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"Don't park in front of fire plugs."
"Fire plugs?"
"Right."
"I'm getting this kind of dog shit because of a fucking fire plug?"
"No, what I'm wondering, Julie, is why you and Cholo have to hit on a small-town teenage hooker. Don't y'all have enough chippies back in New Orleans?"
"What?"
"Cherry LeBlanc," I said.
"Who the fuck is Cherry LeBlanc?"
"Give it a break and stop acting like you just popped out of your mama's womb."
He folded his napkin, placed it carefully by the side of his plate, pulled a carnation out of the flower vase, and pinched off the stem.
"You calling me a pimp?" he said. "You trying to embarrass me in public. That's what this is about?"
"You didn't listen to what I said. We just found another murdered girl. Cholo knew about the murder of the LeBlanc girl, and he said you did, too. Except you lied about it when I mentioned her to you."
His eyes drifted lazily to Cholo's face. Cholo squeezed his hands on his wrists.
"I'm all lost here. I'm—" he began.
"You know what the real trouble is, Dave?" Julie said. He flipped the carnation onto the tablecloth. "You never understood how this town worked. You remember anybody complaining about the cathouses on Railroad and Hopkins? Or the slot machines that were in every bar and restaurant in town? Nobody complained 'cause my old man delivered an envelope to certain people at the end of every month. But those same people treated our family like we were spit on the sidewalk.
"So you and that FBI broad went around town stirring up the Bumstead crowd, shoving a broomstick up their ringus, and your boss man called you in to explain the facts of life. But it's no fun finding out that the guys you work for don't want to scare a few million dollars out of town. So you fuck my car and get in my face in a public place. I think maybe you should go back to work in New Orleans. I think maybe this shithole is starting to rub off on you."
The manager had come from behind the glass cashier's counter and was now standing three feet from me and Julie, his clip-on bow tie askew, his tongue wetting his lips.
"Sir, could you gentlemen lower your, I mean, could you not use that language in—" he began.
Julie's eyes, which were filled with a black light, flipped up into the manager's face.
"Get the fuck away from my table," he said.
"Sir—" the manager said.
"It's all right, Mr. Meaux. I'm leaving in just a second," I said.
"Oh, sad to hear it," the woman Margot, said. Except Cholo, the other hoods at the table smiled at her humor. She wore a sundress, and her hair, which was bleached the color of ash, was pulled back tightly on her head. She smoked a cigarette and the backs of her arms were covered with freckles.
"You want to come down to the office and look at some morgue pictures? I think that'd be a good idea," I said. "Bring your girlfriend along if you like."
"I'm going to say this just once. I don't know none of these girls, I don't have nothing to do with your problems, you understand what I'm saying? You said some ugly things to me, Dave, but we're old friends and I'm going to let it slide. I'll call a couple of cabs, I'll pay the fine on my car, I'll buy new tires, and I'll forget everything you been saying to me. But don't you never try to get in my face in a public place again."
One of his hoods was getting up, scraping back his chair, to use the restroom.
I folded my sunglasses, slipped them into my shirt pocket, and rubbed the burning sensation in my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.
"Feet, you're full of more shit than a broken pay toilet," I said quietly.
The hood rested his hand on my shoulder. He was perhaps twenty-eight or thirty, lithe and olive-skinned, his dark hair boxed
on his neck. A long pink scar, as thick as a soda straw, ran down the inside of one arm.
