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"They're joined at the hip."
"Is there a Xerox machine out there?" she asked.
* * *
TWENTY-FOUR
WE GOT BACK TO NEW Iberia late the next day. I went to the office before going home, but the sheriff had already gone. In my mailbox he had left a note that read: "Let's talk tomorrow about Scruggs and the Feds."
That evening Bootsie and Alafair and I went to a restaurant, then I worked late at the dock with Batist. The moon was up and the water in the bayou looked yellow and high, swirling with mud, between the deep shadows of the cypress and willow trees along the banks.
I heard a car coming too fast on the dirt road, then saw Clete Purcel's convertible stop in front of the boat ramp, a plume of dust drifting across the canvas top. But rather than park by the ramp, he cut his lights and backed into my drive, so that the car tag was not visible from the road.
I went back into the bait shop and poured a cup of coffee. He walked down the dock, looking back over his shoulder, his print shirt hanging out of his slacks. He grinned broadly when he came through the door.
"Beautiful night. I thought I might get up early in the morning and do some fishing," he said.
"The weather's right," I said.
"How was Colorado?" he asked, then opened the screen door and looked back outside.
I started to pour him a cup of coffee, but he reached in the cooler and twisted the top off a beer and drank it at the end of the counter so he could see the far end of the dock.
"You mind if I sleep here tonight? I don't feel like driving back to Jeanerette," he said.
"What have you done, Clete?"
He ticked the center of his forehead with one fingernail and looked into space.
"A couple of state troopers almost got me by Spanish Lake. I'm not supposed to be driving except for business purposes," he said.
"Why would they be after you?"
"This movie gig is creeping me out. I went up to Ralph & Kacoo's in Baton Rouge," he said. "All right, here it is. But I didn't start it. I was eating oysters on the half-shell and having a draft at the bar when Benny Grogan comes up to me—you know, Ricky the Mouse's bodyguard, the one with platinum hair, the wrestler and part-time bone smoker.
"He touches me on the arm, then steps away like I'm going to swing on him or something. He says, 'We got a problem, Purcel. Ricky's stinking drunk in a back room.'
"I say, 'No, we don't got a problem. You got a problem.'
"He goes, 'Look, he's got some upscale gash in there he's trying to impress, so everything's gonna be cool. Long as maybe you go somewhere else. I'll pay your tab. Here's a hundred bucks. You're our guest somewhere else tonight.'
"I say, 'Benny, you want to wear food on your face again, just put your hand on my arm one more time.'
"He shrugs his shoulders and walks off and I thought that'd be the end of it. I was going to leave anyway, right after I took a leak. So I'm in the men's room, and they've got this big trough filled with ice in it, and of course people have been pissing in it all night, and I'm unzipping my pants and reading the newspaper that's under a glass up on the wall and I hear the door bang open behind me and some guy walking like the deck is tilting under his feet.
"He goes, 'I got something for you, Purcel. They say it hits your guts like an iron hook.'
"I'm not kidding you, Dave, I didn't think Ricky Scar could make my heart seize up, but that's what happened when I looked at what was in his hand. You ever see the current thread between the prongs on a stun gun? I go, 'Dumb move, Ricky. I was just leaving. I consider our troubles over.'
"He goes, 'I'm gonna enjoy this.'
"Just then this biker pushes open the door and brushes by Ricky like this is your normal, everyday rest-room situation. When Ricky turned his head I nailed him. It was a beaut, Dave, right in the eye. The stun gun went sailing under the stalls and Ricky fell backward in the trough. This plumber's helper was in the corner, one of these big, industrial-strength jobs for blowing out major toilet blockage. I jammed it over Ricky's face and shoved him down in the ice and held him under till I thought he might be more reasonable, but he kept kicking and flailing and frothing at the mouth and I couldn't let go.
"The biker says, 'The dude try to cop your stick or something?'
"I go, 'Find a guy named Benny Grogan in the back rooms. Tell him Clete needs some help. He'll give you fifty bucks.'
"The biker goes, 'Benny Grogan gives head, not money. You're on your own, Jack.'
