DR13 - Last Car to Elysian Fields (41 page)

"I didn't even hear you say that. I'm deaf and dumb here. Go home," he replied.

Helen's door was ajar. I went inside without knocking. "What's happening in Franklin with the Guillot shooting?" I said.

"None of your business," she said.

"They made Max Coll for the hit?"

"One in the temple, one down the throat. The signature of a pro," she said.

"I don't buy it."

"What you need to buy is a hearing aid. You were suspended as of yesterday. Now haul your ass out of here."

"I talked with Castille Lejeune late yesterday afternoon. He says he walked in on Coll while Coll was creeping his house. If Coll was going to pop anybody, he would have done it then."

"You went out to Lejeune's, after I pulled your badge?"

"I told him I was suspended. It was a personal visit."

She shook her head, nonplussed. "We have an attorney in lawyer jail right now. I'm about to put you in there with him," she said.

"Coll isn't the shooter."

"Don't be on the premises when I get back." She walked down the hall and into the women's restroom, glancing back at me just before she pushed open the door, as though my argument for Coil's innocence had just sunk a hook on the edge of her mouth.

Louisiana is a small state, with a comparatively small population. In the year 2002 over 950 people were killed and 55,000 injured on our state highways. Booze was a major factor in most of the fatalities. Hence, the presence of a drunk person behind the wheel of an automobile in Louisiana is hardly an anomaly. So I had no reason to be surprised when I picked up the phone in my kitchen and heard a woman's voice say, "Why don't you do something about this goddamn traffic light out here on the four-lane?"

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Donna Parks, who does it sound like? The man in front of me is driving a shit box that's smoking up the whole town. He won't turn left because there's no arrow on the traffic light and I have to breathe his goddamn exhaust fumes."

For just a moment I had the uncharitable thought that her husband, Dr. Parks, was better off dead.

"What could I do for you, Ms. Parks?"

"I want to file rape charges."

"You've been sexually assaulted?"

"Like my deceased husband said, you people are really dumb. I'll come over there and explain it to you. Where are you?"

"Since you dialed me at my home number, I think we should both conclude I'm at home."

She belched softly, then I heard what was probably her car horn blowing just before the line went dead.

With luck she would have an accident before she got to my house, I thought.

I looked at my watch. Clete's arraignment was at 11:00 A.M. I wrote a note for Donna Parks, included my cell phone number on it, and stuck the note inside the grill on the front screen. Eventually I

would have to deal with her, but it would be easier to do by phone than in person. I put Snuggs on the back porch, slipped my checkbook in my pocket, and started out the door, just as Merchie Flannigan pulled into the driveway, blocking my truck. He worked his way around the puddles in the yard and stepped up on the gallery, raking back his long, white-gold hair with his fingers.

"Hang on, old buddy. Need to clear up my remarks to you when you came by the house," he said.

"I'm in a hurry, Merchie," I said.

"Let's face it. I was jealous. Theo and I haven't had the best marriage. You said I was out of line. You were right." He extended his hand, his jaw square, like an imitation of an athletic, educated, country club millionaire, one he had probably seen on a movie screen as a child and had spent a lifetime trying to become.

I didn't take his hand. "I think you're here covering your wife's ass. Will Guillot got popped and the cops are going to be taking a hard look at his enterprises. I believe Theo is part of a porn operation in New Orleans," I said.

The smile died on his face. "You're actually serious? You believe Theo is involved with pornography?" he said.

"The word is she wrote scripts for Fat Sammy Figorelli. Where was she the night the daiquiri store operator got shot?"

He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at the rain falling through the live oaks onto the street, as though any conversation with me was useless and the problem was mine, not his. "Theo and I are taking a cruise to the Islands. I came by here to do the right thing. But I can see it was a mistake."

"Where'd it go wrong for you, partner?"

"Wrong about what?" he said.

"You were Jumpin' Merchie Flannigan, a stand-up kid from the Iberville who did the crime and stacked the time. Why'd you become a hump for a bum like Castille Lejeune?"

The skin of his face seemed to crinkle, like a sheet of yellow paper held against a hot light bulb. He raked his hair back over his head again and started to speak, his eyes tangled with thoughts I could only guess at, then stepped off the gallery and walked through a water puddle to his Mercedes.

