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Not until three days later, when Clete called the bait shop.
”Check this. Johnny Carp says he wants another sit-down. Eleven o'clock, our office,“ he said.
”Tell him to stay out of town.“
”Not smart, big mon.“
”Don't try to negotiate with these guys.“
”The guy's rattled about something.“
”Who cares?“ I said.
”Wake up, Dave. You got no radar anymore. You read the street while you got the chance or it eats you.“
I waited until almost eleven, then drove into New Iberia. John Polycarp Giacano's white stretch limo with the charcoal-tinted windows was double-parked in front of the office. A back window was partially lowered and two women with bleached hair and Frankenstein makeup were smoking on the backseat, looking straight ahead, bored, oblivious to each other. Three of Johnny's crew, wearing shades and boxed haircuts, stood on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street as though they were Secret Service agents.
I parked around the corner and walked back to the front door. One of them looked at me from behind his glasses, his expression flat, his hands folded in front of him. He chewed on a paper match in the corner of his mouth, nodding, stepping back to let me pass.
”Is that you, Frankie?“ I said.
”Yeah. How you doing, Mr. Robicheaux?“ he answered.
”I thought you were away for a while.“
”This broad's conscience started bothering her and she changed her testimony. What're you gonna do?“ He shrugged his shoulders as though a great metaphysical mystery had been placed on them.
”It might be a good idea to move the limo, Frankie.“
”Yeah, I was just going to tell the chauffeur that. Thanks.“
”When did Charlie start working with you guys?“ I asked.
He held the tips of his fingers in the air, touched his cheek, gestured with his fingers again.
”Who?“ he said. His mouth pursed into a small O the size of a Life Saver.
Inside the office, Clete sat behind an army-surplus metal desk, his hands hooked behind his neck. Johnny Carp sat across from him, his arms and legs set at stiff angles, his eyes filled with a black light, his knurled brow like ridges on a washboard. He wore a yellow shirt with the purple letter G embroidered on the pocket and a gray suit with dark stripes in it, a yellow handkerchief in the pocket. His shoes were dug into the floor like a man about to leap from a building.
”Dave, help me convince Johnny of somethi
ng here,“ Clete said. He smiled good-naturedly.
”What's happening, Johnny?“ I said, and sat down on the edge of another metal desk.
”You guys tried to cowboy Patsy Bones,“ he said.
”Wrong,“ I said.
”Somebody put a nine-millimeter round six inches from his head. He thinks it come from me,“ Johnny said.
”I can see that would be a problem,“ I said.
”Don't crack wise with me, Dave.“
”I always treated you with respect, Johnny. But I'm out of the game now. You've got the wrong guy.“
”Hear what I'm saying.“ His close-set eyes and mouth and nose seemed to shrink into an even smaller area in the center of his face. ”Don't try to scam us. You want something, you got a hard-on, bring it to the table. But you lay off this voodoo bullshit or whatever it is. I'm talking about Sonny here.“
