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“Whatever,” she said. She was sitting in a straight-back chair. She rubbed the back of one wrist in her eye and gazed wanly out the window at the rain blowing off the rooftops. “Alafair told me about a 1940s musical revue that’s coming up here in December. I thought about doing a documentary on it. It’d be a start, wouldn’t it? Maybe something I could use to get into film school?”
He started to redirect the conversatio
n back to the problem at hand but gave it up. “I don’t know much about universities.”
“I was just asking. I never went to many people for advice. My mother was always in and out of rehab. More out than in. I stopped calling her about a year ago. Do you think I have it? I mean the talent or the brains or whatever. You know stuff about history and business and the military that most college-educated people don’t. Do you think somebody like me could make it in Hollywood?”
“You like Burt Reynolds?”
“Do I? Did you see Deliverance?”
“I met him once. Another guy asked him how he got into the film business. Reynolds said, ‘Why grow up when you can make movies?’ I bet they’d name a boulevard after you.”
“Clete?”
He turned around, his hand on the doorknob, the mist drifting into the room.
“Lay off the hooch,” she said. “There’re certain kinds of behavior I can’t deal with, not even when the person is somebody I’m really fond of. I’m sorry if I talked harsh to you.”
I DIDN’T LEARN of the incident in the art deco restaurant from Clete. I heard about it Monday morning when I got a phone call from Dana Magelli at NOPD. A patrolwoman had responded to the 911 at the same time the paramedics did. The private dining area was a wreck; blood and at least two teeth were splattered on a tablecloth. But the victims of the attack had helped one another out the back door and driven away in an SUV without making a report.
“You’re sure one of them was Pierre Dupree?” I said.
“He’s a regular. The charges were on his AmEx,” Dana said. “Plus, the maître d’ said Dupree had reserved the private room where the attack took place.”
“Why are you calling me about it?”
“Because a witness said the assailant drove away in a maroon Cadillac convertible. Because I think this involves Clete Purcel or somebody associated with him. Because we don’t have time for this crap.”
“A woman beat up these guys?”
“That’s what a busboy says.”
“Why don’t you talk to Pierre Dupree?” I asked.
“He left town. I suspect he’s back in St. Mary Parish. But I don’t think you’re hearing me, Dave. We have the highest homicide rate in the United States. The same people who spread crack cocaine all over South Los Angeles have had a field day here. You tell Clete Purcel he’s not going to wipe his ass on this city again.”
“The Giacanos got a free pass from NOPD for decades. The only guy who took a few of them down was Purcel. Save the bullshit for somebody else, Dana.”
“Why is it I thought you’d take that attitude?”
“Because you’re wrong? Because you’re particularly wrongheaded when it comes to Clete?”
He hung up. I called Clete’s office. He wasn’t in, but Gretchen Horowitz was. “He doesn’t always say where he goes. Want to leave a message?” she said.
“No, I want to talk to him, Ms. Horowitz.”
“Call his cell phone. You have the number?”
“Can you take the chewing gum out of your mouth?”
“Hang on,” she said. “Does that make it all better?”
I decided to take a chance. “If you’re going to bust up somebody in a New Orleans restaurant, why drive a vehicle that every cop in the city recognizes?”
“I need a fresh stick of gum. Hang on again,” she said. “If you’re talking about Pierre Dupree, here’s how it went down. He tried to break a woman’s hand at his table. He also called her a kike. He also had two mooks with him who attacked her. So all three of them underwent sensitivity training.”
“Pierre Dupree called you a kike?”
