"The whole department was wrong," I said.
"It's not that way now. Maybe a few guys are still dirty, but the new chief has either suspended or put most of the real slimebags in jail."
"What's your point, Dana?"
"You'd better not be squaring a personal beef on your own in Orleans Parish."
"I guess you never know how it's going to shake out," I said.
"Bad answer from a guy with your mileage," he said.
"Find my old jacket and put a letter in it," I said.
But he wasn't listening now. "We've run the shooter through the computer system every way we could," he said. "Nothing. He's got the look of a genuine sociopath, but if there's paperwork on him anywhere, we can't find it."
"I think he's a new guy, just starting out, making his bones with somebody," I said. "He was personally upset he couldn't make a clean hit. But he was still doing everything right until he went back to smash the boom box. He knew he was leaving something behind, but his head was on the full-tilt boogie and he couldn't think his way through the problem. So he tore up the boom box but he left us the tape. He's an ambitious, new player on the block who doesn't quite have ice water in his veins yet."
Magelli rubbed his chin with two fingers.
"I had a Tulane linguist listen to the tape," Magelli said. "He says the accent is Upper South, Tennessee or Kentucky, reasonably educated, at least for the kind of dirt bags we usually pull in. You think he's mobbed-up?"
"No," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because he talks about paying 'the vig to the Fig.' Everybody in the life knows Jimmy Figorelli is a pimp, not a shylock."
Magelli smiled.
"Come back to work for us," he said.
"Take Purcel, too. You get two for one."
"You wouldn't come if we did, would you?"
I took my eyes off his to change the subject. "There's another possibility in this case," I said. "It was Zipper Clum's perception the hitter was sent by the people who killed my mother. That doesn't make it so. A lot of people would enjoy breaking champagne botdes on Zipper's headstone."
"Zipper was a ruthless bucket of shit. But he was the smartest pimp I ever met. He knew who paid his killer. You know it, too," Magelli said. He cocked his finger at me like a pistol as he went out the door.
Just as I was going into Victor's on Main Street for lunch, Clete Purcel's maroon Cadillac pulled to the curb, his salt-water fishing rods sticking out of the back windows. He'd bought the Cadillac, the only type of car he ever drove, for eight hundred dollars from a mortician who had bought it off the family of a mobbed-up suicide victim. The steel-jacketed.357 round had exited through the Cadillac's roof, and Clete had filed down the jagged metal and filled the hole with body solder and sanded it smooth and sprayed it with gray primer so the roof looked like it had been powdered from the explosion of a large firecracker.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I had to get out of New Orleans for a while. This homicide guy Magelli was bugging me yesterday about Zipper Clum getting popped. Like I have knowledge about every crime committed in Orleans and Jefferson parishes," Clete said. "
You usually do."
"Thanks. Let's get something to go and eat in the park. I want to have a talk with you, big mon."
"About what?"
"I'll tell you in the park."
We ordered two Styrofoam containers of fried catfish and coleslaw and dirty rice and drove across the drawbridge that spanned Bayou Teche at Burke Street. The bayou was dented with rain rings. Clete parked the Cadillac by one of the picnic shelters under the oaks in City Park, and we sat under the tin roof in the rain and warm breeze and ate lunch. Inside all of Clete's outrageous behavior was the secular priest, always determined to bail his friend out of trouble, no matter how unwanted his help was. I waited for the sermon to begin.
"Will you either say it or stop looking at me like that?" I said finally.
"This homicide hotshot, Magelli? He's heard you've been moving the furniture around about your mother's death. He thinks you might just do a number on somebody."
"Who cares what he thinks?"
"I think he's right on. You're going to coast along, not saying anything, stonewalling people, then when you think you've found out enough, you're going to blow up their shit."
"Maybe you're right."
"It's not your style, noble mon. That's why I'm going to be in town for a little while. I was out at Passion Labiche's place early this morning."
"What for?"
"Because I'm not sure the hit on Zipper Clum is related to your mother's death. These political fucks in Baton Rouge want Letty Labiche executed, body in the ground, case closed, so they can get back full-time to the trough. You keep turning over rocks, starting with sticking a gun in Zipper Clum's mouth up on that roof."
"Me?"
"So I helped a little bit. That Passion Labiche is one hot-ass-looking broad, isn't she? Is she involved with anybody?"
"Why don't you give some thought to the way you talk about women?"
"It was a compliment. Anyway, you're right, she's hiding something. Which makes no sense. What do she and her sister have to lose at this point?"
I shook my head.
"I think we should start with the hitter, the cracker on the tape," I said.
"I got a question for you. Jack Abbott, this mainline con a writer got out of the Utah Pen some years back? Where'd he go after he knifed a waiter to death in New York?"
" Morgan City."
"What can I say? Great minds think alike. I already put in a couple of calls," Clete said, grinning while he wiped food off his mouth.
But I didn't have great faith in finding the killer of Zipper Clum in Morgan City, even though it was known as a place for a man on the run to disappear among the army of blue-collar laborers who worked out of there on fishing vessels and offshore drilling rigs. Clete had not heard the tape on which Zipper had said his killer had never done outside work and had skin like milk. I also believed Clete was more interested in monitoring me than the investigation into my mother's death. He came to the sheriff's department at quitting time, expecting to drive down together to Morgan City.
"I can't go today," I said.
"Why not?" he asked.
"Commitments at home."
"Yeah?" He was standing in the middle of my office, his porkpie hat slanted down on his head, his stomach hanging over his belt, an unlit Lucky Strike in his mouth. He tossed the cigarette end over end into the wastebasket. "I refuse to light one of these things ever again. Why are you giving me this bullshit, Streak?"
"Come have dinner with us."
"No, I'm meeting this retired jigger an hour from now. You coming or not?"
"A bank jigger?"
"More serious. He was the lookout man for a couple of hit teams working out of Miami and New Orleans."
"Not interested."
"Where do you think we're supposed to get information from, the library?"
When I didn't reply, he said, "Dave, if you want me out of town, just say so."
"Let's talk about it tomorrow."
"You talk about it. I'm meeting the jigger. You don't want to hear what I find out, no problem."
After he closed the door behind him, his heat and anger remained like a visible presence in the room's silence.
That evening Alafair, Bootsie, and I were eating supper in the kitchen when we heard a heavy car on the gravel in the driveway. Alafair got up from the table and peered out the window. She was in high school now and seemed to have no memory anymore of the civil war in El Salvador that had brought her here as an illegal refugee, nor of the day I pulled her from the submerged wreckage of an airplane out on the salt. Her Indian-black hair was tied up on her head with a blue bandanna, and from the back, when she raised up on the balls of her feet to see better through the blinds, her body looked like that of a woman ten years her senior.
"It's somebody in a limousine, with a chauffeur. She's rolling down the window. It's an old woman, Dave," she said.