“Thanks, anyway, Cletus. I don’t want to move back to New Orleans.”
“We’ll open a branch here in New Iberia. Leave it to me, I’ll set it up.”
Several nightmarish visions floated before my eyes. Clete looked at his watch. “You got anything to eat?” he said.
“Help yourself.”
He walked through the house to the kitchen and came back on the gallery with a bowl of Grape-Nuts and a tall glass of coffee and hot milk. His teeth made a grinding sound while he ate. His eyes glanced at his watch again.
“Who you expecting?” I said.
“I’m meeting Helen in town. She’s photocopying Sonny’s diary for me.”
“Bad idea.”
He stopped chewing and his face stretched as tight as pig hide. He raised his spoon at me.
“Nobody fucks my podjo, pardon the word in your house,” he said.
I felt like the soldier who enlists at the outset of a war, then discovers, after his energies and blood lust have waned, that there is no separate peace, that he’s a participant until the last worthless shot is fired on the last worthless day. Sonny was right. There are no administrative suspensions, no more so than when pistol flares burst overhead and flood the world with a ghostly white light and you turn into the skeletal, barkless shape of a tree.
When the rain stopped and the sky began to clear and gradually turn blue again, I took Alafair’s pirogue and rowed it into the swamp. The stands of cypress were bright green and dripping with rainwater, and under the overhang every dead log and gray sand spit was covered with nutrias.
I slid the pirogue into a cove and ate a ham and onion sandwich and drank from a cold jar of sun tea.
Oftentimes when you work a case and the players and events seem larger than life, you leapfrog across what at first seems the minuscule stuff of police procedural novels. Details at a crime scene seldom solve crimes. The army of miscreants whose detritus we constantly process through computers and forensic laboratories usually close their own files by shooting themselves and one another, OD-ing on contaminated drugs, getting dosed with AIDS or busted in the commission of another crime, or perhaps turning over a liquor store where the owner had tired of being cleaned out and introduces the robber to Messieurs Smith & Wesson.
Several years ago the wire services reported rumors that Jimmy Hoffa’s body had been entombed in concrete under the goal posts of a football stadium. Each time someone kicked the extra point, Hoffa’s old colleagues would shout, “This one’s for you, Jimmy!”
It makes a good story. I doubt that it’s true. The mob isn’t given to poetics.
A New Orleans hit man, who admitted to murdering people for as little as three hundred dollars, told me Hoffa was ground up into fish churn and thrown by the bucket-load off the stern of a cabin cruiser, then the deck and gunnels hosed and wiped down a pristine white, all within sight of Miami Beach.
I believed him.
The body of the man named Jack had probably been mutilated by a professional, or at least the directions to do so had been given by one. But sinking the body with a tangle of fish line and scrap iron on the edge of a navigable channel had all the marks of an amateur, and probably a lazy one at that, or we would have never found it.
I called Helen at the department.
“What’s ruthless, lazy, and stupid all over?” I asked.
“The guy taking your calls?”
“What?” I said.
“The old man assigned your open cases to Rufus Arceneaux.”
“Forget Rufus. We missed something when we pulled the floater out. He was tied up with scrap iron and fish line.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Let me try again. What’s perverse, is not above anything, looks like a ghoul anyway, and would screw up a wet dream?”
“Sweet Pea Chaisson,” she said.
“Clete and I went to his house on the Breaux Bridge road before we had that run-in with him and Patsy Dap in Lafayette. I remember a bunch of building materials in the lot next door—building materials or maybe junk from a pipe yard.”
“Pretty good, Streak.”
“It’s enough for a warrant,” I said.
“Then we toss his Caddy and maybe match the blood on the rug to the scraping you took from the trailer behind the juke. Dave, square your beef with the old man. I can’t partner with Rufus.”
“It’s not my call.”
“You heard Patsy Dap’s in town?”
“No.”
“Nobody told you?” she said.
“No.”
