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“I know her around. Like everybody does,” she replied.
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“It doesn’t mean anything. It means I know her around.”
“You like her?” I said.
“What’s with the attitude, big mon?” Clete said.
“I don’t have an attitude. It was just a question,” I replied.
“Dave, if I want to drink boilermakers, that’s what I’m going to do. If they’re bad for me, that’s the breaks. If they give me a headful of snakes in the morning, they’re my snakes.”
“Dave is just trying to be a friend,” Julie said.
“Yeah, but it’s a grand evening, and we don’t need anybody hanging crepe,” he said.
“Somebody said you did some work for Varina Leboeuf,” I said to Julie.
“Whoever told you that is full of shit,” she replied.
“Where’d you hear this?” Clete said.
“Guess,” I said.
I held my eyes on his. His gaze left mine and went to the front of the building, where Gretchen was standing by the corner of the stage. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said.
“Why don’t we talk about it now?” I said.
“Dave, what the hell is the matter with you?” he said.
“I’ve known you a long time, Julie,” I said. “I always liked you. I didn’t set out to offend you. I have some concerns about a story I heard.”
“No problem. Just remind me not to fly you out to any more islands, because I feel like an idiot for thinking you were a friend.”
“You know Pierre Dupree very well?” I asked.
I saw Clete shake his head. “Dave?” he said.
“What?” I said.
He was wearing a tan suit and a knit tie and penny loafers and a shiny light blue shirt with stripes in it, his Panama hat resting on one knee. His face was as red as a Christmas tree bulb. I could see the wisp of blood in the hair on his wrist and his holstered .38 inside his coat. “Nothing. What’s the point?” he said.
He upended his boilermaker and drank it all the way to the bottom, his eyes as devoid of expression as green marbles. He crushed the cup under his shoe and stared straight ahead, his pulse beating visibly in his throat, his big hands resting on top of his thighs, like a man too tired to get angry anymore.
I WALKED BACK toward the stage just as Dixie Lee Pugh was leaving and the western swing band was filing out from the wings. Gretchen Horowitz was sliding the strap of an equipment bag over her shoulder. “Do you want to meet Dixie?” I said.
“I need to see Clete first,” she replied.
“I just talked to him. I don’t think he’s in the mood for any more consultations.”
“You told him what Pierre said?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“You named me as the source without giving me the chance to talk to him first?”
“Not exactly. But Clete is the closest friend I ever had. He’s also the best man I’ve ever known.”
