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Clete turned around. Once again he was looking into the face that was one of many he could never rid himself of. The faces were out of a subculture that fed on need and dysfunction and systemic cruelty, in this case the face of an old-time gunbull whose measure of self-worth was the degree to which he could inspire terror in others. He wore tight gray slacks with high pockets and a shirt the color of tin and a bolo tie and a salt-and-pepper mustache as stiff as wire and a belt equipped with Mace, handcuffs, a slapjack, and a blue-black semi-auto with checkered grips.
“Birl Wooster is the full name, isn’t it?” Clete said.
“When I woke up, it was. Answer my question.”
“I just saw a beer vendor who might be the guy called Smiley.”
“You’re talking about this guy out of Florida?”
“He’s down there.”
“Where?”
Clete turned around and looked down the aisle. “I don’t see him now.”
“Because he was never there.”
“A guy who fits his description was there.”
“And you’re a goddamn liar.”
Clete’s eyes searched the crowd again. “I think we blew an opportunity. But maybe not.”
“You know why I don’t like you, Purcel? One guy like you taints a whole department. It’s like trying to launder the stink out of shit.”
“You screwed the pooch, dickhead. By the way, that black kid you killed on the levee? He was nineteen.”
“Until he stopped being nineteen,” Wooster said. “I lost a lot of sleep over that.”
“How’s it feel?” Clete said.
“How’s what feel?”
Clete shook his head. “Don’t pay attention to me.”
Wooster removed a toothpick from his shirt pocket and put it into his mouth. “I’m going to dial you up one of these days, Purcel.”
The crowd began to drain from the Dome.
“I hear there’s a reception at the casino,” Clete said.
“Not for you, there isn’t.”
“See you around, Wooster. Don’t beat up on any handicapped people.”
Wooster elevated the toothpick with his teeth, his eyes veiled.
* * *
I FOUND SHERRY picard in the concourse and called Clete again. This time he answered.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Behind the stage,” he said. “I just got braced by an ex-gunbull from Angola. He blew away a black inmate for sassing him and put a shank on his body. A guy named Wooster.”
“Who?”
“He does security for Nightingale.”
