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I left by the back entrance and walked down the alley to the side street where my truck was parked. I could hear the streetcar clattering down the tracks on St. Charles. The sky was a hard blue, the noon sun bright overhead, and gray squirrels raced each other around the trunks of the oak trees on the street. Now all I had to do was find a way inside the insular and peculiar world of Anthony Cardo.
"You just fucking do it, mon," Clete said that same day as we ate lunch at the bar in the Golden Star on Decatur. "The guy lives in a house, right, not the Vatican. We're talking about a bucket of shit, mon, not the pope. You don't get a number and wait when you deal with a bucket of shit, do you?"
He took an enormous bite of his oyster loaf sandwich. His face was ruddy and cheerful, his crushed porkpie hat down low over his eyes, his sports coat as tight as a sausage skin on his broad back. His cigarette burned in an ashtray, and by his elbow was a Bloody Mary with a celery stalk in it.
"Call up the cocksucker and tell him we're coming out," he said.
"It's not that easy, Cletus."
"I don't see the problem." His cheek was as big as a baseball with unchewed food. We were alone at the bar. The walls were covered with the framed and autographed photos of movie stars.
"He has an unlisted number. Minos gave it to me, but I don't have a way to explain to Cardo how I got it. I asked Fontenot for it, and he wouldn't give it to me. He said he had to clear it with Cardo first."
"Fontenot's the tub, the one with the T-shirt shop on Bourbon?"
"That's the man."
"He wants to control access to the piggy bank, huh?"
"Something like that."
"Stay here."
"Where are you going?"
"Remain cool and copacetic, my mellow man. I'll be back before you finish your gumbo."
"Wait a minute, Clete."
But he was out the door. Fifteen minutes later he was back, his green eyes smiling under the short brim of his hat. He dropped a slip of paper with Cardo's phone number on it next to my plate.
"What did you do to him?" I asked.
"Hey, come on, Fontenot's a reasonable guy. I just explained that you and I are in partnership now. He liked the idea. That's right, I ain't putting you on."
"Clete, if we get into Cardo's, you've got to take your transmission out of overdrive."
"Trust me, mon." The fingers of his big hands were spread out like banana peels on top of the bar. He grinned at me, squinted his eyes, and clicked his teeth together. "You're looking at a model of restraint. I worked Vice, remember. I know these fuckers. They'll love having me on board."
It was easier than I thought. I called Cardo's house, a maid answered, then Cardo was on the line. He was polite, even expansive. The accent was typical New Orleans Italian, which sounded like both Flatbush and the Irish Channel.
"I've heard a lot about you," he said. "I've been looking forwa
rd to meeting you. You play tennis?"
"I'm afraid not."
"You like to watch tennis?"
"Sure."
"Where are you now?"
"At the Golden Star, across from the French Market."
"Can you come out in an hour? We'll have some drinks, I'll hit the ball a little bit, we'll talk."
"Sure. I'd like that. Can you give me your address?"
