Crusader's Cross (36 page)

“I’ve got a problem of conscience, Val.”

“Thanks for sharing that, but I couldn’t care less. I’d appreciate your leaving now.”

I heard one of the shooters say, “Pull.” Another pigeon broke into flight, its wings throbbing, only to be blown apart above the bayou.

“That’s an unlawful activity,” I said.

“Not on my land it isn’t.”

The sun was boiling overhead. The shotgun popped again, like a dull headache that wouldn’t go away.

“A friend of mine inadvertently sent the wrong signal to a guy by the name of Jericho Johnny Wineburger. He’s a button man who works out of New Orleans. He’s now in our area. I think he might try to do you harm.”

I tried to hold his stare but I couldn’t. I looked across the bayou at the dust blowing out of a cane field.

“Button man?” Val said.

“A contract killer, a guy who pushes the ‘off button on people. Jericho Johnny is a mean motor scooter, Val. He and another dude took out Bugsy Siegel’s cousin with a shotgun.”

“Bugsy Siegel? This gets better all the time. And you’ve come here as a police officer to tell me that a friend of yours has aimed this person at me?”

“Yeah, I guess that sums it up.”

“Have some strawberry cake, Dave. Maybe a glass of non-alcoholic champagne, too. Back at your AA meetings, are you?” he said.

I walked back up the slope to my truck and used my cell phone to make an animal cruelty report on Val Chalons to the St. Mary Parish Sheriff’s Department. I waited for their cruiser to show up before I left, to ensure as best I could that Chalons and his friends would kill no more pigeons that day. But more disturbing than his cruelty was his apparent indifference to the fact that a man like Johnny Wineburger might be in town to break his wheels. That one definitely would not slide down the pipe.

I got back to the office by 1:30 p.m., drinking a Coca-Cola packed with ice and lime slices, my heart rate up, my shirt peppered with sweat. Even in the air-conditioning, I couldn’t stop perspiring. I washed my face in the lavatory and went up front for my mail. “Been running up and down the stairs?” Wally said from the dispatcher’s cage.

“How’d you know?” I replied.

But it wasn’t funny. I could feel the blood veins tightening in the side of my head again and unconsciously I kept pushing at my scalp with my fingers, like a man who fears his brains are seeping out of his skull. Therapists call it psycho-neurotic anxiety. The manifestation is obvious but the cause is not, because the cause keeps itself armor-plated somewhere in the bottom of the id. I know of only one other experience that compares with the syndrome. Your combat tour is almost over.
 

You’re “short,” counting days until you catch the big freedom bird home. Except your private calendar doesn’t change the fact you’re on a night trail in a Third World shithole, wrapped in your own stink, your skin crawling with insects, your toes mushy with trench foot, and out there in the jungle you’re convinced Bedcheck Charlie is writing your name on an AK-47 round or a trip-wired 105 dud.

At 1:47 p.m. my Vice cop friend at Lafayette P.D. called. His name was Joe Dupree. Joe had worked Homicide for years before he had gone over to Vice, claiming he had burnt out on blood-splattered DOAs. But some said Joe simply wanted to be closer to a cheap source of narcotics. Sometimes I saw him at AA meetings. Other times I saw him wasted in a baitshop or by himself in his boat, out at Whiskey Bay, doing his own kind of time inside his own head.

“I busted a couple of lowlifes in North Lafayette last night. They say the word on the street is a husband-wife team out of Florida are setting up a new escort service,” he said.

“Lou and Connie Coyne?”

“That’s who it sounds like.”

“Why now?” I asked.

“Oil is supposed to hit fifty dollars a barrel this year. You know a better local aphrodisiac?” he replied.

So much for the altruism of Ida Durbin, I thought.

Another half hour went by. I went into Helen’s office. “I’ve got to get off the desk,” I said.

She pulled on an earlobe. “Really?” she said.

“Chalons is about to make a move. Against me or Molly or Clete. I saw this televangelical character Alridge out at his place. Jericho Johnny Wineburger is around, too. I can’t figure any of it out.”

I thought she would be angry or at least irritated and dismissing. I knew I looked and sounded like a man waving his arms on the street, prophesying doom to anyone who would listen. Instead, she stood up and, just for something to do, arranged a floating flower in a glass bowl on her desk. “The D.A. is going ahead with felony assault charges against you, Dave. Also, there’s that molestation issue. Maybe we ought to count our blessings.”

