A Morning for Flamingos (12 page)

“Why was Hipolyte always deviling you?” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“What it because he wanted you to pimp for him? Or make Dorothea get on the bus when he drove the girls out to the camp?”

“Yes suh.”

“But Dorothea said Gros Mama Goula wouldn’t let men bother her.”

“Yes suh, that’s right.”

“That Hipolyte was afraid of Gros Mama, that she could put a
gris-gris
on him.”

“Yes suh.”

“Then Dorothea was safe, really?”

“What you saying, Mr. Dave?”

“Dorothea wasn’t your main problem with Hipolyte.”

He looked out at the shadows of the palm fronds on the pavement.

“It was something else,” I said. “Maybe not just the pimping. Maybe something even worse than that, Tee Beau.”

I could not see his eyes behind the dark glasses, but I saw him swallow.

“What was it?” I said.

“For why you want to study on that?” he said. “It gonna get me a new trial? It gonna make all them white people believe I ain’t knock that bus on top of Hipolyte, I ain’t stuff a dirty rag down his mouth? I ain’t talking about it no mo’, Mr. Dave.”

“You’ll need to at some point.”

He looked small inside his white delivery uniform. The sleeves almost covered his folded hands.

“Hipolyte was selling dope for Jimmie Lee Boggs. That ain’t all they was doing, either. They send some of them girls to Florida, to Arizona, anywhere Hipolyte take the bus. Them girls never come back. They families ain’t ever find out where they at. All I ever done was taken Mr. Dore car, taken an old junk fan out his yard, but people be wanting to kill me. I tired of it, Mr. Dave. I tired of feeling bad about myself all the time, too.”

I took a piece of paper from my wallet and wrote on it.

“Here’s my address and phone number, Tee Beau,” I said. “Here’s the address and number of a bar where you can leave messages, too. Call me if I can help you with anything. Do you have enough money?”

“Yes suh.”

“Don’t look for Boggs anymore. You’ve done enough. Okay?”

“Yes suh. You want to know where I’m staying at?”

“I don’t want to know. Give me your word you won’t borrow any more cars.”

He didn’t bother to reply. He looked down between his knees and tapped the soles of his shoes on the pavement. Then he said, “You think I ever gonna get out of this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Gros Mama tell Dorothea that Jimmie Lee Boggs gonna die in a black box full of sparks. She say you go in there with him, you gonna die, too.”

“Gros Mama’s a juju con woman.”

“She put the
gris-gris
on Hipolyte. When he in the coffin, his mouth snap open and a black worm thick as my thumb crawl out on his chin. It ain’t not lie, Mr. Dave.”

I had breakfast at the Café du Monde, then walked back to the apartment to call Minos at the DEA office. Before I could, the phone rang. It was Ray Fontenot.

“Your offer’s accepted,” he said.

“Ten thou a key, no cut?”

“What I just said, Mr. Robicheaux.” Then he told me to meet him that afternoon in the parking lot of a bar just the other side of the Huey Long Bridge.

“You want me to make the buy in the parking lot of a bar?” I asked.

“We start it from there. Quit sweating it. You’re gonna be rich,” he said, and hung up.

I called Minos.

“It’s on at five today,” I said.

“Where?”

I told him about the bar.

“We’ll have somebody inside, somebody outside taking pictures with a telephoto lens,” he said. “But you won’t know who they are, so you won’t need to look at them. This is what’s going to happen, Dave. They’ll take you somewhere in their car, or you’ll follow them in your truck. At some point they’ll probably check you for a wire. We’ll have a loose tail on you, but we’re not going to get too close and blow it. So when you make the buy, you’re pretty much on your own. Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

“Carry your piece. They’ll expect that. Look, you’ve handled it fine so far. The deal’s not going to sour. They want you in.”

“This morning I heard that Jimmie Lee Boggs is in town.”

“Where?”

“Somebody saw him around the Pontabla Apartments two nights ago. It makes sense. Tony Cardo’s girlfriend lives there. The same night, he was at a full-contact karate place out on the Airline.”

“Who told you all this?”

“A guy I know.”

“Which guy?”

“Just a guy in the street.”

“What are you hiding here, Dave?”

“Are you going to check out the karate club, or do you want me to do it?”