“He got stopped for speeding on East Main yesterday. The city cop made him and called us. I’m sorry, I thought somebody told you.”
“Where is he now?”
“Who knows? Wherever disfigured paranoids hang out.”
“Keep me informed on the warrant, will you?” I said.
“You’re a good cop, Dave. You get your butt back here.”
“You’re the best, Helen.”
I walked down to the dock. The air was hot and still and down the road someone was running a Weed Eater that had the nerve-searing pitch of a dentist’s instrument. So Patsy Dapolito was in New Iberia and no one had bothered to tell me, I thought. But why not? We did it all the time. We cut loose rapists, pedophiles, and murderers on minimum bail, even on their own recognizance, and seldom notified the victims or the witnesses to their crimes.
Ask anyone who’s been there. Or, better yet, ask the victims or survivors about the feelings they have when they encounter the source of their misery on the street, in the fresh air, in the flow of everyday traffic and normal life, and they realize the degree of seriousness with which society treats the nature of their injury. It’s a moment no one forgets easily.
My thoughts were bitter and useless.
I knew the origins of my self-indulgence, too. I couldn’t get the word disfigured out of my mind. I tried to imagine the images that flashed through Patsy Dap’s brain when he saw his face reflected in the mirror.
I helped Batist fill the coolers with beer and soda and scoop the ashes out of the barbecue pit, then I sat in the warm shade at one of the spool tables with a glass of iced tea and thought about Clete’s offer.
Chapter 19
THE NEXT MORNING I drove out to the Bertrand plantation to talk to Ruthie Jean, but no one was at home. I walked next door to Bertie’s and knocked on the screen. When she didn’t answer, I went around the side and saw her get up heavily from where she had been sitting on the edge of the porch. Her stomach swelled out between her purple stretch pants and oversize white T-shirt. She unhooked a sickle from the dirt and began slicing away the dead leaves from the banana trees that grew in an impacted clump against the side wall of the house.
I had the impression, however, she had been doing something else before she saw me.
“I’m worried about Ruthie Jean, Bertie,” I said. “I think she nursed a man named Jack who died in the trailer behind the juke. She probably heard and saw things other people don’t want her to talk about.”
“You done already tole her that.”
“She’s not a good listener.”
“There’s two kinds of trouble. What might happen, and what done already happen. White folks worry about might. It ain’t the same for everybody, no.”
“You lost me.”
“It ain’t hard to do,” she said. She ripped a tangle of brown leaves onto the ground, then lopped a stalk cleanly across the middle. The cut oozed with green water.
On the planks of the porch I saw a square of red flannel cloth, with a torn root and a tablespoon of dirt in the middle. I saw Bertie watch me out of the corner of her eye as I walked closer to the piece of flannel. Among the grains of dirt were strands of hair, what looked like a shirt button, and a bright needle with blood on it.
“I’m going to take a guess—dirt from a grave, root of a poison oak, and a needle for a mess of grief,” I said.
She whacked and lopped the dead stalk
s and flung the debris behind her.
“Did you get Moleen’s hair and shirt button out of the shack by the treeline?” I asked.
“I ain’t in this world to criticize. But you come out here and you don’t do no good. You pretend like you know, but you playing games. It ain’t no fun for us.”
“You think putting a gris-gris on Moleen is going to solve your problems?”
“The reason I put it on him is ‘cause she ain’t left nothing out here so I can put it on her.”
“Who?”
“Julia Bertrand.” She almost spit out the words. “She already been out here once this morning. With that man work down the hall from you. Ruthie Jean ain’t got her house no more. How you like that?”
I blew out my breath.
“I didn’t know,” I said.
She tossed the sickle in the flower bed.
“That’s my point,” she said, and went in her house.
A few minutes later, almost as though Bertie had planned Julia appearance’s as part of my ongoing education about the realities of life on a corporate plantation, I saw Julia’s red Porsche turn off the highway and drive down the dirt road toward me. Rufus Arceneaux sat next to her in a navy blue suit that looked like pressed cardboard on his body.
