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'He can't talk for himself?'
'You better hope he doesn't, Max.'
'Is this more hard guy stuff? You got your shovel with you?'
'Nope.'
His eyes were as black and liquid as wet paint.
'You got some kind of deal you want to cut? That why you're here?' he said.
'Maybe.'
He drank from his lemonade, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he pushed opened the short iron gate with his foot.
'It's a nice day, a special occasion. I got no bad feelings on a nice day like this. Eat a piece of cake,' he said.
'We can talk out here.'
'What, you too good to sit down at my nephew's birthday party?' he said.
I ate a custard-filled eclair in a sunny spot by the garden wall. The air was dry and warm, and the breeze blew through the banana trees along the wall and ruffled the water in an aboveground swimming pool. The guests around the tables were his relatives and family friends—working-class people who owned small grocery stores and cafés, carried hod, belonged to the plumbers' union, made the stations of the cross each Friday in Lent, ate and drank at every meal as though it were a pagan celebration, married once, and wore widow black with the commitment of nuns.
Max combed his hair back over his bald pate at the table, cleaned the comb with his fingers, then stuck the stub of a filter-tipped cigar in his mouth and motioned me toward a gazebo on the far side of the yard. The latticework was covered with purple trumpet vine; inside, the glass-topped table and white-painted iron chairs were deep in shadow, cold to the touch.
Max lit his cigar and let the smoke trail out of his mouth. His shoulders were brown and oily-looking against the white straps of his undershirt.
'Say it,' he said.
'I hear you and Bobo put out an open contract on Clete.'
'You get that from Lonighan?'
'Who cares where it came from?'
'Lonighan's a welsher and a bum.'
I leaned forward and rubbed my hands together.
'I'm worried about my friend, Max.'
'You should. He's got a radioactive brain or something.'
'I'm not here to defend what he does. I just want you guys to take the hit off him.'
'He's the victim? Have you seen my fucking car? It ain't a car no more. It's a block of concrete.'
'Come on, Max. You guys started it when you leaned on his girlfriend.'
'That's all past history. She paid the loan, she paid the back vig. All sins forgiven.'
'Here's the deal. You and Bobo tried to take out Nate Baxter. I think you probably did this without consent of the Commission. What if some reliable information ends up in their hands about a couple of guys in New Orleans trying to cowboy a police administrator?'
'That's what you got to work my crank with?' he said.
'Yeah, I guess so.'
'Then you got jack shit.'