“Roust Wineburger. I think he’s got a contract on somebody. But I don’t know who.”

“Give me an address,” she said, picking up a pen.

“I saw him fishing at Henderson Swamp.”

She clicked the button on her pen several times, staring wanly into space, afraid to speak lest she hurt me in ways she couldn’t repair.

I went back to my office and tried to think. But long ago I had learned that my best thinking usually got me drunk. Through the window I saw a truck sideswipe a car at the train crossing, smashing it into a telephone pole, and was glad for the diversion. I dumped my incoming baskets of accident and domestic dispute reports and payroll requests and time sheets into a large paper sack, stapled it at the top, and dropped it in a corner like a load of bagged-up Kitty Litter.

Then my phone rang. “I just had lunch with Ida,” Jimmie’s voice said. “There’s something real weird going on with Valentine Chalons.”

“He wouldn’t see Ida?” I said.

“No, she visited him at Iberia General. He was overjoyed. They were supposed to have supper in Lafayette last night. Lou Kale dropped her off under the porte cochere at the restaurant. But Chalons takes one look at her, turns to stone, and has the valet bring up his car. Ida was pretty shook up. What a prick.”

“Did Kale try to come in with her?”

“No, he just drove her there.”

“Did Chalons see him?” 

“I guess. Why?”

“Get away from them.”

“What’s going on?”

“Val Chalons is behind everything that’s been happening. The old man wasn’t even an adverb.”

“Behind
what?”
he said. “Are you drinking again?”

But I had no moral authority on the subject of the Chalons family and I didn’t try to answer Jimmie’s question. At quitting time, I called Molly and told her I’d be late for supper and drove to Clete Purcel’s motor court.

“You’re saying Valentine Chalons is the son of Lou Kale?” Clete said.

“That’s been the engine the whole time,” I said.

“No, the engine’s money. It’s always money, no matter what they say.”

“Same thing,” I said. “Val Chalons has spent his whole life lying about who he is. What happens to his credibility as a TV broadcaster if he admits he’s always known his real father is a pimp? Imagine Lou Kale showing up at Chalons’s country club.”

Clete studied my face. “You want to salt the mine shaft?” he said.

“You doing anything else?” I asked.

The two of us sat down at Clete’s old Smith-Corona portable and composed the following letter. Actually, most of it was Clete’s work and in my estimation a masterpiece Ring Lardner would have tipped his hat to.

Dear Mr. Chalons,

A hooker I happened to know by the name of Big Tit Flora Mazaroni just gave me some interesting information about a pimp who is now in Lafayette, one Lou Coyne, a.k.a. Lou Kale. After packing too much flake up his nose, he told Flora he’s got an illegitimate son in Jeanerette, a famous TV guy who just inherited between eighty and one hundred million dollars. Guess who this famous TV guy is?

Guess what else? Kale says this TV guy is not only a liar and a phony but also a horny sex freak who is so hard up he had to bop his space-o sister. Flora says Kale is going to milk this particular TV dude for every cent he’s got.

I happen to be in the P.I. business. I got a personal score to settle with Kale, but I can also protect your interests if the above material seems to describe anyone in your acquaintance. If you need references, call Nig Rosewater at Bimstine’s Bonds in New Orleans. Nig will vouch for my confidentiality and total professionalism.

Have a nice day,

Clete Purcel

But masterpiece or not, Clete and I decided we should not neglect Lou Kale. Clete rolled another sheet of paper into the Smith-Corona and started typing, his porkpie hat cocked at an angle, his stomach hanging over a pair of boxer shorts that were printed with sets of blue dice.

Lou —

You are probably surprised to hear from me after you set me up and your two hired bean-rollers tried to put out my lights. But business is business. Valentine Chalons does not want you and your wife hustling cooze in this area. I get the sense there’s a family fight of some kind going on here, but I couldn’t care less on the subject and I’m not pursuing it. The point is Chalons is inheriting eighty to one hundred million dollars and indicates he does not need his life and reputation queered by a lot of baggage from a Galveston whorehouse.

The short version is the guy’s seriously pissed off and he’s hired me to take care of the problem. He says you’re a gutless douche bag and you’ll squirm back under the rocks with the first shot across your bow. True or not, I’d like to hear a counteroffer.

In my opinion, this guy is not normal and the cops should have taken a lot harder look at him for his sister’s murder. This is not a guy who shares the bucks. For some reason he seems to think you and your old lady got a sniff of his money and are going to lay claims on it. Believe me when I tell you his feelings about you are real strong. Did you hurt this guy when he was a kid or something?

