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"I'm ready to pull the plug."
"Give it two more days."
"All right. Then that's it, Minos."
"Now, I want to pick a bone with you about this guy Purcel." I had to wince a little on that one.
"He called you?" I asked.
"He called the office. The call finally got referred to me. He said he was calling at your suggestion."
"He figured out the scam. I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know."
"He's got some idea he should go undercover for the DEA."
"Maybe it's not a bad idea," I said.
"Are you serious? He's got a rap sheet that's longer than some cons'. He was charged with a murder, he worked for the mob, the National Transportation Safety Board thinks maybe he caused a plane crash that killed a bunch of greaseballs."
"Clete's had a checkered career."
"It's not going to include working for the DEA."
"What do you hear on Boggs?"
"Nothing. Look, I'm coming over to New Orleans for the next three weeks. After today call me at the office there. I'll be staying at the Orleans Guest House on St. Charles."
"Think about putting Purcel on the payroll. He knows more about the lowlifes than any cop in New Orleans."
"Yeah, not many ex-cops can produce letters of reference from the Mafia. You really come up with some good ones, Dave."
That afternoon a message was left for me at Clete's bar. But it was not what I was expecting. It was written in ballpoint in a careful hand on a flattened paper napkin, and it read:
Dear Dave,
I was surprised to learn that you were back in New Orleans. I had heard that you had returned to New Iberia to live. I was surprised to hear some other things, too. But maybe life has changed a lot for both of us. I'd love to see you again. I've thought about you many times over the years. Call or come by if you feel like it. I live in the Garden District. It's a long way from Bayou Teche, huh, cher?
Your old friend,
Bootsie Mouton Giacano
Her telephone number and street address were written at the bottom.
Sometimes the heart can sink with a sense of mortality and loss as abrupt as opening a door to a shop filled with whirring clocks.
* * *
CHAPTER 5
If her name is Bootsie Mouton and it sends you back to 1957 and the best summer of your life. It was after my sophomore year at Southwestern Louisiana Institute, and my brother and I worked all summer on an offshore seismograph rig to buy a 1946 canary-yellow Ford convertible that we waxed and rubbed with rags until it had a glow like soft butter. One night at a dance out on Spanish Lake I saw her standing by herself under the oak trees by the water's edge, the light from Japanese lanterns flickering on her honey-colored hair, her moist brow and olive skin, the lavender dress she wore with a spray of white flowers pinned above the breast. She kept lifting her hair off her neck in the warm breeze that blew across the water, and pulling at the straps of her dress with her thumb.
"Would you like to dance?" I said.
"I can't. I have a fresh sunburn. We went crabbing at Cypremort Point today."
"Do you want a drink or a beer or a Coke or something?"
"Somebody went to get one for me."
