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I picked up two freshwater rods that were propped in the corner, the Mepps spinners on the lines snugged into the cork handles. I tossed one to Clete.
“Let’s entertain the bass,” I said.
“There’s more,” he said. His green eyes flicked sideways at me. His face was pink and oily with perspiration under the light, his fresh haircut like a little boy’s.
I sat down next to him and tried not to look at my watch. “So what’s the rest of it?” I asked, feigning as much interest as I could.
“I was back at my motel, just about asleep, when a car pulls up in front of Zerelda Calucci’s cottage. Guess who?” he said. “Perry LaSalle again. Like everywhere I go I see Perry LaSalle. Like any broad around here I’m interested in has got a thing with Perry LaSalle. Except this time he’s getting his genitalia ripped out.
“Zerelda calls him a douche bag and a brain-dead horse dick, then picks up a flowerpot off the walk and smashes it on the dashboard of his convertible.
“I hear his car leave and I think, Ah, I can get some sleep. Ten minutes later Zerelda taps on my door. Man, she was drop-dead beautiful, with those big ta-tas and pale skin and black hair full of lights and fire alarm lipstick, and she’s holding this big, sweaty bottle of cold duck, and she says, ‘Hey, Irish. I’ve just had the worst fucking night of my life. Feel like hearing about it?’
“And I’m telling myself, Go back to sleep, Clete. Barbara Shanahan waits for you in the morning. Wet dream of the Mafia or not, no Sicilian skivvy runs tonight.
“Those thoughts lasted about two seconds. Guess which podjo of yours got fucked on the ceiling last night and fucked on the ceiling and floor and in the shower and every other surface of the room this morning?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I don’t, either. Except I’m having dinner with her this evening.”
“With Joe Zeroski’s niece?” I said.
“Yeah. I think I just took Perry LaSalle’s place. You and Bootsie want to join us?” He looked at me expectantly.
“I think we’re supposed to go to the PTA tonight,” I replied.
“Right. I forgot you were tight with the PTA,” he said. He stood up and put on his hat. “By the way, I found out where that guy Legion lives. I let him know the Bobbsey twins from Homicide are a factor in his life.”
“You did what?”
On Thursday morning the sheriff called me down to his office. “You know a fellow named Legion Guidry?” he asked.
“I know a man named Legion. I’m not sure if that’s his first or last name, though. He used to be an overseer on Poinciana Island.”
“I got a call from the sheriff in St. Mary Parish. A couple of his deputies work at the casino in their off hours. One of them says you went into the lounge and spit in this fellow’s food.”
There was a long silence.
“I guess I was having a bad day,” I said.
The skin seemed to shrink on the sheriff’s face. “You’re telling me you actually did this?” he said.
“This is a bad guy, Sheriff. A real bucket of shit left behind by the LaSalle family.”
“You want a lawyer in here?”
“What for?”
“Two nights ago somebody slashed all four of this fellow’s truck tires. A filling-station operator saw a man in a rattletrap Cadillac convertible leaving the neighborhood.” The sheriff picked up a yellow legal pad that he had written some notes on. “The filling-station operator said the driver looked like an albino ape with a little hat perched on his head. Sound like anybody you know?”
“No, I don’t know any albino apes,” I replied.
“You think this is funny?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I think your real beef is with the LaSalle family, Dave. You blame the rich for all our racial and economic problems. You forget the other canneries have shipped their jobs to Latin America. The LaSalles still take care of all their employees, all the way to the grave, no matter what it costs them.”
