our racial and economic problems. You forget the other canneries have shipped their jobs to Latin America. The LaSalles still take care of all their employees, all the way to the grave, no matter what it costs them.'
'This man Legion is a sexual predator. He was given free rein to sexually exploit black women on the LaSalle plantation. That doesn't seem like a protective attitude to me.'
'Then maybe they should have gotten jobs somewhere else.' He stared hard at me, a piece of cartilage knotted in his jaw. 'You got something you want to add?'
I let my eyes slip off his face. 'No, sir,' I said.
The sheriff bit a piece of loose skin on the ball of his thumb, then rose from his chair and put on his suit coat and picked up his Stetson.
'You and Helen Soileau check out shotguns,' he said.
'What?'
'We're going out to have a talk with Joe Zeroski and his friends. Doesn't Purcel live in that same motor court?'
'Yes.'
'Sounds like he made a good choice.'
The motor court was out on East Main in a grove of live oak trees. The cottages were made of tan stucco and stayed in shade from morning to sunset, and each evening the smoke from meat fires drifted through the trees and bamboo onto Bayou Teche.
Our caravan of six cruisers and a jail van slowed and turned into the motor court drive, passing a cottage at the entrance that had been converted into a barbershop, complete with a striped barber pole. At the end of the drive I saw Clete's lavender Cadillac convertible parked across from Zerelda Calucci's cottage.
In a dry, brittle place inside my head I could hear a persistent humming sound, like an electrical short buzzing in the rain, the same sound I'd heard when I came home from Iberia General, wired to the eyes on painkillers.
Helen parked the cruiser and looked at me. My walking cane and two sawed-down Remington pump twelve-
