it, though. The man with the red face
and the eyes that were like flawless blue marbles was walking toward
our table.
Clete mashed out his cigarette in a paper plate.
'Play it like you want, Dave,' he said. 'You think Tommy
Bobalouba's any more a geek than Hippo Bimstine, tell him to ship out.'
'What about Hippo?' I said.
'Nothing. What do I know? I thought I might bring you a little
extra gelt. You're too much, Streak.'
Tommy Lonighan hooked two fingers under an empty chair at an
adjacent table without asking permission of the people sitting there,
swung it in front of him, and sat down. He wore a long-sleeve pink
shirt with French cuffs and red stone cuff links, but the lapels were
ironed back to expose the mat of white hair on his chest, and the hair
on his stubby, muscular forearms grew out on his wrists like wire. He
had the small mouth of the Irish, with downturned corners, and a hard,
round chin with a cleft in it.
'What d'you say, Lieutenant?' he said, and extended his hand.
When I took it, it was as square and rough-edged as a piece of lumber.
'Not much, Mr. Lonighan. How are you this evening?' I said.
'"Mr. Lonighan," he says. I look like a "mister" to you these
days?' he said. The accent was Irish Channel blue-collar, which is
often mistaken for a Brooklyn accent, primarily because large sections
of New Orleans were settled by Irish and Italian immigrants in the
1890s. He smiled, but the clear light in his eyes never changed, never
revealed what he might or might not be thinking.
'What's up?' I said.
'Boy, you fucking cut straight to it, don't you?'
'How about it on the language, Tommy?' Clete said.
'Sorry, I spend all day with prizefighters down at my gym,' he
said, glancing sideways at Martina. 'So how much is Blimp-stine
offering you to find this sub?'
'Who?' I said.
'Hippo Bimstine, the beached whale of south Louisiana. Who you
think I'm talking about?'
'How do you know Hippo's offering me anything?'
'It's a small town. Times are hard. Somebody's always willing
to pass on a little information,' he said, and put a long French fry
between his lips, sucking it deep into his mouth with a smile in his
eyes.
'You're right, there's a Nazi sub out there someplace. But I
don't know where. Not now, anyway. For all I know, it's drifted all the
way to the Yucatan. The alluvial fan of the Mississippi probably works
it in a wide circle.'
He set his palm on my forearm and looked me steadily in the
eyes. There were thin gray scars in his eyebrows, a nest of pulsating
veins in one temple that had not been there a moment ago.
'Why is it I don't believe you?' he said.
'What's your implication, Tommy?' I said.
'It's "Tommy" now. I like it, Dave. I don't "imply" anything.
That's not my way.' But his hand did not leave my forearm.
Martina read from her pocket dictionary: '"Alluvial
fan—the
deposit of a stream where it issues from a gorge upon an open plain."
The Mississippi isn't a stream, is it?'
Lonighan stared at her.
'I'm not sure why either you or Hippo are interested in some
World War II junk, but my interest is fading fast, Tommy,' I said.
'That's too bad. Because both Hippo and me are going into the
casino business. I'm talking about riverboats here, legalized gambling
that can make this city rich, and I'm not about to let that glutinous
sheeny set up a tourist exhibit on the river that takes maybe half my
business.'
'Then tell it to Hippo,' I said, and pulled my arm out from
under his hand.
'
What
?' he said. 'You got your nose up in
the air about something? I come to your table, you act like somebody's
flushing a crapper in your face? You don't like me touching your skin?'
'Take it easy, Tommy. Dave didn't mean anything,' Clete said.
'The fuck he didn't.' Then he said it again: 'The
fuck
he didn't.'
'I'd appreciate your leaving our table,' I said.
He started to speak, but Martina beat him to it.
'I happen to be part Jewish, Mr. Lonighan,' she said, her face
serene and cool, her gaze focused
and the eyes that were like flawless blue marbles was walking toward
our table.
Clete mashed out his cigarette in a paper plate.
'Play it like you want, Dave,' he said. 'You think Tommy
Bobalouba's any more a geek than Hippo Bimstine, tell him to ship out.'
'What about Hippo?' I said.
'Nothing. What do I know? I thought I might bring you a little
extra gelt. You're too much, Streak.'
Tommy Lonighan hooked two fingers under an empty chair at an
adjacent table without asking permission of the people sitting there,
swung it in front of him, and sat down. He wore a long-sleeve pink
shirt with French cuffs and red stone cuff links, but the lapels were
ironed back to expose the mat of white hair on his chest, and the hair
on his stubby, muscular forearms grew out on his wrists like wire. He
had the small mouth of the Irish, with downturned corners, and a hard,
round chin with a cleft in it.
'What d'you say, Lieutenant?' he said, and extended his hand.
When I took it, it was as square and rough-edged as a piece of lumber.
'Not much, Mr. Lonighan. How are you this evening?' I said.
'"Mr. Lonighan," he says. I look like a "mister" to you these
days?' he said. The accent was Irish Channel blue-collar, which is
often mistaken for a Brooklyn accent, primarily because large sections
of New Orleans were settled by Irish and Italian immigrants in the
1890s. He smiled, but the clear light in his eyes never changed, never
revealed what he might or might not be thinking.
'What's up?' I said.
'Boy, you fucking cut straight to it, don't you?'
'How about it on the language, Tommy?' Clete said.
'Sorry, I spend all day with prizefighters down at my gym,' he
said, glancing sideways at Martina. 'So how much is Blimp-stine
offering you to find this sub?'
'Who?' I said.
'Hippo Bimstine, the beached whale of south Louisiana. Who you
think I'm talking about?'
'How do you know Hippo's offering me anything?'
'It's a small town. Times are hard. Somebody's always willing
to pass on a little information,' he said, and put a long French fry
between his lips, sucking it deep into his mouth with a smile in his
eyes.
'You're right, there's a Nazi sub out there someplace. But I
don't know where. Not now, anyway. For all I know, it's drifted all the
way to the Yucatan. The alluvial fan of the Mississippi probably works
it in a wide circle.'
He set his palm on my forearm and looked me steadily in the
eyes. There were thin gray scars in his eyebrows, a nest of pulsating
veins in one temple that had not been there a moment ago.
'Why is it I don't believe you?' he said.
'What's your implication, Tommy?' I said.
'It's "Tommy" now. I like it, Dave. I don't "imply" anything.
That's not my way.' But his hand did not leave my forearm.
Martina read from her pocket dictionary: '"Alluvial
fan—the
deposit of a stream where it issues from a gorge upon an open plain."
The Mississippi isn't a stream, is it?'
Lonighan stared at her.
'I'm not sure why either you or Hippo are interested in some
World War II junk, but my interest is fading fast, Tommy,' I said.
'That's too bad. Because both Hippo and me are going into the
casino business. I'm talking about riverboats here, legalized gambling
that can make this city rich, and I'm not about to let that glutinous
sheeny set up a tourist exhibit on the river that takes maybe half my
business.'
'Then tell it to Hippo,' I said, and pulled my arm out from
under his hand.
'
What
?' he said. 'You got your nose up in
the air about something? I come to your table, you act like somebody's
flushing a crapper in your face? You don't like me touching your skin?'
'Take it easy, Tommy. Dave didn't mean anything,' Clete said.
'The fuck he didn't.' Then he said it again: 'The
fuck
he didn't.'
'I'd appreciate your leaving our table,' I said.
He started to speak, but Martina beat him to it.
'I happen to be part Jewish, Mr. Lonighan,' she said, her face
serene and cool, her gaze focused
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