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“You don’t have to tell me, noble mon.”
“Noble what?”
“I was saying jail sucks,” Clete said. “I’ve been in a number of them, and not as a visitor.”
“Tell me, Mr. Purcel, would you stand by while some poor fellow has the air crushed out of his lungs?” Wexler asked.
“Probably not.”
“That’s the only point I was making. A decent fellow acts decently. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to let a bugger in a jumpsuit come into a fine club like this.”
Clete’s gaze focused on nothing. “I’d better grab a shower and one of those health drinks.”
Alafair put her hand on Clete’s upper arm. It felt as hard as a fire hydrant. “We’ll have a drink together. Right, Lou?”
“Of course. Let me hit the shower, too. What a fine evening. Shouldn’t get fired up over a cretin who probably never heard a shot fired in anger.”
They walked toward the locker rooms, and Alafair thought Wexler’s absorption with the former jail guard was over. Then Wexler veered off course as though he had tripped. He collided solidly into Ladrine, knocking him into the mirror above the dumbbell racks.
“Sorry, there,” Wexler said. “Must be some soap on the floor. Are you all right? You look like someone shoved a baton up your ass. Order up at the bar. I have a tab. The name is Wexler.”
Then he continued on his way. Alafair’s face was burning.
“The guy is from overseas,” Clete said to Ladrine. “I think he took a round in the head from ISIS or something.”
“Oh yeah?” Ladrine said. His eyes were tiny coals.
“The next time I see you at Bojangles’, the drinks are on me,” Clete said.
Twenty minutes later, Clete and Alafair and Wexler met at the juice bar. Just as their drinks arrived, Ladrine walked by, unshowered, still wearing his jumpsuit, a gym bag hanging from his hand.
“Excuse me a moment,” Wexler said. He caught up with Ladrine. “Apologies again, fellow. It’s chaps such as you who keep the darkies in their place. You’re a genuine testimony to the superiority of the white race.” He sank his fingers into Ladrine’s arm and slapped him three times between the shoulder blades, hard, putting his weight into it, leaving Ladrine stupified.
Wexler came back to the bar and chugged half his tropical drink, blowing out his breath. “I wonder who he voted for.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Alafair said.
“Just having a little fun,” Wexler said. “I’m sure he took it as such.” Clete had remained silent. Wexler caught it. “You want to say something to me?”
“You’re quite a guy,” Clete said. “I thought his lungs were going to come out of his mouth.”
“No, I’m not quite a guy,” Wexler said. “Desmond is the man, the champion of us all, and about to go to hell in a basket. He belongs at Roncevaux and yet won’t heed the call. I guess that’s why I love and pity him so.”
Alafair looked at Wexler as though she had never seen him before.
• • •
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Clete called and asked me to meet him at Victor’s, where he ate almost every day.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“I just want to have breakfast with you.”
I knew better. Clete never did anything in a whimsical way or without a purpose.
He was waiting for me at the door of the cafeteria, wearing a dark blue suit and a dark tie, his shoes shined. He wasn’t wearing his porkpie hat, which, by anyone’s standards, was a tacky anachronism. We got into the serving line, and he began stacking his tray with scrambled eggs, sausage patties, bacon, hash browns with a saucer of milk gravy on the side, toast dripping with butter, grits, orange juice, coffee and cream.
“Sure you got enough?” I said.
