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“He keeps the head of a Vietnamese soldier in a jar of chemicals. He said he’d like to see Letty Labiche electrocuted in stages. I think he lied about his knowledge of my mother’s death,” I said.
Bootsie lay very quiet in the dark, then rolled away from me and stared up at the ceiling. She sat on the side of the bed with her back to me for a long time. I started to touch her with my hand, but she reached behind her and picked up her pillow and went into the living room.
7
The next afternoon, just before quitting time, Clete came into my office.
“The jigger’s name is Steve Andropolis. He worked for the Giacanos and did freelance stuff in Miami when it was an open city. You remember him?” he said.
“Vaguely.”
“I had the wrong address last night. He agreed to show up again tonight. The guy’s a shitbag, Streak, but he’s a gold mine of information.”
“Why’s he want to help us?”
“He’s into Wee Willie Bimstine for four large. I got him a one-month extension with no vig.”
“It sounds good, Cletus,” I said.
He smiled and put a breath mint on his tongue.
We drove south to Morgan City as the evening cooled and the clouds over the Gulf turned a deeper red in the sunset. The man named Steve Andropolis was waiting for us in the back of a diner set on pilings by the water’s edge. A half-empty green beer bottle and a white plate filled with fried shrimp tails sat in front of him. The hard, rounded surfaces of his face reminded me of an old baseball. He wore a new golf cap and a bright yellow golf shirt and gray slacks and tan loafers, as though affecting the appearance of a Florida retiree, but he had big-knuckled hands, a faded blue tattoo of a nude girl on his forearm, and close-set, pig’s eyes that took the inventory of everyone in the diner.
When Clete introduced me, I didn’t take his hand. He let his hand remain in the air a moment, then parted his lips slightly and wiped at something on the corner of his mouth.
“I know you?” he said.
“From a long time ago. You had a DWI and the court sent you to a twelve-step program in the Quarter. You stole two-hundred dollars from the group’s treasury.”
Andropolis turned to Clete. “What’s the deal?” he asked.
“There’s no problem here, Steve. We just want to know what you’ve heard about this guy who did Zipper Clum,” Clete said.
“His name’s Johnny Remeta. He’s out of Michigan. They say he’s got a lot of talent,” Andropolis said.
“A lot of talent?” I said.
“Is there an echo in here?” Andropolis said.
“This doesn’t fit, Steve. The guy we’re looking for is a hillbilly,” Clete said.
“You wanted to know who was the new kid in town, I told you. He’s done hits for the greaseballs out on the coast, maybe a couple of pops in Houston. He don’t have a sheet, either,” Andropolis said.
“Where is he?” Clete asked.
“A guy who blows heads? He ain’t like other people. He does the whack, gets his ashes hauled, and visits Disneyland.”
Andropolis’ eyes kept returning to my face as he spoke.
“Why’s he looking at me like that?” he asked Clete.
“Streak’s just being attentive. Right, Dave?” Clete said, and gave me a deliberate look.
“Right,” I said.
“Y’all want to know anything else?” Andropolis asked.
“I think I remember some other thin
