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His pupils were as small as match heads. “What’d I ever do to you, Dave?”
“Waltz me around, jerk my chain, try to fuck me over?”
He looked at the bar. Several women, their arms heavy with fat, were drinking there, standing up, talking to each other. “You use that kind of language because of the environment you’re in? Like it’s something to wipe yourself with?”
“I agreed to help you with your parole transfer. But you cut a deal with Mark Shondell.”
“He gave me an apartment over his carriage house. He gave me a good salary. You were gonna do that?”
“Stop lying. You gave him information about the Balangie family.”
“What, that the Balangies are gangsters?”
“You said you were the driver on a whack that would interest some people in New Iberia.”
“Yeah, I guess I was a little too forthcoming on that.”
“Who was the whack?”
“Long time ago, Dave.”
“You said he was a child molester.”
> “?‘Pitiful’ is a better word.”
“About fifteen years ago a member of the Shondell family disappeared,” I said. “He was a sidewalk painter in Jackson Square.”
“Here’s what I remember. The guy was a serial offender. He was on the floor of the backseat. He was crying and begging and shit.” He glanced at the bar. “Pardon my language, ladies.”
I leaned forward. “Cut the act. Who was the hit?”
“It came down from Pietro Balangie, the old man. He didn’t allow jackrollers in the Quarter, he didn’t allow child molesters anywhere.”
“You’re testing my patience, Marcel.”
“That’s your problem,” he replied. “I thought they were gonna knock him around and run him out of town. That’s not what happened. After we got back from the lake, I shot up in my apartment. China white with a half teaspoon of Jack. I couldn’t get the screams out of my head.”
I didn’t know if I bought his story or not. Or better put, I didn’t know if I bought his tale about his suddenly acquired abhorrence of human cruelty. I kept my eyes on his.
“They took Polaroids for the old man,” he said. “Not the kind of stuff a guy like you wants to see, Dave.”
“Save the dog shit. What was his name?”
“One of the guys said something about him being an artist. He looked like a marshmallow. He started making baby sounds when he knew what was gonna happen.”
“So you told Mark Shondell you were part of the hit team that killed one of his relatives? For that, he helped you with a parole transfer and gave you a job and an apartment?”
“I didn’t say nothing about the hit.” He scratched an eyebrow and looked at the bar, where two black women were talking loudly; their mouths were full of gold teeth.
“Go on,” I said.
“Mr. Mark talked about me changing my life. The only other person who ever talked to me like that was you.”
“Mark Shondell is the soul of goodness?”
“What do I know? I went to the nint’ grade.” He took a drink from his Coke and set it down. “Want one?”
I picked up the bottle and smelled it. I set it back down and clinked a fingernail on the bottle neck. “You trying to go back inside?”