I headed down the four-lane toward Franklin and five miles outside New Iberia felt a front tire on my pickup go soft and begin to wobble. I pulled to the shoulder and changed the tire in the rain. It was almost 11:30 when I got to the St. Mary Parish Courthouse. Across the street I saw the restored pink Cadillac I had seen in City Park the previous night. A curious black man holding an umbrella was bent down by the driver's window, admiring the interior.

"Do you know who owns this?" I asked.

"A man who got a lot of money," he replied.

I went inside the courthouse and peeled off my raincoat in front of a coffee stand run by a blind man. I had no way of knowing the amount of Clete's bail, but obviously it would be high, and the 10 percent bondsman's fee would probably clean out my checking account and part of my savings. Of course, my paying a bondsman's fee was predicated on the assumption a local bondsman would be willing to write a bond on Clete, whose past record included fleeing the United States on a murder warrant.

"You want a cup of coffee, Dave?" the blind man behind the counter said.

"Yeah, sure, Walter," I said, distracted by a brown-haired little girl, no older than six or seven, sitting on a bench by the courtroom entrance. A small teddy bear, a red ribbon with a silver bell on it tied around the neck, was perched on her lap. Where had I seen her before? Then I remembered, with a rush of shame. It had been at Gunner Ardoin's house, on the morning I had rousted him last fall, chambering a round in the .45, sticking it in his face, causing him to soil himself while his little girl watched.

I walked up to her, my raincoat slung over my arm. "Is your daddy here?" I asked.

"He's inside the big room," she replied.

"What's he doin'there?"

"Helping Clete."

"You remember me?" I asked.

"You're the man who pointed a gun at my daddy."

I went inside the courtroom just as the morning's proceedings were breaking up. Clete was talking to a local attorney while a deputy put cuffs on him for his trip back to jail. The judge left the room for his chambers, and among the people filing out in the corridor I saw Gunner Ardoin.

"Clete's going back to lock-up?" I said.

"Just till he bonds out," Gunner said.

"How much is his bond?"

"Fifty grand," he said.

"How'dheputitup?"

"He didn't. I did."

"You went a fifty-thou bond?"

"You don't watch the news? I hit the Powerball last week. Three million bucks. I bought him that pink Caddy out front, too."

I looked at him, stupefied. He walked past me and took his little girl by the hand. "Want something to eat? Clete's going to meet us outside in a few minutes," he said.

"Why not?" I replied.

A half hour later the four of us were eating gumbo at a checker-cloth-covered table inside a cafe one block from the courthouse. The pink Cadillac convertible was parked outside, rainwater standing up in beads as big as marbles on the waxed surface.

"I appreciate it, Gunner, but I can't accept it," Clete said.

"The title's already in your name, man," Gunner said.

"We'll have to change that," Clete said.

Gunner looked at a spot on the far wall of the cafe. "There's something I didn't mention. A couple of guys I was inside with needed a place to crash. Remember Flip Raguzi, used to run a chop shop for the Giacanos over in Algiers? He started a grease fire on the stove. It sort of changed the way your kitchen and the ceiling look."

"You let Flip Raguzi stay in my place? This guy has diseases scientists haven't found names for," Clete said.

"What's he talking about, Daddy?" the little girl asked.

Clete shut his eyes, then opened them. "Give me the keys," he said.

One of my favorite lines of all time, one excerpted from a 1940s song understood readily by all those who experienced the human and economic realities of the Depression and war years, goes as follows: "You don't get no bread with one meatball."

"What's funny?" Gunner said.

"Nothing," I said. "Take a walk with me, will you?"

We went outside and stood under a canvas awning, the mist blowing in our faces.

"That's a decent thing you did for Clete, Gunner," I said.

"I don't use that name anymore," he said.

"How about Father Jimmie? You do the right thing by him, too?" I said.

"Matter of fact, I did. But that's my business."

"I respect that, Phil. But I need your help, too. Know a woman named Theo Flannigan?"

"Jumpin' Merchie's old lady? I know who she is, but I don't know her personally."

"Was she writing scripts for Fat Sammy Figorelli?"

