out the back window at the last spark of sun on the bay and at the band inside the screened pavilion. He salted his beer and drank it slowly, enjoying each moment of it in his mouth, letting its coldness slide down his throat, lighting places inside him that only the addicted know about. He didn’t have long to wait before he knew she was in the room. How or why he knew she was there, he couldn’t explain. He felt her presence before he saw her in the bar mirror. He smelled her perfume before he turned on the stool and watched her drop a series of coins in the jukebox. He saw her midriff and exposed navel and the baby fat on her hips and resented its exposure to other men in a way that was completely irrational. He looked at the fullness of her breasts and the tightness of her jeans and the thickness of her reddish-blond Dutch-boy haircut and felt protectiveness rather than erotic attraction. He felt as though someone else had slipped into his skin and was thinking thoughts that were not his.
He ordered another Bud longneck and two fingers of Jack. The girl sat down at the bar, three stools from him, and idly tapped a quarter on the bar’s apron, as though she had not made up her mind. Clete looked at the mirror and tossed back his Jack, a great emptiness if not a balloon of fear swelling in his chest. The Jack went down like gasoline on a flame. He began opening and closing his Zippo, his heart racing, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
She tilted her head forward and massaged the back of her neck, her fingers kneading deep into the muscle. Then she turned and gazed at the side of his face. “You eyeballing me in the mirror, boss?” she said.
“Me?” he said. When she didn’t reply, he asked, “You talking to me?”
“Is someone else sitting on your stool?”
“You had some tats removed from your arms, maybe. I guess I noticed that. I know what that can be like.”
“I never had tats. Would you put a needle in your arm that an AIDS patient has used?”
“So where’d you get the scars?”
“I was in an accident. My mother’s diaphragm slipped, and I was born. Is that your come-on line?”
“I’m over the hill for come-on lines. On a quiet day, I can hear my liver rotting. For exercise, I fall down.”
“I get what you’re saying: Old guys are rarely interested in getting in a girl’s pants. That would be strange, wouldn’t it?”
“Where’d you learn to talk like that?”
“At the convent.” The bartender brought her a drink in an oversize glass without her having ordered one. She used both hands to pick it up and drink. She took a cherry out of it and broke it between her teeth.
“Why not order your next one in a bathtub and put a straw in it?” Clete said.
“Not a bad idea,” she said. Her cheeks had taken on a deeper color, and her mouth was glossy and red with lipstick. “I’ve seen you around.”
“I doubt it. I’m a traveling man, mostly.”
“You’re a salesman?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re a cop.”
“I used to be. But not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“I had an accident, too. I popped a government witness.”
“‘Popped,’ like made him dead?”
“Actually, getting snuffed was the noblest deed in his career. The DA’s office here made a lot of noise about it, but the truth is, nobody cared.”
She picked a second cherry out of her drink by its stem and sucked on it. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Are you from New Orleans?”
“Sure.”
“Say ‘New Orleans.’ Say it like you regularly say it.”
“‘Neu Or Luns.’”
“It’s not ‘Nawlens’?”
“Nobody from New Orleans uses that pronunciation. TV news-people do it because it gives the impression they know the city.”
She turned her stool toward him, her thighs slightly spread, her eyes roving over his face and body. She pursed her lips. “What are you looking for, hon? An easy lay out here in the swamps? I don’t like people who make comments about the scars on my arms. None of my scars look like they came from tattoo removal.”
“I was just making conversation.”
“If that’s your best effort, it’s a real dud.”
“I think you’re beautiful. I wouldn’t say something to offend you.”
He hadn’t meant to say that. Nor did he know why he had. His face was burning. “Sometimes I say things the wrong way. I bet you like baseball and outdoor dance pavilions and barbecues and stuff like that. I bet you’re a nice girl.”
“You go around saying things like that to people you don’t know?”
“You look like an all-American girl, that’s all.”
“If you’re determined to pick up girls in bars, this is what I suggest: Call Weight Watchers, don’t let your swizzle stick do your talking for you, and change your deodorant. You’ll get a lot better results.”
Clete poured his glass full but didn’t drink. He felt a sensation similar to a great spiritual and physical weariness seeping through his body.
“I was kidding. Brighten up,” she said. “Your problem is you’re a bad actor.”
“I’m not following you on that.”
“I’ve seen you before.” She fixed her eyes on his and held them there until he felt his scalp tighten. “Are you an Orioles fan?”
“Yeah, I like them. I go to baseball games everywhere I travel.”
“You ever go to exhibition games in Fort Lauderdale?” she asked.
“They call it Little Yankee Stadium, because the Yankees trained there before the Orioles.”
“That’s where I bet I saw you,” she said. She moved a strand of hair off her cheek. “Or maybe I saw you somewhere else. It’ll come to me. I don’t forget very much.”
“Yeah, you look smart, the way you carry yourself and all.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re a mess,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You want to dance?”
“I’m clumsy when it comes to stuff like that. What do you mean, I’m a mess?”
“You’re too innocent for words.”
She went to the jukebox and began feeding coins into it. In spite of the air-conditioning, he was sweating inside his clothes, blood pounding in his temples. He walked out onto the dance floor and stood inches behind her. He could smell the heat in her skin and the perfume in her hair. She turned around and looked up into his face, her eyes violet-colored in the light. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“I got to go,” he said.
“Buy me a drink?”
“No, I got to take care of some stuff. I’m sorry. It’s been good meeting you,” he said.
“You better get yourself some high-octane tranqs, boss,” she said.
“I really like you. I’m sorry for the way I talk,” he said.
His hands were shaking when he got to his car.
Clete thought the drive back into the city would calm his heart and give him time to think in a rational manner, but he was wired to the eyes when he pulled into the driveway of the garage apartment down by Chalmette that Frankie Giacano was using as a hideout. He didn’t even slow down going up the stairs. He tore the screen door off the latch and splintered the hard door out of the jamb. Frankie was sitting stupefied in a stuffed chair, a sandwich in his hand, food hanging out of his mouth. “Are you out of your mind?” he said.
