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“He’s a gambler.”
“Ever see him in here?”
“Yeah, he stays here sometimes.”
“Ever see him with the guy over there at the table?”
“Are you kidding?”
At four o’clock, the group of elderly ladies began filing out of the dining room. Clete picked up his drink and walked over to Alridge, who was just saying good-bye to a lady on a walker. He clapped Alridge hard on the shoulder. “Need to talk to you,” he said.
“Pardon me?” Alridge said, turning slowly.
“We’ve got a big mess over in New Iberia. Your name keeps coming up in it. You know Whitey Bruxal and Bellerophon Lujan, right? Lujan’s boy got blown away with a twelve-gauge and it looks like a gangbanger might ride the needle for it. The gangbanger is a bucket of black whale sperm by the name of Monarch Little. Too bad the Lujan kid got mixed up with him. You need a drink?”
But Clete realized his grandiose manner was manufactured, that he was not in control. His face felt hot and swollen, as though it had been stung by bees; his own words sounded foreign and disconnected, outside himself. He propped one hand on a chair to steady himself. Colin Alridge stared at him in amazement.
“I couldn’t process all that. What was that about the Lujan boy?” Alridge said.
“You know him?”
“I know Mrs. Lujan. Sit down. What is your name?”
Clete had not been prepared for Alridge’s response. “Tony Lujan’s old man is part owner of the casinos you front points for,” he said. “You’re in bed with some nasty guys, Mr. Alridge, so I thought you’d like to get an update on their everyday lives.”
“Who are you?”
“Clete Purcel. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a hole in my shoulder a guy named Lefty Raguza put there. He also poured acid all over my car early this morning. He works for Whitey Bruxal. You and Whitey pretty tight?”
But Alridge seemed to take no notice of the implication in Clete’s question. He pushed a chair out for Clete, then took one for himself. “You have to start over, sir. Tony Lujan was murdered?”
“You don’t watch the news?”
“No, most of the time I don’t. Who did you say killed him?”
“The Lujan kid had a beef with some gangbangers. But what happened later is a matter of debate. Maybe the larger case involves Whitey Bruxal and the Feds. I thought you might have some feedback on that.”
Alridge rested his forehead on his hand, obviously bereaved, his composure lost. Then his eyes climbed up into Clete’s face. “And you think Tony Lujan’s death has something to do with me?”
“You tell me.”
“You can’t begin to comprehend how offensive you are.”
Now it was Clete who felt undone. The pain and the level of insult in Alridge’s face were real. Clete tried to hold his eyes on Alridge’s but felt himself blink. “Whitey Bruxal gave the orders to blow the head off an armored truck guard. The word is you’re backing his play here in Louisiana, so—”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. You deal with your own demons, Mr. Purcel. I have to call Mrs. Lujan,” Alridge said.
He rose from his chair, seeming to tower over Clete. Then he hesitated, his face fraught with concern. “Are you all right to drive?” he said.
“Am I all—”
Alridge gestured to the bartender. “Call a cab for this gentleman, will you, Harold?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Alridge,” the bartender replied.
“You hold on, bub,” Clete said, getting to his feet.
Alridge touched him gently on the shoulder. “You did what you thought you had to do, Mr. Purcel. Rest here a little bit and have a cup of coffee. I’m happy to have met you.”
