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“Why not?” Julian asked.
“I killed them all,” Pietro replied.
But I’d heard the same story told about Frank Costello, so maybe this was another urban legend lending a degree of humor to the evil that can dwell in the human heart. Regardless, my recount is probably an attempt to hide the real reason for my visit to Julian’s cottage. I was still bothered by Marcel LaForchette’s tale about the power outage at Mark Shondell’s house. I may have had other things on my mind as well, namely, the wife of Adonis Balangie.
Julian and I took a stroll by the graveyard. He was wearing Levi’s and sandals with white socks and a T-shirt that had been washed from purple to lavender, with Mike the Tiger’s head emblazoned on the front.
“Marcel saw lights flashing on Mark Shondell’s face?” he asked.
“That’s what he said.”
“Marcel is a superstitious man.”
“Why would Shondell make a joke about a pagan god? Marcel
thought he was talking about Mickey Mouse’s dog.”
An alligator gar was rolling among the lily pads, its armored back slick and serpentine, sliding down into the root system where the bream hid. “Who knows why Mark Shondell does anything?” Julian said.
“You’re not a fan?”
His blue irises were the size of nickels. He picked up a pecan that was still in the husk and tossed it at the gar. “I think you should stay away from Shondell.”
“Do you know something about him that I don’t?”
“I also think you should get your badge back,” he replied.
“You can’t talk to me about him on a personal basis? He confided something to you in the confessional?”
“That’s a laugh.”
I had told him only part of the story about the Shondells and the Balangies, and I didn’t know if I should say more. Why burden a good man with a problem neither of us could solve? Anyway, he beat me to it. “What’s really on your mind, Dave?”
I told him about Isolde being used as a pawn by Adonis and Penelope Balangie.
“They gave away their daughter?” he said.
“That’s the way it looks.”
“Have you reported this?”
“There’s nothing to report. There’s no evidence of a crime.”
“Does Adonis Balangie know?”
“He’s behind it,” I said.
“What about Penelope?”
“I’m not sure. She’s hard to read.”
He was looking at the trees across the bayou. His eyes cut to mine. “In what way?”
“She came to see me in New Iberia. She said she wanted help.”
“You believed her?”
“I’m not sure.”
