Heaven's Prisoners (27 page)

“What the fuck do
you
call it?”

“Clean the shit out of your mouth and answer me straight.”

“She knows how to get a guy on the bone.”

“You’re talking about your wife.”

“So? She’s human.”

“Don’t you know when you’re being jerked around? You’re supposed to be a smart man.”

“You thought about it when she was in your truck, though, didn’t you?” he said, and smiled. His teeth were still pink with his blood. His arms were pulled behind him by the handcuffs, and his chest looked as round and hard as a small barrel. “She just likes to flash her bread around sometimes. They all do. That doesn’t mean you get to unzip your pants.

“Hey, tell me the truth, I really shook your peaches with that first shot, didn’t I?”

“I’m going to tell you something, Bubba. I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, either. Go to a psychiatrist. You’re a rich man, you can afford it. You’ll understand people better, you’ll learn about yourself.”

“I bet I pay my gardener more than you make. Does that say something?”

“You’re not a good listener. You never were. That’s why one day you’re going to take a big fall.”

I got out of the car and opened his door.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Step out.”

I put one hand under his arm and helped him off the seat.

“Turn around,” I said.

“What’s the game?”

“No game. I’m cutting you loose.”

I unlocked the cuffs. He rubbed his wrists with his hands. In the shade, the pupils of his gray-blue eyes stared at me like burnt cinders.

“I figure what happened at Tee Neg’s was personal. So this time you walk. If you come at me again, you’re going up the road.”

“Sounds like a Dick Tracy routine to me.”

“I don’t know why, but I have a strong feeling you’re a man without a future.”

“Yeah?”

“They’re going to eat your lunch.”

“Who’s this ‘they’ you’re talking about?”

“The feds, us, your own kind. It’ll happen one day when you never expect it. Just like when Eddie Keats set one of your hookers on fire. She was probably thinking about a vacation in the Islands when he knocked on her door with a smile on his face.”

“I’ve had cops give me that shuck before. It always comes from the same kind of guys. They got no case, no evidence, no witness, so they make a lot of noise that’s supposed to scare everybody. But you know what their real problem is? They wear J. C. Higgins suits, they drive shit machines, they live in little boxes out by an airport. Then they see a guy that’s got all the things they want and can’t have because most of them are so dumb they’d fuck up a wet dream, so they get a big hard-on for this guy and talk a lot of trash about somebody cooling out his action. So I’ll tell you what I tell these other guys. I’ll be around to drink a beer and piss it on your grave.”

He took a stick of gum out of his pocket, peeled off the foil, dropped it on the ground, and fed the gum into his mouth while he looked me in the eyes.

“You through with me?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“By the way, I got drunk last night, so don’t buy yourself any boxing trophies yet.”

“I gave up keeping score a long time ago. It comes with maturity.”

“Yeah? Tell yourself that the next time you look at your bank account. I owe you one for cutting me loose. Buy yourself something nice and send me the bill. I’ll see you around.”

“Don’t misunderstand the gesture. If I find out you’re connected to my wife’s death, God help you, Bubba.”

He chewed his gum, looked off at the swimming pool as though he were preparing to answer, but instead walked away through the oak trees, the soles of his loafers loud on the crisp, dead leaves. Then he stopped and turned around.

“Hey, Dave, when I straighten out a problem, the person gets to see this face. You give that some thought.”

He walked on farther, then turned again, his spiked hair and tan face mottled with sun and shadow.

“Hey, you remember when we used to play ball here and yell at each other, ‘I got your Dreamsicle hanging’?” he said, grinning, and grabbed his phallus through his slacks. “Those were the days, podna.”

I bought a small bag of crushed ice, took it back to the office with me, and let it melt in a cleanplastic bucket. Every fifteen minutes I soaked a towel in the cold water and kept it pressed to my face while I counted to sixty. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to spend the afternoon, but it beat waking up the next day with a face that looked like a lopsided plum.

Then, just before quitting time, I sat at my desk in my small office, while the late sun beat down on the sugarcane filds across the road, and looked once again at the file the New Orleans police department had sent us on Victor Romero. In his front and side mug shots his black curls hung down on his forehead and ears. As in all police station photography, the black-and-white contrast was severe. His hair glistened as though it were oiled; his skin was the color of bone; his unshaved cheeks and chin looked touched with soot.

