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"I know all that, Wes. That's why it makes me feel bad when I do this to you."
I took the .45 from my coat pocket, slid back the loading receiver, let it clack back loudly into place, and aimed it at a downward angle between his eyes so he could see the cocked hammer.
He gasped, his face jumped, pinpoints of sweat broke out on his coarse skin, and his eyes almost crossed as they went out of focus on the pointed pistol. He fluttered his fingers at the barrel.
"Don't point it at me, Lieutenant," he pleaded. "I was in the war. I can't take guns."
"Your sheet says you got a peacetime BCD."
"I don't care. I hate guns. I hate all violence. God, I'm gonna wet my pants!"
He was trembling badly. The box of fried chicken had spilled to the floor, and he was swallowing dryly, the pulse jumping in his throat, and kneading and rubbing his hands in front of him as though something obscene were on them. Then he began to weep uncontrollably.
"I can't do this to you. I'm sorry, Wesley," I said, and lowered the .45.
"What?" he said weakly.
"I apologize. I shouldn't have done that. If you don't want to drop the dime on somebody, that's your business."
He couldn't stop hiccupping and shaking.
"Lighten up. It was empty. Here, look." I pointed the barrel at my palm and snapped the trigger. His head jerked at the sound.
"I'm gonna have a heart attack. I had rheumatic fever when I was a kid. I can't take high-level stres
s like this," he said.
"I'll get you a whiskey from next door. What do you drink?"
"A double Black Jack on ice, with a Tuborg chaser." He paused and blinked. "Make sure the beer's cold, too. The Jew that runs that joint is always trying to cut down on his refrigeration bill."
I went to the bar next door and had to pay eight dollars for the imported beer and the double shot of Jack Daniel's in a cup of ice. When I got back to Wesley's office the air reeked of marijuana, and his face had the blank, stiff look of somebody who had just eaten the roach.
"My doctor gives it to me for glaucoma," he said. "It's a condition I got in the army. A hand grenade blew up in one of the pits. That's how come I'm nervous all the time and can't take stress."
"I see."
"The beer cold?"
"You bet. Are you all right now?"
"Sure." He drank down the whiskey and crunched the ice between his teeth, his close-set eyes narrowing and focusing like BBs. "Lieutenant, I can give you that fucker."
"Why is that?"
"He's a creep. Besides, he was muling Mexican brown for Segura. I still live down in the Irish Channel. They hook up neighborhood kids with that stuff."
"Yeah, the Rotary and the Knights of Columbus have been talking a lot about that lately. Have you been attending some of their breakfasts on that, Wes?"
"I sell dirty fantasies in a dark theater. I don't steal people's souls. You haven't found that tattooed ass-wipe because he don't live in New Orleans. He's got a fish camp over by Bayou des Allemands in St. Charles Parish. He spends his time busting bottles in the backyard with a shotgun. The guy's a walking advertisement for massive federal aid to mental health."
"Dropping the dime's not always enough."
"I'm turning him for you. What else you want?"
"You know the rules, Wes. We don't let the customers write the script. Give me the rest of it. Like Didi Gee told me, treat people with respect."
He drank his beer and looked intently at the wall, his face coloring with remembered anger. I could hear his breath in his nose.
