hard in the wind.
“You think we stuck a couple of thumbtacks in his head?” Cletus asked. He drove without looking at me.
“We’ll see.”
“That touch about the IRS was beautiful.”
“You want to tell me something, Clete?”
“Am I supposed to go to confession or something?”
“I don’t like to see a guy like Segura trying to jerk my partner around.”
“It was three years ago. My wife and I had broke up, and I’d been on the shelf for six weeks.”
“You let the girl walk?”
“She never got busted. She was a snitch. I liked her.”
“That’s why you put your fist through that guy’s stomach?”
“All right, so I don’t feel good about it. But I swear to you, Dave, I never got any free action because of my badge, and I never went on the pad.” He looked across at me with his poached, scarred face.
“So I believe you.”
“So buy me a beignet and a coffee at the Café du Monde.”
An afternoon thundershower was building out over Lake Pontchartrain. The sky on the distant horizon had turned green, and waves were scudding all across the lake now. The few sailboats still out were drenched with spray and foam as they pounded into the wind and headed for their docks. It started to rain in large, flat drops when we turned onto the Expressway, then suddenly it poured down on Clete’s car in a roar of tackhammers.
The city was soaked and dripping when I went to pick up the social worker, whose name was Annie Ballard, by Audubon Park. The streetlamps lighted the misty trees along the esplanade on St. Charles; the burnished streetcar tracks and the old green streetcar glistened dully in the wet light, and the smoky neon signs, the bright, rain-streaked windows of the restaurants and the drugstore on the corner were like part of a nocturnal painting out of the 1940s. This part of New Orleans never seemed to change, and somehow its confirmation of yesterday on a rainy summer night always dissipated my own fears about time and mortality. And it was this reverie that made me careless, let me ignore the car that parked behind me, and let me walk up her sidewalk with the vain presumption that only people like Julio Segura had things happen to them out of sequence.
THREE
She lived in an old brick rowhouse that was connected to several others by a common porch and a shrub-filled front yard. I heard footsteps behind me, turned and glanced at three men who were joking about something and carrying a wine bottle wrapped in a paper sack, but I paid no attention to them after they turned toward a lighted house where a party was going on.
She smiled when she opened the door. She wore a blue dress with transparent shoulders, and her blond curls stuck out from under a wide straw hat. She was very pretty with the light behind her, and I didn’t care whether we made it to the track or not. Then I saw her eyes focus over my shoulder, saw her expression break apart, heard the feet on the porch behind me, this time fast and running. Just as I turned, one of the three men shoved me hard into Annie Ballard’s living room and aimed a Browning automatic pistol straight into my face.
“Don’t try to pull it, biscuit-eater, unless you want your brains running out your nose,” he said, and reached inside my sports coat and pulled my .38 from my waist holster.
He was tall and angular, his hair mowed into his scalp like a peeled onion, his stomach as flat as a shingle under the big metal buckle on his blue jeans. The accent was Deep South, genuine peckerwood, and on his right arm was a tattoo of a grinning skull in a green beret with crossed bayonets under the jaw and the inscription KILL THEM ALL… LET GOD SORT THEM OUT.
The second man was short and olive-skinned, with elongated Semitic eyes and a hawk nose. He went quickly from room to room, like a ferret. But it was the third man who was obviously in charge. His hands rested comfortably in his raincoat pockets; his face looked impassively around the room
“You think we stuck a couple of thumbtacks in his head?” Cletus asked. He drove without looking at me.
“We’ll see.”
“That touch about the IRS was beautiful.”
“You want to tell me something, Clete?”
“Am I supposed to go to confession or something?”
“I don’t like to see a guy like Segura trying to jerk my partner around.”
“It was three years ago. My wife and I had broke up, and I’d been on the shelf for six weeks.”
“You let the girl walk?”
“She never got busted. She was a snitch. I liked her.”
“That’s why you put your fist through that guy’s stomach?”
“All right, so I don’t feel good about it. But I swear to you, Dave, I never got any free action because of my badge, and I never went on the pad.” He looked across at me with his poached, scarred face.
“So I believe you.”
“So buy me a beignet and a coffee at the Café du Monde.”
An afternoon thundershower was building out over Lake Pontchartrain. The sky on the distant horizon had turned green, and waves were scudding all across the lake now. The few sailboats still out were drenched with spray and foam as they pounded into the wind and headed for their docks. It started to rain in large, flat drops when we turned onto the Expressway, then suddenly it poured down on Clete’s car in a roar of tackhammers.
The city was soaked and dripping when I went to pick up the social worker, whose name was Annie Ballard, by Audubon Park. The streetlamps lighted the misty trees along the esplanade on St. Charles; the burnished streetcar tracks and the old green streetcar glistened dully in the wet light, and the smoky neon signs, the bright, rain-streaked windows of the restaurants and the drugstore on the corner were like part of a nocturnal painting out of the 1940s. This part of New Orleans never seemed to change, and somehow its confirmation of yesterday on a rainy summer night always dissipated my own fears about time and mortality. And it was this reverie that made me careless, let me ignore the car that parked behind me, and let me walk up her sidewalk with the vain presumption that only people like Julio Segura had things happen to them out of sequence.
THREE
She lived in an old brick rowhouse that was connected to several others by a common porch and a shrub-filled front yard. I heard footsteps behind me, turned and glanced at three men who were joking about something and carrying a wine bottle wrapped in a paper sack, but I paid no attention to them after they turned toward a lighted house where a party was going on.
She smiled when she opened the door. She wore a blue dress with transparent shoulders, and her blond curls stuck out from under a wide straw hat. She was very pretty with the light behind her, and I didn’t care whether we made it to the track or not. Then I saw her eyes focus over my shoulder, saw her expression break apart, heard the feet on the porch behind me, this time fast and running. Just as I turned, one of the three men shoved me hard into Annie Ballard’s living room and aimed a Browning automatic pistol straight into my face.
“Don’t try to pull it, biscuit-eater, unless you want your brains running out your nose,” he said, and reached inside my sports coat and pulled my .38 from my waist holster.
He was tall and angular, his hair mowed into his scalp like a peeled onion, his stomach as flat as a shingle under the big metal buckle on his blue jeans. The accent was Deep South, genuine peckerwood, and on his right arm was a tattoo of a grinning skull in a green beret with crossed bayonets under the jaw and the inscription KILL THEM ALL… LET GOD SORT THEM OUT.
The second man was short and olive-skinned, with elongated Semitic eyes and a hawk nose. He went quickly from room to room, like a ferret. But it was the third man who was obviously in charge. His hands rested comfortably in his raincoat pockets; his face looked impassively around the room
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