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A nurse came in to take my temperature, and I started to say good-bye to Minos.
"How close did it get out there, Dave?" he said.
"Down to the wire."
"Are you all right?"
"It's just a few stitches. They're keeping me a day or so because I got some water in my lungs. Sometimes that can cause pneumonia."
"No. I mean are you all right?"
"I'm fine." And I looked out at the sunlight on the trees and realized that I meant it.
"I think we're going to pull you out of the sting. It went out of control. It wasn't anybody's fault, it just happens. But you've done enough. I'll be back with you tonight."
After he hung up and the nurse had taken my temperature, I used the bathroom, then walked to the window and looked down the side street toward St. Charles. The streetcar rattled down the esplanade under the massive canopy of oak trees, the wood seats filled with Negroes and working-class white people. Down below, the gutters were full of pink and blue camellias from the previous night's rain, and the wet stone was streaked with color like dye washed out of paper flowers.
Ten minutes later Clete walked through the door with a pizza in a flat box, a can of Jax in one coat pocket, and a Dr Pepper in the other. His porkpie hat was tilted down on his forehead. He sat on the side of my bed and flipped open the top of the box, his intelligent green eyes smiling at me.
"Hospital food usually tastes like a cross between spit and baby pabulum," he said. "So I brought you a dynamite combo of anchovies, sausage, pepperoni, and double cheese. How do you like it, my noble mon?"
"How about some peanut brittle? It goes great with stitches in the mouth, too."
He ate a huge wedge and popped open the can of Jax, drank it half-empty, then picked up another wedge and started chewing, smiling all the time. There were flecks of pizza sauce on his mouth and shirt.
"The next time, I cover your butt from Jump Street," he said.
"All right."
"The feds don't send out my old partner on any more Lone Ranger jobs."
"Okay, Clete."
"Because you can't depend on these white-collar dickheads."
"I got your drift."
"Did that pencil pusher call you yet?"
"Minos?"
"Yeah."
"About ten minutes ago."
"His sting has turned to shit. He's not too happy. I told him they took a hell of a lot of risk with a guy they recruited from outside their agency. He didn't seem to like that."
"Minos is all right. How do you think New Orleans got in on it?"
"Maybe a wiretap, maybe a snitch. Who cares? They saves your tokus, didn't they?"
"Not intentionally. You remember what it was like when somebody opened up on you with an M-16?"
"Maybe we ought to 'front Nate Baxter about it. Sometimes he comes into my club after work. I've always thought his head would make a good toilet brush."
He continued to study my face.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
