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“That would be like putting a bicycle patch on the rip in the Titanic.”
I placed the rolls on a plate and set them and a butter dish and a cup of coffee and milk on the table. “Eat up.”
“You’re the best, noble mon,” he replied.
No, Clete was. But no one would ever convince him of that.
* * *
CLETE CHECKED IN to his cottage at the Teche Motel, and I called the home of Levon Broussard and his wife, Rowena. Levon had been on the New York Times bestseller lists for twenty years, and Rowena’s raw-edged paintings and photography were loved by many people in need of a cause and a banner. The only reason I had been given their private number was Levon’s admiration for the novels by my daughter, Alafair. The couple lived up the bayou from me in a spacious home built of teardown South Carolina brick, with floor-to-ceiling windows and ventilated green storm shutters and a wide gallery. The house stayed in almost permanent shadow inside a half-dozen live oaks hung with Spanish moss.
Rowena answered the phone.
“Hello, Miss Rowena,” I said. “It’s Dave Robicheaux. Is Levon there?”
There was a beat, the kind that makes you wonder what kind of expression is on your phone party’s face.
“I’ll get him,” she said, and dropped the receiver on a hard surface.
“Hello?” Levon said.
I told him that Jimmy Nightingale wanted to take us to dinner.
“What’s he want with us?” Levon said.
“You’re a famous writer. He’s written some screenplays. Maybe he wants to do business.”
“Isn’t Nightingale hooked up with the casino industry?”
“Among other things.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“He’s helping Clete Purcel out of a jam. As a favor, he asked for an introduction.”
“So you’re being charitable at my expense?”
He had me. “You’re right. Forget I called.”
“Is Alafair there?”
“She’s living in Bodega Bay.”
I could hear him breathing against the receiver. Levon was known for his reluctance to say no to anyone when asked for money or to help with a personal problem. In fact, he seemed to live with conflicting voices in his head. “I don’t like these casino people, Dave. They put the Indians’ face on their operations, but most of them are out of Jersey.”
“So is Bruce Springsteen,” I said.
“How important is this?”
“Clete has screwed himself financially six ways from breakfast. Jimmy Nightingale can probably get him out of it. We’re talking about one hour at a dinner table.”
I heard him blow out his breath. “When?”
“Six-thirty tomorrow night at Clementine’s. I’ll call Jimmy and set it up.”
“Give Alafair my best. I love her new book.”
Before I could reply, he eased the receiver into the cradle.
