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"Yeah, you do." Then he turned to a Negro who was sweeping between the tables by the dance floor. "Emory, go down to Joe Burda's and get us a couple of dozen on the half shell."
The Negro went out, and Clete fixed me a tall glass of shaved ice, 7-Up, Collins mix, candied cherries, and orange slices. He poured a cup of coffee for himself behind the bar, then came around and sat down beside me. The club was empty, the front door open; the light outside was bright under the colonnade.
"What the fuck are you up to, Streak?" he said.
"I've got an apartment over on Ursulines. I haven't bounced back too well since that guy put a hole in me."
"You like listening to drunks break bottles out in the street all night?"
"It's not bad."
"I bet. How many queers are in your building?"
"Lay off it,Clete."
"Then tell me why I'm hearing these weird stories."
"I don't know what you've heard."
"That an ex-Homicide roach is trying to score five keys of
coke. That he got canned from the Iberia Parish Sheriff's Department because he was taking juice. That he's floating Tony C.'s name around town."
"Word spreads."
"Among some people I'd stay away from, the kind we used to mash into the cement."
"The kind you used to mash."
"I'm not kidding you, partner. I heard this bullshit from three different guys."
"Who?"
"I can't control who drinks at my bar. There're some connected guys come in here. They know I used to work for the Dio family out in Vegas and Tahoe, so they're always inviting me back to their booth. You've got to see it, Dave, to appreciate it. About six of them, all guys, cram into the vinyl booth back there on Saturday night. They always sit so all of them can look out at the dance floor and flash their bucks and shake hands with everybody like they're celebrities. I'm talking about guys who couldn't put spaghetti on a plate without a diagram."
"These are Cardo's people?"
"One way or another. He pieces off a lot of his action so all the greaseballs stay happy. You ever meet him?"
"No."
"One of his broads lives in the Pontabla. He brings her in sometimes for a drink. He looks like somebody slammed a door on his head."
"When does he come in?"
"He's not a regular."
"What's the woman's name?"
"Who knows? I got a proposition for you, though."
Emory, the black barman, brought in a tin tray loaded with oysters on the half shell, slices of lemon, and a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I gave him six dollars for the restaurant bill and a dollar for himself. He went into the back of the club and began stacking cartons of empty beer bottles in a storage room.
"Let me in on it," Clete said. There was a bead of light in his green eyes.
"On what?"
"The sting, mon." He seasoned one of the oysters, squeezed lemon on it, cupped the shell in his hand, and let the muscle slide down his throat. He smiled and the juice ran down the corner of his mouth. "I figure it's probably a DEA gig. They've got the gelt, they can afford another player."
