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'How about ties to the AB?' I said.
'Maybe. But these guys don't have much organization outside the joint. Most of them are more worried about their cock than politics, anyway,' Motley said. 'Reverend, why don't you go ahead and play your tape?'
Flat snapped the Play button down on his recorder, then set the recorder on the desktop. Once again, I heard the heated voice of Jack Pelley, like a disembodied hiss rising with gathering intensity out of the din of jailhouse noise.
'You got mud people coming out of your sewer grates, you got 'em eating dogs out of the city parks, fucking like minks in the projects, queers spreading AIDS in the blood banks, you think I'm kidding, you ever heard of Queer Nation, it ain't an accident half of them got kike names, how about that mud person over there in New Iberia thinks he's gonna deliver up the gift to a Jew, you think we come this far to let that happen, the sword ain't gonna allow it, no way, motherfucker, tell the screw to send down some toilet paper, they didn't leave none when they fed me, hey, you put that on that tape, what the fuck you think you doing, man—'
The recording ended with a brittle, clattering sound.
'That's when he knocked hit out of my hand,' Flat said. 'I never saw a man in so much torment.'
'Run it again,' Clete said.
We listened once more. I saw Clete put a breath mint on his tongue, then crack it between his molars and stare thoughtfully into space. When the tape ended he smiled in order to hide whatever thought had been in his eyes.
'How's it feel to be a mud person, Streak?' he said.
'We talked to the feds and a couple of snitches in the AB about any group that might call itself "The Sword." They never heard of it,' Motley said.
'Who's "we"?' I said.
'Me.'
'Baxter's blowing it off?' I said.
'What do I know?' Motley said.
Clete, Oswald Flat, and I walked out into the squad room. Clete and Flat went ahead of me. I stepped back into Motley's office.
'I appreciate what you've done, Motley,' I said.
'Tell me straight, Robicheaux, what's "the gift" this guy was talking about?'
'I don't have the slightest idea.'
'Somebody thinks you do.'
'Maybe he was talking about somebody else.'
'Yeah, probably the archbishop. A thought you might take with you—if they're using meltdowns like Jack Pelley, you can bet they've got a shit pile of them in reserve. Purcel's a cracker, but sometimes he's got his point of view, you know what I mean?'
'Not really.'
'People tend to fuck with him only once. There's never any paperwork around later, either.'
'Bad advice from a cop, Motley.'
'I got a flash for you, Robicheaux. I made a copy of the preacher's tape and gave it to Baxter. Ten minutes later I saw him erase it and throw it in the trash.'
He bit down on his Baby Ruth and stared at me reflectively.
* * *
chapter ten
Outside, I shook hands with Oswald Flat and thanked him for his help, then I drove Clete back toward his office in the French Quarter. It was raining, and the thick canopy of oaks over St. Charles looked gray in the blowing mist. The streetcar rattled past us on the neutral ground, its windows down to let in the cool air.
'You were a little quiet in there,' I said.