“We’ll handle it.”

“His hair’s dyed black and cut short now, and he may be wearing glasses.”

“Who’s the guy in the street?”

“Forget it, Minos.”

“You never change.”

“What if the deal goes sour today?”

“Then get the fuck out of there.”

“You don’t want me to bust them?”

“You walk out of it. We don’t borrow people from other agencies to get them hurt.”

“One other thing I didn’t mention to you. This guy Fontenot knows I’ve got a grudge against Boggs. I get the feeling he’d like to see me go up against him.”

“You know what a yard bitch is in the joint? That’s Uncle Ray Fontenot, a fat dipshit who gets off watching the swinging dicks carve on each other. Call me after the score and we’ll take the dope off you.”

I
was
nervous. My palms were moist, I walked about aimlessly in the apartment, I burned a pan on the stove. Finally I put on my gym shorts, running shoes, and a sweatshirt, jogged along the levee by the river, and circled back on Esplanade. I showered, changed into a fresh pair of khakis and a long-sleeved denim shirt. Then I fastened the holster of the Beretta to my ankle, dropped the .45 automatic in the right-hand pocket of my army field jacket, slipped the brown envelope with the fifty one-thousand bills in it into the left pocket, buttoned the flap, and backed my pickup out of the garage. The sky had turned a solid gray from horizon to horizon, the wind was blowing hard off the Gulf, and I could smell rain in the air. My palms left damp prints on the steering wheel.

Rain began to tumble out of the dome of sky through the girders when I crossed the Mississippi on the Huey Long. The river was wide and yellow far below, and froth was blowing off the bows of the oil barges. The willows along the banks were bent in the wind. As my tires whirred down the long metal-grid incline on the far side, I saw the low, flat-topped brick nightclub set back among oak trees on the left-hand side of old Highway 90. Jax and Dixie neon signs glowed in the rain-streaked windows, and when I crunched onto the oyster shells in the parking lot I saw Ray Fontenot, Lionel Comeaux, and a redheaded woman in a new blue Buick.

The woman was in back, and Fontenot was in the passenger seat and had the door partly open and one leg extended out on the shells in the light rain.

“Park your truck and get in,” he said.

“Where we going?”

“Not far. You’ll see. Get in.”

I turned off the ignition, locked my truck, and got into the backseat next to the woman. She wore Levi’s, an open leather jacket, and a yellow T-shirt without a bra, so that you could see her nipples against the cloth. The air inside the car was heavy and close with the drowsy smell of reefer.

“Great place to be toking up,” I said.

“What do you care?” Lionel said.

“I care when I’m in your car,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. You won’t be long,” he said.

“What?”

He started the engine, drove the Buick behind the nightclub, and parked it under a spreading oak.

“What’s the game?” I said.

“Show-and-tell,” he said, got out of the car, walked around, and opened my door. “Step outside, please.”

“We do the same thing with everybody. Then everybody’s comfortable, everybody’s relaxed with everybody else,” Fontenot said.

“I’m not relaxed. Who’s the girl?” I asked.

“Do I look like a girl to you?” she said. Her eyes were green, the whites tinged red from the reefer hits.

“Who is she?” I said to Fontenot.

“This is Kim. She’s a friend, a nice person,” he said.

“I’m not fond of standing out here in the rain. You want to step outside, please,” Lionel said. He spoke with his face turned at an angle from me, as though he were addressing a lamppost.

“What’s she doing here?” I said.

“Certain people like her. She goes where she wants. Let’s get on with the business at hand, sir,” Fontenot said.

“Boy, talk about a personality problem. Who’s he been doing business with?” Kim said. Her red hair was looped over one ear. When she saw me looking at her, she pointed her chin up in the air and lifted her hair off the back of her neck.

“He’s just a careful man. He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Fontenot said. “But let’s not delay any longer, Mr. Robicheaux.”

I stepped outside and let Lionel work his hands up and down my body. He pulled my shirt out of my trousers, patted under my arms, slipped his hand down my spine, felt my pockets and along my legs.

“You think you’re going to need all that firepower?” he asked.

“It’s an old habit,” I said.

Fontenot was looking at Lionel’s face.

“He’s cool,” Lionel said.

“Time to open the candy store,” Fontenot said.

