Pegasus Descending: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke Page B

Louisiana is filled with the names of ancient gods and heroes given to our French ancestors during the Reign of Terror when Robespierre and his friends attempted to purge Christian influence from French culture. The irony is that today Cajun pipefitters and waitresses sometimes bear names that Homer would recognize but not most contemporary Americans.
    I can’t say I ever liked Bello Lujan. He was aggressive, visceral in his language, naked in his attitudes about wealth and status. When you shook hands with him, he gave you a two-second squeeze that left no doubt about his physical potential. At a professional wrestling match in New Orleans, he got into an exchange of insults with one of the wrestlers and climbed into the ring with a wood stool and beat the wrestler bloody with it. Bello claimed that being a good loser required only one essential element—practice.
    But even if I didn’t like him, I tried to understand him or at least the background that had produced him. His father had been a pinball machine repairman who worked for a crime family that operated out of the old Underpass area in Lafayette. When his father was shot to death, Bello’s family moved back and forth between the Iberville Project in New Orleans, the old brothel district in New Iberia, and a dirt-road rural slum in north Lafayette. He shined shoes in saloons and carhopped at a root beer drive-in owned by a mean-spirited man who never allowed him to eat his lunch or supper inside the building. Sometimes I would see Bello on a wintry day at the Southern Pacific station, his wood shine box hung by a leather strap on his shoulders, his face pinched in the cold as he waited to catch a customer stepping down from a Pullman car. Even though my own young life had been marked by privation, I knew Bello had paid more dues than I had. I also knew that he kept a longer memory than I and was not to be crossed.
    Supposedly he made his early money in cockfighting and later in the oil and gas business. Others said he pimped for Lafayette’s old crime family when they used to operate a pickup bar and brothel above the Underpass. If asked what he did for a living, he would grin good-naturedly and say, “Anything that makes money, podna.”
    But if there was a single characteristic always associated with Bello Lujan’s reputation, it was the fact he could be an almost feral adversary when it came to protection of his interests and his family.
    He lived with his wife and son in a big white house on rolling woodland along Bayou Teche, just outside Loreauville. His wife had been crippled in an automobile accident many years ago and seldom appeared in public. The details of the accident had softened around the edges with time, but a child had died in the other vehicle and some said Mrs. Lujan would have been charged had she not been so severely injured herself. Regardless, her lot had not been an easy one. Sometimes people saw her in her wheelchair, peering from behind the curtains in an upstairs window, her face as small and pointed as a bird’s.
    Across the road from the trellised entrance to Bello’s driveway were thirty acres of the best pasture in the parish, where he raised thoroughbreds and gaited horses, all of it surrounded by white-painted plank fence. Bello was not simply a gentleman rancher, either. His horse trainers came from Kentucky; his thoroughbreds raced in both the Louisiana and Florida derbies. Winter and spring, Bello got to pose with the roses.
    But there were rumors about the origins of his success at the track—stories about stolen seed, a manipulated high-end claim race in California, and doping the odds-on favorite with downers at a track in New Mexico.
    I had called in advance. He greeted me in the driveway, dressed in white shorts and a golf shirt, his skin dark with tan, his arms swatched with whorls of shiny black hair. He crouched slightly, his fists raised like a boxer’s. “Dave, you son of a gun, comment la vie, neg ? I heard