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THE TRAFFIC WAS thin as Clete drove down I-10 along the edge of Lake Pontchartrain and passed the airport and the cutoff that led to New Iberia. Woolsey was staring out the window like a hairless white ape being transported back to the zoo. Thinking derogatory thoughts about Woolsey brought Clete no consolation. His mockery of Woolsey was, in reality, a bitter admission of his own failure. Woolsey had been taken down by a moral imbecile, but Clete had willingly formed a partnership with one. And Eddy being Eddy, he had immediately factored in his girlfriend, who had almost blinded Woolsey with oven cleaner. On top of that, the two of them had probably told Woolsey he was going to be baked alive in a tanning bed, which Clete had never planned to do.
The shorter version was Clete had empowered Ozone Eddy and his girlfriend to torture a man in Clete’s name. Now he was operating a jitney service for the man who had put a hit on him and his best friend. How bad could one guy screw up?
He looked at his passenger in the rearview mirror. “What do you get out of all this, Mr. Woolsey?”
“Enormous sums of money. Want some?”
“You connected to the oil spill?”
“Not me. I’m an export-import man. One of our biggest clients is Vietnam. Some people say it’s the next China. Want to get in on it?”
“I already did. Two tours.”
“Shooting gook and dreaming of nook? Boys will be boys and all that? I bet y’all had some fun.”
“Take a nap. I’ll tell you when you’re home,” Clete said.
“Touch a nerve?”
“Not a chance,” Clete said.
He turned off I-10 and drove up St. Charles Avenue into the Garden District and pulled into Lamont Woolsey’s driveway. Woolsey’s SUV still rested lopsidedly on one of the back rims. The light was burning on the elevated gallery. An Asian girl in a print sundress was standing under it.
“There’s our loyal Maelee,” Woolsey said.
“What’d you say?” Clete asked.
“My sweet young Vietnamese girl. They’re a loyal bunch. And Maelee is as lovely and fragrant as they come.”
“Her name is Maelee?”
“That’s what I said. Do you know her?”
Clete didn’t answer. For a moment he saw a young woman swimming next to a sampan on the edge of the China Sea, her face dipping into a wave.
But the person on the gallery was not a woman. She was a girl, her bare shoulders brown and warm-looking in the light, the flowers on her dress as vibrant as flowers in a tropical garden.
“Is that you, Mr. Lamont?” the girl said. “I was worried. You were gone so long without telling me.”
“See, they’re loyal,” Woolsey said. “The French taught them manners.”
“Why don’t you show some appreciat
ion and answer her?”
“Unlock my handcuffs.”
“I’ve seen her before,” Clete said. “She was the one who waited on Amidee Broussard after his speech at the Cajundome in Lafayette. He sent his steak back.”
“Correct-o. You must have had your eye on her.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Amidee knew I needed a maid and drove her over. I’ve given her the cottage in back. She seems quite happy with her new situation. Something wrong?”
Clete pulled back the seat in the Caddy and fitted the handcuff key into the lock on Woolsey’s wrist. He could smell onions on Woolsey’s breath and the dried talcum around his armpits. He stepped back while Woolsey got out of the car. Woolsey’s lips looked purple in the gloom, his eyes dancing with light.
“Yeah, there is something wrong,” Clete said. “Neither of you guys has any business around a young girl like that.”