His criminal career wasn’t a distinguished one. He had four misdemeanor arrests, including one for contributing to prostitution; he had done one hundred eighty days in the parish jail for possession of burglar tools; he had an outstanding bench warrant for failing to appear on a DWI charge. But contrary to popular belief, a rap sheet often tells little about a suspect. It records only the crimes he was charged with, not the hundreds he may have committed. It also offers no explanation of what goes on in the mind of a man like Victor Romero.

His eyes had no expression in the photographs. He could have been waiting for a bus when the camera lens clicked. Was this the man who had murdered Annie with a shotgun, who had fired point-blank at her with buckshot while she creamed and tried to hide her face behind her arms? Was he made up of the same corpuscle, sinew, and marrow as I? Or was his brain taken hot from a furnace, his parts hammered together in a shower of sparks on a devil’s anvil?

Next morning the call came in from the St. Martin Parish’s Sheriff’s office. A black man, fishing in his pirogue by the Henderson levee, had looked down into the water and seen a submerged automobile. A police diver had just gone down on it. The automobile was a maroon Toyota and the driver was still in it. The parish coroner and a tow truck were on their way from St. Martinville.

I called Minos at the DEA in Lafayette and told him to meet me there.

“This impresses me,” he said. “It’s professional, it’s cooperative. Who said you guys were rural bumblers?”

“Put the cork in it, Minos.”

Twenty minutes later, Cecil and I were at the levee on the edge of the Atchafalaya swamp. It was already hot, the sun shimmered on the vast expanse of water, and the islands of willow trees looked still and green in the heat. Late-morning fishermen were trying for bluegill and goggle-eye in the pilings of the oil platforms that dotted the bays or in the shade of the long concrete causeway that spanned the entire marsh. Turkey buzzards floated high on the updrafts against the white sky. I could smell dead fish in the lily pads and cattails that grew along the shore. Farther out from the bank, the black heads of water moccasins stuck out of the water like motionless twigs.

The ground had been wet when the car went off the crown of the levee. The tire tracks ran down at an angle through the grass and buttercups, cut deeply through a slough, and disappeared in the slit beyond a deep-water dropoff. The tow-truck driver, a sweating, barrel-chested man in Levi’s with no shirt, fed the hook and cable off the truck to the police driver, who stood in the shallows in a bright yellow bikini with a mask and snorkel strapped to his face. Under the rippling sunlight on the water, I could see the dim outline of the Toyota.

Minos parked his car and walked down the levee just as the tow-truck driver engaged his winch and the cable clanged taut against the Toyota’s frame.

“What do you figure happened?” Minos said.

“You got me.”

“You think you parked one in him, after all?”

“Who knows? Even if I did, why would he drive out here?”

“Maybe he went away to die. Even a piece of shit like this guy probably knows that’s one thing you got to do by yourself.”

He saw me look at the side of his face. He bit off a hangnail, spit it off the end of his tongue, and looked at the wrecker cable quivering against the surface of the water.

“Sorry,” he said.

A cloud of yellow sand mushroomed under the water, and suddenly the rear end of the Toyota burst through a tangle of lily pads and uprooted cattails into the sunlight. The tow-truck driver dragged the car clear of the water’s edge and bounced it on the bank, the broken back window gaping like a ragged mouth. Two St. Martin Parish sheriff’s deputies opened the side doors, and a flood of water, silt, moss, yellowed vegetation, and fish-eels cascaded out on the ground. The eels were long and fat, with bright silver scales and red gills, and they writhed and snapped among the buttercups like tangles of snakes. The man in the front seat had fallen sideways so that his head hung out the passenger’s door. His head was strung with dead vines and covered with mud and leeches. Minos tried to see over my shoulder as I looked down at the dead man.

“Jesus Christ, half his face is eaten off,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Well, maybe Victor wanted to be part of the bayou country.”

“It’s not Victor Romero,” I said. “It’s Eddie Keats.”

