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“That Monarch did it. He was resentful, needed money, and miserable in his role as a federal snitch. So he figured he’d score a few bucks off a rich white boy and get even at the same time. Except the rich white boy took a gun to the meeting spot and Monarch blew him apart.”
“It’s not that simple. According to J. J. Castille, Slim Bruxal and Tony had specific knowledge about the death of the hit-and-run on Crustacean Man. I think Bruxal is a player in this.”
“Right now we’re talking about Tony Lujan, not Crustacean Man. You don’t like fraternity kids, Dave. I don’t think you’re entirely objective about this case.”
“I’m not objective about this particular group of fraternity kids, so lay off it, Helen. In my view, the kids who gangbanged Yvonne Darbonne are one cut above sociopaths.”
“All right, bwana.”
“All right what?”
“You made your point.”
I was sitting in a chair in front of her desk. I got up and went to the window behind her, an act a subordinate in a sheriff’s office would not normally do. But Helen and I had been friends and investigative partners long before she became sheriff. “Lonnie leaked the story to The New York Times?” I said.
“Probably,” she replied.
“What did you tell the reporter when he called?”
“That I loved their gardening and culinary articles.”
“What did he say to that?”
“It was a she. She sounded cute, too.” She looked up and winked. You didn’t put the slide on Helen Soileau.
EVEN THOUGH MONARCH LITTLE might have turned federal informant, he was still considered a high flight risk by the parish court and his bail on the illegal weapons charge had been set at seventy-five thousand dollars. He had also been transferred to the parish prison, an institution that earned itself a degree of national notoriety in the early 1990s for a practice known as “detention chair confinement” and the gagging of bound prisoners.
Just before quitting time, I drove through the gates of the prison compound, the coils of razor wire atop the fences trembling with a silvery light. I hung my badge holder on my belt, checked my holstered .45 at the admissions counter, and asked that Monarch be brought out to an interview room.
When I began my career in law enforcement, walking a beat in the lower Magazine area with Clete Purcel, a career house creep who had pulled time twice in Arkansas, considered years ago to be the worst of the worst among American prison systems, told me he had learned character in jail. Because of my youth and inexperience, I thought his remark grandiose if not ridiculous. But like most cops, I came to respect the dues that a stand-up or “solid con” has to pay. For an individual to survive the system with his integrity and personal identity intact requires enormous amounts of physical courage, humility, wisdom about people, and the ability to eat pain without resenting oneself. The era of the redneck gunbull may have slipped into history, but the atavistic and sexual energies of people in captivity have not. Ask any fish what his first shower experience was like after he wised off to the wrong guy.
Lonnie Marceaux had said Monarch wasn’t particularly bright. He was wrong. Monarch had a wolf’s intelligence and could sniff weakness, fear, or strength in an adversary in the same way an animal does. And even though he acted the role of a smart-ass with me, in the can he showed respect to inmates and prison personnel alike. More important, he never violated a confidence and never ratted out another inmate, even if his silence cost him lockdown or isolation.
At least that had been his reputation before word reached the parish prison that Monarch was no longer an inner-city king but just another hump on a federal pad.
A turnkey walked him down a corridor to the interview room, Monarch outfitted in jailhouse orange. He was also draped in waist and leg chains.
“Why the traveling junkyard, Cap?” I said.
“District attorney’s orders,” the turn
key replied.
“I’d appreciate your unhooking him,” I said.
“Can’t do it, Streak. Holler on the gate when you’re done.”
After the turnkey was gone, Monarch sat down in a wood chair, his chains tinkling, his manacled hands locked against his torso. “This gonna take long? They serving supper in a few minutes,” he said.
“You in lockup?”
“Gen pop. Ain’t axed for lockup.”
“Some bad dudes in general pop.”
“Yeah, most of them use to work for me. Come on, Mr. Dee. You got better t’ings to do, ain’t you?”
“They’re about to put a homicide jacket on you, Monarch.”
