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He chewed the skin on the ball of his thumb.
“A man who doesn’t respect one woman, won’t respect another,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He looked out into the shadows again, his head twisting back and forth on his neck, as though searching for words that would not injure.
“He speaks disrespectfully of Ms. Perez in front of other men. She’s not the only one. Is your wife’s first name Bootsie?”
“Yes,” I replied, the skin tightening around my temples.
“He said dirty things about her to a cop named Ritter. They laughed about her.”
“I think it’s time for you to go.”
He splayed open his hand, like a fielder’s glove, and stared at it and wiped dirt off the heel with the tips of his fingers.
“I’ve been told to get off better places. I come here on account of Ms. Perez. If you won’t stand up for your wife, it’s your own damn business,” he said, and brushed past me, his arm grazing against mine.
“You hold on,” I said, and lifted my finger at him. “If you’ve got a beef to square with Jim Gable, you do it on your own hook.”
He walked back toward me, the teeth at the corner of his mouth glinting in the purple dusk.
“People come to the geek act so they can look on the outside of a man like me and not look at the inside of themselves. You stick your finger in my face again and I’ll break it, policeman be damned,” he said.
It stormed that night. The rain blew against the house and ran off the eaves and braided and whipped in the light that fell from the windows. Just as the ten o’clock news came on, the phone rang in the kitchen.
The accent was East Kentucky or Tennessee, the pronunciation soft, the “r” sound almost gone from the words, the vowels round and deep-throated.
“There’s no point in trying to trace this call. I’m not using a ground line,” he said.
“I’m going to take a guess. Johnny Remeta?” I said.
“I got a hit on me. Maybe you’re responsible. I can’t be sure.”
“Then get out of town.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Why’d you call me?”
“Sir, you told folks I was a snitch. What gives you the right to lie like that? I don’t even know you.”
“Come in. It’s not too late to turn it around. Nobody’s mourning Zipper Clum.”
“You’ve got to set straight what you’ve done, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“You’re in the wrong line of work to demand redress, partner.”
“Demand what?”
“Listen, you wouldn’t go through with the job at Little Face Dautrieve’s place. Maybe you have qualities you haven’t thought about. Meet me someplace.”
“Are you kidding?”
I didn’t reply. He waited in the silence, then cleared his throat as though he wanted to continue talking but didn’t know what to say.
The line went dead.
