From that time on, Fat Sammy did everything in his power to demonstrate his patriotism and disassociate himself from the people who he believed had murdered the president.
"The night before the planes crashed into the towers, these Mideastern guys were in Sammy's club by the airport. They told one of the girls they were pilots," Janet said.
"Maybe they were," I said.
"Except they were sweating so bad the janitor had to scrape the
B.O. off the furniture. They had another problem, too. Like keeping napkins over their boners."
"Sorry, I'm just not following all this," I said.
"Sammy calls the FBI. They send some guys out and Sammy looks at all these photos and says that's not the guys who were in the club. One of the FBI guys says, "Well, these are the hijackers who died in the planes."
"Sammy says, "Yeah, but there must have been other hijackers whose planes got grounded. The guys in my club are the ones who probably never got off the tarmac Even while he's talking you can already hear the toilet flushing.
"Two weeks go by and Sammy calls the FBI in Washington. He tells some agent there they're looking in the wrong place for terrorists. He says these guys are not Muslim revolutionaries, they're degenerates and losers, just like the other jack-offs who come into the club. Sammy says to the FBI agent, "Use your fucking head. These guys weren't hanging in mosques or living in Nebraska. They were holed-up in Miami and Vegas and hanging in dumps like mine 'cause they want to get laid. You want to nail 'em, float some cooze out on the breeze and see what happens.""
People at other tables were turning to stare.
"Maybe we should move to a quieter spot," I said.
"Well, excuse me. Here's the briefer version so I don't offend anybody," she said, her eyelids fluttering. "The FBI agent blew Sammy off, so he set up an Internet site out in Arizona to sell his movies. He was using a PI. to run the credit card numbers of anybody with a Mideastern name who bought from the site."
"Who were his partners?" I said.
"You met a couple of them," she replied.
"The Dellacroces?" I said.
She raised her eyebrows innocuously.
"Tell him the rest of it, Janet," Clete said.
"Sammy got paid in crystal. It's cooked across the border and comes through Tucson," she said. Then she looked at nothing, the whites of her eyes veined, her facial skin like flesh-colored clay that had been molded on bone. "Sammy wasn't a bad guy. He took us all to Disney World once. He wore a Mouseketeer hat on the plane all the way back home."
"Who popped him, Janet?" I said.
"I don't know. Sammy always said it was the normals you got to watch out for, 'cause they never learn who they really are."
She stared through the front windows at the palm trees beating in the wind and the rain slashing on the glass.
CHAPTER 23
It was afternoon when Clete dropped me off at the house. The sky was a cold blue, dense and flawless in texture and color, the lawns along the street ridged with serpentine lines of leaves where the rainwater had receded into the streets. I shaved, showered, changed clothes, and went to the office.
Helen listened quietly while I told her of what had happened in New Orleans, her gaze fixed out the window on the crypts in the old cemetery.
"You called N.O.P.D. about Coll?"
"Yes."
"When?" she said.
"When we left town."
"I don't think you wanted to arrest him."
"Then why would I have chased him across town?"
"You should have called N.O.P.D. as soon as you saw him inside the church."
"Picture this scene, Helen. A couple of hot dogs coming through the vestibule with M-16s and 12-gauge pumps and Max Coll with a nine-millimeter," I said.
"Coll saved your life. You think you owe him."
I started to speak but she raised her hand for me to be quiet. "The state attorney's office put us on notice this morning. We're going to be investigated for harassment of Castille Lejeune, destruction of his property, and for deliberately damaging his reputation. What do you think of that?" she said.
"You warned me," I replied.
"You never understand what I'm saying, Dave. You were right about the murder of Junior Crudup. Lejeune was behind it. He thinks we've got information that in reality we don't. Find out what it is. You're a handful, bwana."
She folded her arms on her chest, shaking her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
At quitting time I drove to the home of Merchie and Theodosha Flannigan. It was almost the winter solstice now, and the sepia-tinted light in the trees and on the bayou seemed to emanate from the earth rather than the sky. Merchie greeted me at the door, wearing glasses, a book in his hand, his long hair like white gold against the soft glow of a living room floor lamp. "She's not here," he said.
"It's you I want to talk to," I replied.
"Why is it you keep finding reasons to put yourself in my wife's path? Just doing your job?"
"You're out of line, Merchie."
"Could be. Could also be you'd like to get into Theo's pants. If that's the case, good luck, because she's out drunk somewhere."
I cleared my throat and shifted my eyes off his face. His thoroughbreds were nickering inside a pecan orchard beyond a white fence, their bodies barely distinguishable in the shadows. "The murder of Junior Crudup isn't going away. His remains were moved, but eventually we'll find out what happened to them. If I have anything to do with it, your father-in-law is going to have an opportunity for on-the-job training in soybean farming," I said.
"So why tell me about it?"
"Because I think you wouldn't mind seeing that happen."
"You want to dip your wick, go do it. But leave us out of your personal problems."
"I think Theodosha knows what happened to Junior Crudup's body."
"My wife is a sick person. That's why she's spent a hundred thou sand dollars on psychiatrists and clinics. But I think you like stirring her up. I think you like feeding on our troubles."
He started to close the door but I held it open with one hand. "Your wife's frigid, isn't she?" I said.
He released the tension on the door, slipped off his glasses, and dropped them in his shirt pocket. "If you weren't already an object of pity and public ridicule, I'd splatter your nose all over your face. Now go home," he said.
The door clicked shut. I stared at it stupidly, my ears ringing in the silence.
Early the next morning Clete picked me up for breakfast, cheerful, wearing his utility cap low on his brow, a Hawaiian shirt under his bomber jacket, driving with one hand down East Main toward Victor's Cafeteria.
"You moved back into the motor court?" I said.
"Yeah, why not?"
"You burned a guy's trailer. You assaulted a man in Lafayette."
"They're not filing charges. Not if they want to stay on the planet. So I don't see the big deal. Things get out of control sometimes. I'm cool with it," he said, fiddling with the radio.
Clete was Clete, a human moving violation, out of sync with both lawful and criminal society, no more capable of changing his course than a steel wrecking ball can alter its direction after it's been set in motion. Why did I constantly contend with him? I asked myself.
But I knew the answer and it wasn't a comforting one: We were opposite sides of the same coin.
I told him about my visit to Merchie Flannigan's house.
"That punk said that to you?" he asked.
"I got a little personal about his wife," I replied.
"That's another question I have. You actually asked him if his wife wouldn't come across?"
"I guess that sums it up."
"I can see that might piss him off. Particularly when he knows you bopped her."