Lionel got back in the Buick and backed it up to where my truck was parked. I glanced again at the girl. She wore no makeup, and her face was hard and shiny. Pretty but hard. She looked like she had a hard body. Her hands were big and knuckled like those on a cannery worker.

“You got something on your mind?” she asked.

“Not a thing,” I said.

“Good, because I’m not into eye fucking,” she said.

“Eye fucking?” I said.

Fontenot was grinning from the front seat. He was always grinning, his teeth set like pieces of corn in his gums.

“I have to end our fun now,” he said. “I’ll hop in your truck with you, Mr. Robicheaux, and we’ll be on our way.”

He headed south of the city into St. Charles Parish. Gray clouds tumbled across the sky in the fading light, and white streaks of lightning trembled on the horizon beyond Lake Salvador. The Buick was a quarter mile ahead of us on the tar-surfaced road.

“I need to take a leak,” Fontenot said.

I stopped next to an irrigation ditch between two dry rice fields, and he got out and urinated into the weeds. I could hear him passing gas softly. His beige sports jacket, with brown suede pockets, was spotted with rain. He smiled at me in the wind as he zipped up his pants, then got back in the truck, took a woman’s compact from his coat pocket, and gingerly scraped some white powder from it with the blade of his penknife. He lifted the knife to one nostril, then the other, snorting as though he were clearing his nasal passages, widening his eyes, crimping his lips as though they were chapped. Then he licked the flat of the blade with his tongue.

“You want a taste?” he said.

“I never took it up.”

“You think you could take up Kim?”

“I just wonder what she’s doing here, that’s all.”

“She works in one of Tony’s clubs. I suspect he probes her recesses. I know that’s what Lionel would like to do.”

“You know Tony now?”

“You’re in the business now, my friend. It’s a nice one to be in. Lots of good things to be had. You want to meet him?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, as long as I get what I want.”

“What is it you want?” There were tiny saliva bubbles between his teeth when he grinned.

“One big score, then maybe I piece off the action and buy a couple of businesses in Lafayette and Lake Charles.”

“Ah, you’re a Rotary man at heart. But in the meantime, how about all the broads you want, your own plane to fly down to the islands in, lobster and steak every night at the track? You don’t think about those things?”

“I have simple tastes.”

“How about squaring a debt?” he asked.

“With who?”

“Everybody’s got a debt to square. Winning’s a lot more fun when you get to watch somebody else lose.”

“I never gave it much thought.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“Fontenot, that’s the second time you’ve given me the impression you know something about me that I don’t.”

“You used to be a cop. That’s not the best recommendation. We had to do some homework, stick our finger into a nasty place or two.”

“Okay…”

“I’d be mad at somebody who put a hole in me and left me to die in a ditch.”

“You’re right. Do you know where he is?”

“I stay away from some people.”

“Then you don’t need to be worrying about it anymore.”

“Of course.”

We crossed a bayou on a wooden bridge and drove across a flooded area of saw grass and dead cypress. Blue herons stood in the shallows, and mud hens were nesting up against the reeds out of the wind. In the distance I could see the hard tin outline of a sugar mill. Fontenot opened the compact, balanced some coke on the tip of his knife blade, and took another hit. His face was an oval pie of satisfaction.

“Are you interested in politics?” he asked.

“Not particularly.”

“Tony is. He writes letters to newspapers. He’s a patriot.” He smiled to himself, and his eyes were bright as he looked out at the rain through the front window.

“I thought the mustaches stayed out of politics,” I said.

“Bad word for our friends.”

“Why does he write letters?”

“He was a Marine in Vietnam. He likes to talk about ‘nape.’” Then Fontenot changed his voice, his eyes glittering happily. “‘Five acres of fucking nape climbing up a hill. They smelled like cats burned up in an incinerator. Fucking nape, man.’” He started giggling.

“I think you’d better not put any more shit up your nose.”

“Indeed you are a Rotary man.”

We passed a gray, paintless general store under a spreading oak tree at a four-corners, then drove through a harvested sugarcane field that was covered with stubble and followed a bayou through a wooded area. The bayou was dented with rain, and I could see lights in fishing shacks set back on stilts in the trees. We came out into open fields, and it began to rain harder. It was almost completely dark now.