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"Dried blood. I done told you that. You carry all this to a lab. You gonna do that or not?"
He breathed through his mouth, his eyes seeming to focus on an insect an inch from the bridge of his nose. A terrible odor rose from his clothes.
"I'm going for the paramedics now," I said.
"A .45 ball went all the way through my intestines. I ain't gonna live wired to machines. Tell Terrebonne I expect I'll see him. Tell him Hell don't have no lemonade springs."
He fitted the Ruger's barrel under the top of his dentures and pulled the trigger. The round exited from the crown of his head and patterned the plaster on the brick wall with a single red streak. His head hung back on his wide shoulders, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A puff of smoke, like a dirty feather, drifted out of his mouth.
* * *
THIRTY-THREE
TWO DAYS LATER THE SKY was blue outside my office, a balmy wind clattering the palm trees on the lawn. Clete stood at the window, his porkpie hat on his head, his hands on his hips, surveying the street and the perfection of the afternoon. He turned and propped his huge arms on my desk and stared down into my face.
"Blow it off. Prints or no prints, rich guys don't do time," he said.
"I want to have that hammer sent to an FBI lab," I said.
"Forget it. If the St. Landry Parish guys couldn't lift them, nobody else is going to either. You even told Scruggs he was firing in the well."
"Look, Clete, you mean well, but—"
"The prints aren't what's bothering you. It's that damn towel."
"I saw the face on it. Those cops in Opelousas acted like I was drunk. Even the skipper down the hall."
"So fuck 'em," Clete said.
"I've got to get back to work. Where's your car?"
"Dave, you saw that face on the towel because you believe. You expect guys with jock rash of the brain to understand what you're talking about?"
"Where's your car, Clete?"
"I'm selling it," he said. He was sitting on the corner of my desk now, his upper arms scaling with dried sun blisters. I could smell salt water and sun lotion on his skin. "Leave Terrebonne alone. The guy's got juice all the way to Washington. You'll never touch him."
"He's going down."
"Not because of anything we do." He tapped his knuckles on the desk. "There's my ride."
Through the window I saw his convertible pull up to th
e curb. A woman in a scarf and dark glasses was behind the wheel.
"Who's driving?" I asked.
"Lila Terrebonne. I'll call you later."
AT NOON I MET Bootsie in City Park for lunch. We spread a checkered cloth on a table under a tin shed by the bayou and set out the silverware and salt and pepper shakers and a thermos of iced tea and a platter of cold cuts and stuffed eggs. The camellias were starting to bloom, and across the bayou we could see the bamboo and flowers and the live oaks in the yard of The Shadows.
I could almost forget about the events of the last few days.
Until I saw Megan Flynn park her car on the drive that wound through the park and stand by it, looking in our direction.
Bootsie saw her, too.
"I don't know why she's here," I said.
