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He glanced back at me, his head notched with pink scars, then returned to his food.
“How about you, Tripod? You doin’ okay, old-timer?” I said.
Tripod smacked his chops and had no comment.
I wished life consisted of just taking care of animals, the earth, and one’s family and friends. In fact, that’s what it should be. But it’s not, and the explanation for that fact is not one I have ever been able to provide.
“Ready to eat?” Molly said through the screen window.
“Sure,” I said, and went back inside.
It was 6:10 p.m. and Molly was in the bathroom when the phone on the kitchen counter rang. Outside, the light in the trees was the color of honey, the tidal current in the bayou flowing inland, the surface networked with serpentine lines of dead leaves.
“That you, Mr. Robicheaux?” the voice said.
“Cesaire?” I said.
“This connection ain’t good. I’m at a pay phone not far from Whiskey Bay. I seen your friend wit’ a blond woman. He was driving a pink Cadillac convertible wit’ a white top.”
“Right, that’s Clete Purcel. You saw him?”
“Yes, suh. But that ain’t why I called. A couple of gangsters followed him and the woman out of a parking lot in front of a bar. One of them was the father of Tony Lujan’s friend.”
“Whitey Bruxal?”
“I ain’t sure of his name. I just know his face. He called the man wit’ him ‘Lefty.’ This guy Lefty’s face looked like a busted-up flowerpot. I t’ought I ought to tell you about your friend.”
“Why are you at Whiskey Bay, Mr. Darbonne?”
“I got a camp here. Is your friend gonna be okay?” Chapter 27
A FTER I CLOSED the bedroom door, I removed my cut-down twelve-gauge pump from the closet, sat on the side of the bed, and pushed five shells loaded with double-aught buckshot into the magazine. I strung my handcuffs through the back of my belt, clipped on my holster and 1911-model United States Army .45, Velcro-strapped my .25 automatic on my ankle, and picked up the receiver from the telephone on the dresser. I paused for a moment, thinking of Clete and the alternatives his situation offered, then replaced the receiver in the cradle without punching in a number. I heard the doorknob twist behind me.
“What are you doing?” Molly asked.
“That was Cesaire Darbonne. I think Whitey Bruxal and Lefty Raguza have followed Clete and Trish Klein to a camp in the Basin.”
“Call the department.”
“Clete’s wanted by NOPD. He’ll be locked up.”
“That’s Clete’s problem.”
“It may be a false alarm,” I said, starting toward the door.
“You simply accept the word of Cesaire Darbonne? A man you believe mutilated the body of a college student with a shotgun?”
“I’ve got my cell. I’ll call you.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Not on this one.”
“Don’t do this, Dave.”
“If you don’t hear from me in two hours, call nine-one-one.”
Perhaps my attitude was willful and even cruel, but I had a terrible sense that maybe this time Clete’s luck had finally run out. That thought caused a sensation in my throat that was like swallowing glass.
