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'You've been down four times, Chuck,' I said. 'Your jacket shows you were always a solid con. But Buchalter's not stand-up, Chuck. He's letting you take his fall.'
'You're standing on third base,' Clete said behind me.
I turned in the chair and looked into Clete's face. But Clete only stepped closer to the bed.
'Chuck was in max at Leavenworth, he was a big stripe at Angola. He wants it straight,' he said to me. 'Right, Chuck? Buchalter'll piss on your grave. Don't take the bounce for a guy like that.'
Chuck's defective eyes looked as small as a bird's. They seemed to focus on Clete; then they looked past him at the swinging door to the intensive care unit, which had opened briefly and was now flapping back and forth.
His mouth began moving inside the hole in the bandages. I leaned my ear close to his face. His breath was sour with bile.
'I already told the priest everything. I ain't saying no more,' he whispered. 'Tell everybody that. I ain't saying no more.'
'I don't want to be hard on you, partner, but why not do some good while you have the chance?' I said.
He turned his face away from me on the pillow.
'If that's the way you want it,' I said, and stood up to go. 'If you change your mind, ask for the cop at the door.'
Out in the corridor, Clete put an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
'I never get used to the way these fuckers think. The sonofabitch is on the edge of eternity and he's scared he'll be made for a snitch,' he said, then noticed a Catholic nun with a basket of fruit two feet from him. 'Excuse me, Sister,' he said.
She was dressed in a white skirt and lavender blouse, but she wore a black veil with white edging on her head. Her hair was a reddish gold and was tapered on her neck.
'How is he doing?' she said.
'Who?' I said.
'That poor man who was shot last night,' she said.
'Not very well,' I said.
'Will he live?' she said.
'You never know, I guess,' I said.
'Were you one of the officers who—'
'Yes?'
'I was going to ask if you were one of the officers who arrested him.'
'I'm the officer who shot him, Sister,' I said. But my attempt at directness was short-lived, and involuntarily my eyes broke contact with hers.
'Is he going to die?' she said. Her eyes became clouded in a peculiar way, like dark smoke infused in green glass.
'You should probably ask the doctor that,' I said.
'I see,' she said. Then she smiled politely. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound rude. I'm Marie Guilbeaux. It's nice meeting you.'
'I'm Dave Robicheaux. This is Clete Purcel. It's nice meeting you, too, Sister,' I said. 'You're not from New Iberia, are you?'
'No, I live in Lafayette.'
'Well, see you around,' I said.
'Yes, good-bye,' she said, and smiled again.