9

A DEPUTY STARTED to pull him by his wrists onto the grass, then wiped his palms on his pants and found a piece of newspaper in the weeds. He wrapped it around Keats’s arm and jerked him out on the ground. The water sloshed out of Keats’s suede cowboy boots, and his shirt was unbuttoned and pulled up on his chest. There was a black, puffed hole the size of my thumb in his right ribcage, with a seared area around the skin flap, and an exit wound under the left arm pit. The deputy nudged Keats’s arm with his shoe to expose the wound better.

“It looks like somebody scooped it out with a tablespoon, don’t it?” he said.

The coroner motioned to two paramedics who stood by the back of an ambulance parked at the top of the levee. They pulled the gurney out of the ambulance and started down the slope with it. A black body bag was folded under one of the canvas straps.

“How long has he been in the water?” I asked the coroner.

“Two or three days,” he said. He was a big, fat, bald man, with a shirt pocket full of cigars. His buttocks looked like watermelons. He squinted in the brightness of the sun’s reflection off the water. “They turn white and ripen pretty fast in this weather. He hasn’t gotten mushy yet, but he was working on it. Y’all know him?”

“He was a low-level button man,” I said.

“A what?”

“A contract killer. The bargain-basement variety,” Minos said.

“Well, somebody sure stirred his hash for him,” the coroner said.

“What kind of gun are we talking about?” Minos said.

“It’s going to be guesswork because there’s no bullet. Maybe some fragments, but they won’t help much. Offhand, I’d rule out a rifle. The muzzle flash burned his skin, so it was pressed right up against him. But the angle was upward, which would mean the shooter would have to hold the rifle low and depress the stock he fired, which wouldn’t make much sense. So I’d say he was killed with a pistol, a big one, maybe a .44 Magnum or a .45 loaded with soft-nosed shells or hollowpoints. He must have thought somebody stuffed a hand grenade down his throat. Y’all look perplexed.”

“You might say that,” Minos said.

“What’s the problem?” the coroner said.

“The wrong guy’s in the car,” I said.

“He sounds like the right guy to me. Count your blessings,” the coroner said. “You want to look through his pockets before we bag him up?”

“I’ll be over to St. Martinville later,” I said. “I’d like a copy of the autopsy report, too.”

“Hell, come on over and watch. I’ll have him apart in ten minutes.” His eyes were bright and a smile worked around the corners of his mouth. “Relax. I just like to have a little fun with you guys sometimes. I’ll have a copy ready for you by tonight.”

The paramedics unzipped the body bag and lifted Eddie Keats into it. A fish-eel fell out of his pants leg and flipped in the weeds as though its back were broken.

A few minutes later, Minos and I watched the ambulance, the coroner’s car, and the two St. Martin parish sheriff’s cars disappear down the levee. The two-truck driver was having trouble with his winch, and he and Cecil were trying to fix it. A hot wind blew across the marsh and ruffled the water and flattened the buttercups around our feet. I could smell the schools of bluegill that were feeding on the mosquitoes on the shade of the willow islands.

Minos walked down to the Toyota and rubbed his thumb over one of my .45 holes in the trunk. The hole was smooth and silver around the edges, as though it had been cut by a machinist’s punch.

“Are you sure Keats wasn’t in the car when Romero shot at you?” he said.

“Not unless he was hiding on the floor.”

“Then how did he get into the Toyota, and what did somebody have to gain by blowing up his shit and then dumping him with a car we were bound to find?”

“I don’t know.”

“Give me your speculations.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Come on, how many people had reason to snuff him?”

“About half the earth.”

“Around here, how many people?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m not sure. I just know I want Bubba Rocque, and the people who could help me put him away keep showing up dead. That pisses me off.”

“It probably pissed Keats off a lot worse.”

“I don’t think that’s clever.”

“I’ve got a revelation for you, Minos. Homicide isn’t like narcotics. Your clientele breaks the law for one reason—money. But people kill each other for all kinds of reasons, and sometimes the reasons aren’t logical ones. Particularly when you’re talking about Keats and his crowd.”

“You know, you always give me the feeling you tell other people only what you think they should know. Why is it that I always have that feeling about you?”