When she stopped next to me, her window down, her face cheerful, I tried to be pleasant and seem unknowing, to mask the embarrassment I felt for her and the level of vindictiveness to which she had devoted herself.
“Bertie doesn’t have you digging holes after pirate’s treasure, does she, Dave?” she said.
“She told me something disturbing,” I said, my voice bland, as though she and I were both concerned about the ill fortune of a third party. “It looks like Ruthie Jean and Luke are being evicted.”
“We need the house for a tenant family. Ruthie Jean and Luke don’t work on the plantation, nor do they pay rent. I’m sorry, but they’ll have to find a new situation.”
I nodded, my face blank. I felt my fingers tapping on the steering wheel. I cut my engine.
“You already dropped the dime on her and had her locked up. Isn’t that enough?” I said.
“Whatever do you mean?” she said.
I opened my door partway to let the breeze into the truck’s cab. I felt my pulse beating in my neck, words forming that I knew I shouldn’t speak.
“With y’all’s background and education, with all Moleen’s money, can’t you be a little forgiving, a little generous with people who have virtually nothing?” I said.
Rufus bent down in the passenger’s seat so I could see his face through the window. He had taken off his pilot’s sunglasses, and his eyes looked pale green and lidless, the pupils as black and small as a lizard’s, the narrow bridge of his nose pinched with two pink indentations.
“You’re operating without your shield, Dave. That’s something IA doesn’t need to hear about,” he said.
She placed her hand on his arm without looking at him.
“Dave, just so you understand something, my husband is a charming man and a wonderful litigator who also happens to be a financial idiot,” she said. “He has no money. If he did, he’d invest it in ski resorts in Bangladesh. Is Ruthie Jean home now?”
Her eyes fixed pleasantly on mine with her question. Her lips ticked smile looked like crooked red lines drawn on parchment.
I dropped the truck into low and drove under the wisteria-hung iron trellis of the Bertrand plantation, wondering, almost in awe, at the potential of the human family.
That afternoon Batist called me from the phone in the bait shop.
“Dave, there’s a man out on the dock don’t belong here,” he said.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I ax him if he want a boat. He says, “Give me a beer and a sandwich.” An hour later he’s sitting at the table under the umbrella, smoking a cigarette, he ain’t eat the sandwich, he ain’t drunk the beer. I ax him if there’s any ting wrong with the food. He says, “It’s fine. Bring me another beer.” I say, “You ain’t drunk that one.” He says, “It’s got a bug in it. You got the afternoon paper here?” I say, “No, I ain’t got the paper.” He says, “How about some magazines?”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” I said.
“I ought to brought him a paper bag.”
“What d’ you mean?”
“To put over his head. He looks like somebody took a sharp spoon and stuck it real deep all over his face.”
“Stay in the bait shop, Batist. You understand me? Don’t go near this man.”
I hung up, without waiting for him to reply, called the department for a cruiser, took my .45 out of the dresser drawer, stuck it through the back of my belt, and hung my shirt over it. As I walked down the slope through the broken light under the pecan and oak trees, I could see a strange drama being played out among the spool tables on the dock. Fishermen who had just come in were drinking beer and eating smoked sausage and boudin under the umbrellas, their faces focused among themselves and on their conversations about big-mouth bass and goggle-eye perch, but in their midst, by himself, smoking a cigarette with the concentrated intensity of an angry man hitting on a reefer, was Patsy Dapolito, his mouth hooked downward at the corners, his face like a clay sculpture someone had mutilated with a string knife.
I remembered a scene an old-time gun bull had once pointed out to me on the yard, inside the Block, at Angola Penitentiary. Inmates stripped to the waist, their apelike torsos wrapped with tattoos, were clanking iron, throwing the shot put and ripping into heavy bags with blows that could eviscerate an elephant. In the center of the lawn was a tiny, balding, middle-aged man in steel-rimmed spectacles, squatting on his haunches, chewing gum furiously, his jaws freezing momentarily, the eyes lighting, then the jaws moving again with a renewed snapping energy. When a football bounced close to the squatting man, a huge black inmate asked permission before he approached to pick it up. The squatting man said nothing and the football remained where it was.
