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Clete leaned forward in his chair. "Ma'am, we have a Meagan's Law in Louisiana. You must have been notified about Bobby Joe Fontenot's record," he said.
"People change," she said.
"You listen to me. That guy is a degenerate. You keep your son away from him," Clete said.
She focused her eyes on a neutral space, her hands folded in her lap. Her arms were muscular, as though she had grown up doing physical work, her complexion clear. Behind her, framed on the wall, was a black-and-white photograph of her and a man who looked like a power lifter. His hair was shaved on the sides, curly in back, his face impish, like a cartoon drawing of a monkey's.
I stood up and looked closer at the picture. It was inscribed "To Katie Gee, the girl who made my own screen role a real pleasure, Your pal, Phil."
"That's Gunner Ardoin," I said.
""Gunner' is his nickname. Phil is his real name. You know him?" she said.
"He was involved with the beating of a priest in New Orleans. You made a film with him?" I said.
She frowned, unable to process all that she just heard. "I made just one film. My screen name is Katie Gee. The producer said "Gee' looks better than "Goltz' on the credits. Phil was my co star What was that about a priest?" she said.
"You were in one of Fat Sammy Figorelli's porn films?" Clete said.
"They're art films. They're shown in art theaters. Listen, nobody has hurt my little boy. I wouldn't let that happen. I have to go to the washateria now," she said.
There seemed nothing left to say. Her mindset, formed out of either desperation, ignorance, or just plain stupidity and selfishness, was armor-plated, and in all probability no amount of attrition in her life or her son's would ever change it.
Bobby Joe Fontenot pulled up outside, wearing a foam-rubber collar, his face marbled with bruises. When the little boy got out of his car, Bobby Joe cocked his index finger at him, as though he were pointing a gun, and said, "Come over and watch some TV tonight. I got some Popsicles."
Clete and I got up to go, our mission by and large a failure. Her son rushed past us into his bedroom, a new comic book rolled tightly in his hand. Clete twisted the handle on the front door, then stopped and turned around. "It's not coincidence you let that geek be alone with your kid. There's a financial motive here, isn't there?" he said.
"Coincidence?" she said.
"You've got more than a neighborly relationship with that asshole next door. He knows you were working the trade around Folk Polk," Clete said, tapping the air with one finger. "Fontenot's in porn films, too, isn't he?"
"I'm not saying any more. I have to go to the washateria and fix lunch and do all kinds of things I don't get no help with. Why don't y'all just leave now? I didn't do anything to cause this, and you can't say I did," she said.
She stared at us indignantly, her arms folded across her breasts, as though the irrefutability of her logic should have been obvious to anyone.
Clete and I crossed the Teche on the drawbridge behind the trailer court and headed toward New Iberia on the back road, past the row of oak-shaded antebellum homes that belonged on a movie set. Then he mashed on the gas, one hand on top of the steering wheel, the sugarcane fields racing past us, a crazy light in his eyes.
"What are you thinking about, Clete?"
"Nothing. I'll drop you off," he said.
"Clete?"
"Everything is copacetic. Just hang loose. I'll check in with you later," he said. He whistled an aimless tune under his breath.
Chapter 21.
At 10:15 Monday morning I received a call from Clotile Arceneaux. "Did you hear from the FBI yet?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"You will. They just left here. They want to put a net over Max Coll real bad," she said.
"A guy crossing state lines to commit a homicide? I guess they would."
"No, you've got it wrong. It's face-saving time. Because he's IRA, he's on a terrorist watch list. In fact, he's been on one for three years. Except he's been going back and forth across the Canadian border like a yo-yo, making a lot of people look like shit."
"That's their problem," I said.
