"The thing you won't forget," he said, "the guy who got whacked out back there in Louisiana all right, the guy I whacked out that psychotic sonofabitch Starkweather, I had to kill him. They said they'd give me ten grand, and I said that's cool, but I was going to run him out of town, take their bread, and tell them to fuck off if they complained about it later. Except he was feeding his pigs out of a bucket with his back to me, telling me how he didn't rattle, how he wouldn't piss on a cop on the pad if he was on fire, then he put his hand down in his jeans and I saw something bright in the sun and heard a click, and when he turned around with it I put a big one in his forehead. It was his Zippo lighter, man. Can you dig that?"
Maybe the story was true, maybe not. I just wasn't interested in his explanation or his obvious obsession, one that left his eyes searching for that next sentence, hanging unformed out there in the air, which would finally set the whole matter straight.
"Why do they call him 'the Duck'?" I said.
"What?"
"Why do they call Sally Dio 'the Duck'?"
"He wears duck tails He took a long drink out of his Collins. His mouth looked red and hard. He shrugged as though dismissing a private, troubling thought.
"There's another story. About a card game and drawing a. deuce or something. The deuce is the duck, right? But it's all guinea stuff. They like titles. Those stories are usually bullshit."
"I tell you, Clete, I'd really appreciate it if you could just bring Dixie Lee down here. I really don't need to meet the whole crowd."
"You're still the same guy, your meter always on overtime." Then he smiled.
"Do you think I'm going to call up the man I work for and say, "Sorry, Sal, my old partner here doesn't want to be caught dead in the home of a grease balT He laughed, chewing ice and candied cherries in his jaws.
"But it's a thought, though, isn't it? Dave, you're something else." He kept smiling at me, the ice cracking between his molars.
"You remember when we cooled out Julio Segura and his bodyguard? We really made the avocado salad fly."
"Last season's box score."
"Yeah, it is." He looked idly out the sliding doors at the lake a moment, then slapped his knee and said, "Man, let's eat."
He walked up behind his girlfriend in the kitchen, picked her up around the ribs, and buried his face in her hair. He half walked and carried her back into the living room with his arms still locked around her waist. She turned her face back toward him to hide her embarrassment.
"This is my mainline mama, her reg'lar daddy's sweet little papoose," he said, and bit the back of her neck.
That's really cool, Cletus, I thought.
She wore a denim skirt with black stockings and a sleeveless tan sweater. There were three moles by the edge of her mouth, and her eyes were turquoise green, like a Creole's. Her hands were big, the backs nicked with gray scars, the nails cut back to the quick. The gold watch she wore on one wrist and the bracelet of tiny gold chains on the other looked like misplaced accidents above her work-worn hands.
"She's the best thing in my life, that's what she is," he said, still pushing his mouth into her hair.
"I owe Dixie Lee for this one. She got his drunk butt off of a beer joint floor on the reservation and drove him all the way back to Flathead. If she hadn't, a few bucks there would have scrubbed out the toilet with his head. Dixie 's got a special way about him. He can say good morning and sling the shit through the fan."
She eased Clete's arms from around her waist.
"Do you want to eat out on the porch?" she said.
"No, it's still cool. Spring has a hard time catching on here," he said.
"What's it in New Orleans now? Ninety or so?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Hotter than hell. I don't miss it," he said.
His girlfriend set the table for us by the sliding doors, then went back in to the kitchen for the food. A wind was blowing across the lake, and each time it gusted, the dark blue surface rippled with light.
"I don't know why she hooked up with me, but why question the fates?" he said.
"She looks like a nice girl."
"You better believe she is. Her husband got killed falling trees over by Lincoln. A Caterpillar backed over him, ground him all over a rock. She spent five years opening oysters in a restaurant in Portland. Did you see her hands?"
I nodded.
"Then she was waiting tables in that Indian beer joint. You ought to check out a reservation bar. Those guys would make great pilots in the Japanese air force."
"They're going to send me up the road unless I nail Mapes."
He pushed at the thick scar on his eyebrow with his finger.
"You're really sweating this, aren't you?" he said.
"What do you think?"
"I can't blame you. An ex-cop doing time. Bad scene, mon. But I got off the hook, zipped right out of it, and if anybody should have gone up the road, it was me. Tell your lawyer to get a couple of continuances. Witnesses go off somewhere, people forget what they saw, the prosecutor loses interest. There's always a way out, Streak."
His girl brought out a tray filled with ham sandwiches, glasses of iced tea, a beet and onion salad, and a fresh apple pie. She sat down with us and ate without talking. The three moles by the corner of her mouth were the size of BBs.
"You actually think Dixie can help you?" Clete said.
"He has to."
"Good luck. He told me once his life's goal is to live to a hundred and get lynched for rape. He's an all-right guy, but I think he has a wet cork for a brain."
"He said Mapes and Vidrine killed a couple of guys and buried them back in a woods. Can you connect that to anything?"
His big face looked vague.
"No, not really," he said.
I saw his girl, Darlene, look directly into her plate, her head turned down, as though she wanted to hide her expression. But I noticed the color of her eyes darken in the corners.
"I'm sorry for the way I talk," I said.
"I think Clete and I were cops too long. Sometimes we don't think about what we say in front of other people." I tried to smile at her.
"I don't mind," she said.
"I appreciate you having me for lunch. It's very good."
"Thank you."
"I came out here fishing with a friend of mine years ago," I said.
" Montana 's a beautiful place to live, isn't it?"
"Some of it is. When you have a job. It's a hard place to find work in," she said.
"Everything's down here," Clete said.
"Oil, farming, cattle, mining. Even lumber. It's cheaper to grow trees down south. These dumb bastards voted for Reagan, then got their butts reamed."
"Then why is your buddy up here? And these lease people?"
His green eyes moved over my face, then he grinned.
"You never could resist mashing on a guy's oysters," he said.
"He's not my buddy. I work for him. I get along with him. It's a professional relationship."
"All right, what's he doing here?"
"It's a free country. Maybe he likes the trout."
"I met a DEA man who had some other theories."
"When it comes to Sal's business dealings, I turn into a potted plant. I'm also good at taking a smoke in the yard."
"Tell it to somebody else. You were the best investigative cop I ever knew."
"At one time," he said, and winked. Then he looked out at the lake and the inland sea gulls that were wheeling over the shoreline.
He pushed a piece of food out from behind his teeth with his tongue.
"You've read a lot more books than I have. You remember that guy Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind?" He's a blockade runner for the Confederates or something. He tells Scarlett that fortunes are made during a country's beginning and during its collapse. Pretty good line. I think Sal read that book in the Hunts-ville library. He wheels and deals, mon."
I didn't say anything. I finished the rest of my sandwich and glanced casually at my watch.