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“In this place everything is about race,” he said.
I drove to Lafayette in my pickup rather than a cruiser and parked in front of the club. It was a wretched place on a backstreet, the parking lot full of flattened beer cans, the trash barrels overflowing and crawling with flies. I went inside and stood at the bar. Skip saw me from the far end and poured a Dr Pepper in a glass packed with ice and dropped two cherries and an orange slice into it and set the glass on a napkin in front of me. His upper left arm was fitted with a prosthesis. The IED that took his arm had also disfigured the side of his face, puckering the tissue like a heat burn on a lamp shade. But he was still a handsome man, as though defined by an internal radiance rather than his wounds. I’d never once heard him complain or even make mention of his war experience. “How’s business in New Iberia?” he asked.
“Just the usual effluent. Want to check out some of our clientele?”
My iPhone was loaded with mug shots of outlaw bikers and members of the Klan, Christian Identity, Aryan Nations, the American Nazi Party, and the AB. I watched as Skip scanned through them.
“Is it coincidence that all these guys look stupid?” he said.
“That’s a pre-prerequisite.”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen any of them.”
“You said Lebeau wanted to get laid.”
“He was definitely the guy hanging on to a couple of soiled doves.”
“Can I talk to them?”
He scratched his face with his prosthetic hand. “I don’t remember which ones he talked to, Dave. He was drunk and didn’t have any money. I felt sorry for him.”
“He didn’t have trouble with anyone?”
“No. What was he inside for?”
“Manslaughter knocked down from first-degree homicide.”
“He was actually dragged behind a car?”
“Somebody pulled his teeth first.”
“Jesus, I thought Iraq was bad. Sorry I couldn’t be more help. You want another Dr Pepper?”
“There’re two more photos I’d like you to look at.” I clicked on the unshaved fro
nt-view and side-view mug shots of a man in prison whites that I had gotten from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
“Yeah, he was in here,” Skip said. “A nice-looking guy. A little edgy. He wasn’t shopping for the trade. I wondered what he was doing here. He drank soda pop.”
“That’s Hugo Tillinger. He’s an escapee from the Texas penal system. You’re sure he was here?”
“Yeah, last week.”
“Was he with Travis Lebeau?”
Skip looked into space, then back at me. Someone was tapping on the bar for another drink. Skip served him and came back. “I remember him because he sat alone at the end of the bar and ordered a soft drink. When a working girl came on to him, he was polite but not interested. In a dump like this, it’s trick, trade, or travel. It puts me in a bad spot sometimes. I mean, telling people to beat it.”
“You told Tillinger to leave?”
“I let him slide. He seemed like a nice guy. That attitude gets me in trouble with the boss.”
“Think hard. Did you see him talking to Lebeau?”
“Yeah, maybe. I can’t be sure.” He closed and opened his eyes. “It seemed like they knew each other.”
“Did Tillinger leave with anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
