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br /> "You're talking about the Colombian?"
"He's from Nicaragua."
"Goon."
He wiped his lips with his fingers, then pulled at the flap of skin under his chin.
"It's got something to do with a nigger girl. I think she used to be a street whore. Didn't you pull a nigger out of the bayou in Cataouatche Parish?"
"You just keep telling me what you know, Wes."
"Jesus Christ, Lieutenant, what d'you think I am? I'm just a theater manager. Maybe once a month Mr. Segura has a bunch of guys out to his place on the lake. A buffet, a lot of booze, some broads in the pool. He shakes everybody's hand, maybe has a collins with us or plays cards a few minutes under the beach umbrella, then disappears inside."
"What's the girl have to do with Julio Segura?"
"You're not understanding me, Lieutenant. He don't tell me things like that. He don't talk to me about anything, in fact. Look, this is a heavy-metal cat. I think he's wired into big people. Why mess with him? The feds deal with guys like this."
I continued to stare silently at him. His hands flicked on the desk blotter as though wires were attached to them.
"They say you're making noise about a nigger girl you found in another parish," he said. "That ain't your territory, so they wonder why the interest. For some reason they think you're after them. Don't ask me why. I don't even like to be around that kind of talk. I walk away from it. That's the God's truth."
"You really bother me, Wes. I have great concern about your sincerity. I also have the feeling you think you're omniscient."
"Wha—"
"Tell me if I'm wrong. You think you can intuit exactly what I'll accept. You're going to jerk me around and tell me bedtime stories, then snort a line or two after I'm gone to calm your nerves, and your day will be back intact again. That indicates a serious problem with vanity and pride. What do you think?"
"Look—" he began, his mouth smiling, his eyes cast down self-deprecatingly.
"No, no, it's time for Wes to listen and me to talk. You see, when you shoot off your mouth about the murder of a police officer, you invite some dangerous complications into your life. Number one, foreknowledge can make an accomplice out of you, Wes. Then, on a more basic level, there are several men I work with who would simply cool you out. Are we communicating here?"
"Yes," he said weakly.
"There's no confusion?"
"No."
"All right, Wes. We'll talk again later. You understand that, don't you?"
"Yes."
I stood up from his desk and walked toward the door. I could hear him expel his breath.
Then: "Lieutenant?"
I turned and looked at him. His face was small and pale.
"Will this get back to Mr. Segura?" he said. "A couple of the Latin guys that work for him… cruel guys… they were cops or national guardsmen or something in Nicaragua… I don't like to think about the stuff they do."
"No guarantees. You sniff something bad in the wind, come to us and we'll get you out of town."
The sun was blazing outside. Across the street, three black kids were tap dancing for the tourists in the shade of the scrolled iron colonnade. The huge taps they wore sounded like drumsticks clicking on metal. Cletus stood out of the sunlight's glare, watching, with his seersucker coat over one arm. "What'd you get from old Pottsie?"
"It was the black girl I found in Bayou Lafourche. It's got the smell of dope and the Barataria pirates. Did you ever run up against Julio Segura when you were on vice?"
"You better believe it. He's your genuine, certified greaseball. The guy's got Vitalis oozing out of every pore."
"I thought he was a Colombian."