He shook his head. "No, but she might as well have. Her books were lying around the set. The director would lift the dialog from the love scenes in her books. So a bunch of degenerates, that includes me, were doing sixty-nines on each other and talking like Shakespeare."

"Why would the director pick her work to steal from?" I asked.

"A guy named Ray was involved. His girlfriend was my co star I never saw him, but I think he was the same guy who'd call me and tell me where to pick up my meth delivery to the projects."

Ray?

Why hadn't I seen it? William Ray Guillot, lately of Franklin, Louisiana, now having his blood drained and replaced with formaldehyde.

"You're sure Theo wasn't part of Fat Sammy's action?" I said.

"Ever see one of Fat Sammy's films?"

"No."

"You don't want to," he said. "Let's go inside. Clete needs to drive me and my daughter to the airport in Lafayette. I'm buying a Mexican restaurant in San Antonio. You get to town, have a free dinner on me."

"You're a stand-up guy, Phil."

"I'm out of the life. I'm a millionaire. What's a few bucks to show some gratitude?"

I started to say something else, but he cut me off.

"I got your drift. Give it a rest," he said.

I drove back to my house on East Main and tried to put the Lejeune family and Junior Crudup out of my mind, but I couldn't rest. I did not believe Max Coll killed Will Guillot, and I couldn't shake the feeling that Castille Lejeune had been unduly happy when I went to his home, as though with a broad sweep of a broom he had gotten rid of a large problem in his life. In fact, I believed Castille Lejeune was about to get away with at least one if not two additional homicides.

And I also felt I had a problem of conscience about Theo Flannigan. I had falsely accused her of involvement in the shooting of the daiquiri-store operator and the production of pornographic films.

In fact, I rued the day I had ever heard of the Lejeunes or Junior Crudup.

On top of my more elevated level of problems, Batist stopped by the house with another one, namely Tripod, Alafair's three-legged raccoon, whom Batist carried up on the gallery inside Tripod's wood-frame hutch.

"Cain't keep him at my house no mo'," he said.

"Why can't you?" I asked, looking down at Tripod, who was standing up in the hutch, his claws hooked on the wire screen, his whiskered snout pointed at me.

"He's old, like me. He went to the bat' room on the kitchen no'," Batist said.

"Thanks, Batist."

"You welcome," he replied, and drove off.

I opened the wire door on Tripod's hutch and he stepped out on the floor and looked up at me. "How's it hangin, "Pod?" I said.

He responded by running into the kitchen and eating Snuggs's food out of the pet bowl.

But I could not distract myself from my problems with the world of play and innocence represented by animals. I wanted to believe I'd been dealt a bad hand. There was even some truth in my self-serving conclusion. But unfortunately I had dealt the hand to myself, beginning with the day I stepped into the unsolved disappearance of Junior Crudup, a man who had probably sought self-immolation all his life.

I called Theo at her house and apologized for my accusation.

"Drunks are always sorry. But they do it over and over again," she said.

"Could you define 'it," please?"

"Acting like an asshole."

"I see."

"Have you apologized to my father?" she asked.

"Are you serious?" I said.

She hung up.

I called Helen Soileau at the department and told her I'd been wrong about Theo.

"How'd you clear her?" she asked.

"A porn actor told me a guy named Ray, as in William Raymond Guillot, was responsible for lifting material from Theo's books for Sammy Figorelli's movies. Theo had nothing to do with it."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Can you get another warrant to search Castille Lejeune's property?"

"No."

"I want to resign from the department, Helen. I'll have a formal letter on your desk by tomorrow."

"That's the way you want it?"

"Absolutely."

"I love you, bwana, but I don't trust you. And I..."

"What?"

"Want to kill you sometimes."

I got in my truck and backed into East Main. The bamboo and gardens in front of the Shadows breathed with mist that blew into the street, and as I looked at the old, massive brick post office on the corner, where a Creole man sold sno'balls and chunks of sugarcane off a canopy-shaded wagon when I was a kid, and as I watched the traffic turn at the next light onto the drawbridge, just past the Evangeline Theater where my father, mother, and I went to see cowboy movies in the 1940s, I had the feeling, not imagined, not emotional in nature, that I would never see any of these places or things again.