“Forget about them big ‘uns,” the gun bull told me. “That little fart yonder killed another convict while he had waist and leg chains on. I won’t tell you how he done it, since you ain’t eat lunch yet.”
I looked down at Patsy Dapolito’s ruined face. His pale eyes, which were round like an outraged doll’s, clicked upward into mine.
“You made a mistake coming here,” I said.
“Sit down. You want a beer?” he said. He picked up a bottle cap from the tabletop and threw it against the screen of the bait shop. “Hey, you! Colored guy! Bring us a couple more beers out here!”
I stared at him with my mouth open. Batist’s head appeared at the screen, then went away.
“You’ve pulled some wiring loose, partner,” I said.
“What, I don’t got a right to drink a beer in a public place?”
“I want you out of here.”
“Let’s take a ride in a boat. I ain’t never seen a swamp. You got swamp tours?” he said.
“Adios, Patsy.”
“Hey, I don’t like that. I’m talking here.”
I had already turned to walk away. His hand clenched on my forearm, bit into the tendons, pulled me off balance into the table.
“Show some courtesy, act decent for a change,” he said.
“You need some help, Dave?” a heavyset man with tobacco in his jaw said at the next table.
“It’s all right,” I said. People were staring now. My .45 protruded from under my shirt. I sat down on a chair, my arms on top of the spool table. “Listen to me, Patsy. A sheriff’s cruiser is on its way. Right now, you got no beef with the locals. As far as I see it, you and I are slick, too. Walk away from this.”
His teeth were charcoal colored and thin on the ends, almost as though they had been filed. His short, light brown hair looked like a wig on a mannequin.
His eyes held on mine. “I got business to do,” he said.
“Not with me.”
“With you.”
The fish
ermen at the other tables began to drift off toward their cars and pickup trucks and boat trailers.
“I want part of the action,” he said.
“What action?”
“The deal at the plantation. I don’t care what it is, I want in on it. You’re on a pad for Johnny Carp. That means you’re getting pieced off on this deal.”
“A pad for—“
“Or you’d be dead. I know Johnny. He don’t let nobody skate unless it’s for money.”
“You’re a confused man, Patsy.”
He pinched his nose, blew air through the nostrils, looked about at the sky, the overhang of the trees, a cloud of dust drifting from a passing pickup through a cane brake. “Look, there’s guys ain’t even from the city in on this deal, military guys think they’re big shit because they cooled out a few gooks and tomato pickers. I did a grown man with a shank when I was eleven years old. You say I’m lying, check my jacket.”
“It’s Johnny you want to bring down, isn’t it?” I said.
He kept huffing puffs of air through his nostrils, then he pulled a wadded handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose in it.
“Johnny don’t show it, but he’s a drunk,” Dapolito said. “A drunk don’t look after anybody but himself. Otherwise you’d be fish bait, motherfucker.”
I walked out to meet the cruiser sent by the dispatcher. The deputy was a big red bone named Cecil Aguillard whose face contained a muddy light people chose not to dwell upon.
“You t’ink he’s carrying?” Cecil said.
“Not unless he has an ankle holster.”
“What he’s done?”
“Nothing so far,” I said.
He walked down the dock ahead of me, his gunbelt, holster, and baton creaking on his hips like saddle leather. The umbrella over Patsy’s head tilted and swelled in the wind. Cecil pushed it at an angle so he could look down into his face.
“Time to go,” Cecil said.
Patsy was hunkered down over the tabletop, scowling into a state fish and game magazine. He made me think of a recalcitrant child in a school desk who was not going to let a nun’s authority overwhelm him.