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"I got to use the can."
"It's unavailable now," I said.
"She's here for another reason. It ain't because of a dead hooker," he said.
"We're all here because of you, Murph. You're going down hard, partner. We haven't even started to talk about Kelly Drummond yet."
He bit a piece of skin off the ball of his thumb.
"What's the bounce on the pimp beef?" he said.
"You think you're going to cop to a procuring charge when you're looking at the chair? What world are you living in?" I said.
"Ask her. She's here to make a case on Balboni, not a security guard, so clean the shit out of your mouth. What kind of bounce am I looking at?"
"Mr. Doucet, you're looking at several thousand volts of electricity cooking your insides. Does that clarify your situation for you?" Rosie said.
He looked into her face.
"Go tell your boss I can put that guinea away for twenty-seven years," he said. "Then come back and tell me y'all aren't interested in a deal."
The sheriff opened the door.
"His lawyer's here," he said.
"We're going to your house now, Murph," I said. "Is there anything else you want to tell us before we leave?"
The attorney stepped inside the room. He wore his hair shaved to the scalp, and his tie and shirt collar rode up high on his short neck so that he reminded you of a light-brown hard-boiled egg stuffed inside a business suit.
"Don't say anything more to these people, Mr. Doucet," he said.
I leaned on the table and stared into Murphy Doucet's face. I stared at his white eyebrows, the jittering of his eyeballs, the myriad lines in his skin, the slit of a mouth, the white scar on his throat that could have been layered there with a putty knife.
"What? What the fuck you staring at?" he said.
"Do you remember me?" I said.
"Yeah. Of course. When you were a cop in New Orleans."
"Look at me. Think hard."
His eyes flicked away from my face, fastened on his attorney.
"I don't know what he's talking about," he said.
"Do you have a point, detective?" the attorney said.
"Your hired oil can doesn't have anything to do with this, Murph," I said. "It's between me and you now. It's 1957, right after Hurricane Audrey hit. You could smell dead animals all over the marsh. You remember? Y'all made DeWitt Prejean run with a chain locked around his chest, then you blew his leg out from under him. Remember the kid who saw it from across the bay? Look at my face."
He bit down on his lip, then fitted his chin on top of his knuckles and stared disjointedly at the wall.
"The old jailer gave you guys away when he told me that DeWitt Prejean used to drive a soda pop truck. Prejean worked for Twinky Lemoyne and had an affair with his wife, didn't he? It seems like there's always one guy still hanging around who remembers more than he should," I said. "You still think you're in a seller's market, Murph? How long do you think it's going to be before a guy like Twinky cracks and decides to wash his sins in public?"
"Don't say anything, Mr. Doucet," the attorney said.
"He doesn't have to, Mr. Bonin," I said. "This guy has been killing people for thirty-five years. If I were you, I'd have some serious reservations about an ongoing relationship with your client. Come on, Rosie."
The wind swirled dust and grit between the cars in the parking lot, and I could smell rain in the south.
