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“Then why don’t you stop dumping your garbage in her life?”
“Listen, Dave—”
“I got a bribe offer from an anonymous letter writer. This guy mentioned your name. He also said you’re a prick and a welsher.”
He was silent.
“Then I talked with Joey Gouza. He also called you a welsher.”
“Consider the source.”
“The interesting question is why I keep seeing or hearing the word ‘welsher’ when your name is mentioned.”
“When did you see Gouza?”
“None of your business.”
“He’s a candidate for a lobotomy. I wouldn’t mash on his oysters.”
“Why are you mixed up with Gouza?”
“Who says I know him? The guy’s notorious. Gouza is to New Orleans what monkey flop is to a zoo.”
“Weldon, the real problem is you’ve tracked through your own shit and you’re laying it off on other people. I think you’ve put your sister in jeopardy. In my opinion that’s a lousy thing to do.”
“Yeah? Is that right? Maybe if you ever get your nose out of the air long enough, I’ll clue you in on the facts of life down in the tropics.”
“I think you’ve sought out the trouble in your life. Nobody forced you to fly for Air America. You were dirty in Indo-China, I think you’re dirty now.”
“I wish I had the patent on righteousness. I guess you never called in any 105s on a ville. Stay the fuck away from my sister if you can’t handle it any better than you did yesterday.”
He hung up. This time I was the one whose words and anger were caught in my throat like a tangle of fish hooks. Unconsciously I wadded up a sheet of paper on top of my desk and threw it toward the wastebasket, then realized it was my time log for my paycheck.
IT WAS JUST AFTER one o’clock and it had started to rain again when Clete returned my call. I had opened my windows, and the wind blew a fine spray through the screens.
“Can you come to New Orleans this evening?” he asked.
“I was coming tomorrow.”
“How about today?”
“What’s up?”
“I got some information on Bobby Earl that might lead us to those farts who worked me over.”
“Wait a minute, where are you?”
“At home.”
“The hospital cut you loose?”
“I cut myself loose. Somehow the smell of bedpans just doesn’t go together with mashed potatoes and boiled carrots. Forget about the hospital. Look, you remember Willie Bimstine and Nig Rosewater?”
“The bondsmen?”
“That’s right. I chase down jumpers for them sometimes. So I called them this morning to see if they might have some work for me, since I don’t have any medical insurance and my hospital bill is a nightmare. But these guys are also a gold mine of information on the lowlifes of New Orleans. So when I had Nig on the phone I asked him what he knew about the buttwipes who put stitches all over my head. No help there, though. In fact, he said he thought Raintree and Fluck weren’t around the city anymore, because when they’re in town you hear about it. Fluck in particular. Evidently he likes beating the shit out of people.
“So I asked Nig what kind of action Bobby Earl might be involved in, and he told me this interesting story. Nig went a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bond for this broad over in Algiers. The broad got nailed with four kees of pure Colombian nose candy. But Nig’s not worried about her. She’s got a high-priced lawyer, it’s her first bust, and she knows she can cut a deal and not do any time, so Nig’s money is safe. It’s her two brothers who are the problem. Nig put up big bucks to get them out on a robbery beef, and they both skipped on him.