Keep a smiley face.

Sincerely,

Clete Purcel, Private Investigator

Clete folded the letters, placed them in envelopes, and addressed each of them.

Twenty minutes later one of his bonded-out clients, a habitual alligator poacher, picked up the envelopes for delivery in Lafayette and Jeanerette.

“Beautiful work, Cletus,” I said.

“Not bad. There’s only one problem,” he said.

“What?”

“What if Val Chalons is not Lou Kale’s kid?”

But other events that evening, involving an anachronistic New Orleans player, would soon take our minds off the letters we had just composed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Johnny Wineburger had erotic dreams, but not of a kind that he understood. Sometimes he woke throbbing and hard in the morning, and briefly recalled a fleeting glimpse of an undressed woman, a pale, black-haired creature wrapped in mist, but the dream never contained a face or a name. In some instances, the figure kissed his hands, then put his fingers in her mouth. In some instances, she bit down on them, hard, her eyes veiled by a skein of shiny hair. The pain he felt was not entirely an unpleasant one.

Johnny did not know what the dream meant. A friend of his in the life, a kid named Jimmy Figorelli or Jimmy Fig or sometimes Jimmy Fingers, who had been with the First Cav at Khe Sanh, told Johnny to talk to a psychiatrist.

“Why?” Johnny asked.

“It means you got repressed desires to be a bone smoker,” the Fig said.

“How you know that?”

” ‘Cause that’s what the shrink told me,” the Fig replied.
 

But in truth Jericho Johnny didn’t really care what the dream meant. Women were interesting on occasion but not terribly necessary in his life. In fact, if asked what was important in his life, he would not have had a ready answer. He had graduated from a Catholic high school and his parents had gone to temple, but he himself never took religion seriously. Nor had he ever understood people’s apparent worries about moral issues. If there were any mysteries to life or human behavior, he failed to recognize them. You were born, you hung around a while, then you died. You had to read books to find that out?

At age nineteen he carried a union card with both the Teamsters and the Operating Engineers. That’s when he met the Calucci brothers and picked up a cool five hundred bucks for popping the snitch who sent Tommy Fig’s old lady to the women’s prison at St. Gabriel.

He’d always heard the first hit was the hard one. Not so. It was a breeze. The guy was in his car at the Fair Grounds, eating a chili dog with melted cheese on it. Johnny walked up to the open window, put a Ruger behind the guy’s ear, and pulled the trigger three times. The guy still had the plastic fork sticking out of his mouth when Johnny drove off with a young friend he helped throw a newspaper route.

If Johnny had an ethos, what some would call a worldview, it was one that operated in his head like shards of light and sometimes sound. His second hit wasn’t on a dirtbag at a racetrack parking lot. The target was the cousin of Bugsy Siegel, a guy who, like Bugsy, had made his bones with Murder, Incorporated. This dude was a stone killer — smart, armed, and with no mercy for the poor schmucks he took out.

Johnny and his partner had gotten on the train at Jacksonville, headed south along the Florida coast, their sawed-off double-barrel shotguns broken down inside their suitcases. The evening sky was pink and blue, the ocean sliding in long fingers up empty beaches, miles and miles of orange groves slipping past the Pullman’s windows. It was the most beautiful evening of Johnny Wineburger’s life.

Just outside of West Palm, the sun went down in the ‘Glades and a black shade fell across the land. Johnny and his partner fitted the pieces of their shotguns together, plopping twelve-gauge shells packed with double-aught bucks into the open breeches. When their train passed another train headed in the opposite direction, Johnny and his pal kicked open the door to the bedroom occupied by Siegel’s cousin.

Then one of the most peculiar moments in Johnny’s life occurred. In the jittering light and roar of noise created by the trains passing each other, amid the flashes of gunfire and explosions of wadding and pellets inside the closed room, all the color drained out of the world. The entire earth reduced itself to a black-and-white ink wash that was like the reductive nature of his dreams. Life was simpler than he had ever thought. You pulled the trigger and the target exploded. In this instance, the target was holding a pitcher of martinis and was dressed in a robe with a fur collar, as a king might be. In fact, the shower of gin and broken glass sparkled like a crown in the dead man’s hair. But the power he had represented was now Johnny’s, just as if the dead man’s testosterone had been injected into his own.