Sunset Limited (28 page)

“Where you going?” Helen said.

I went into the editorial room and returned with a magnifying glass.

“Look at the man on the far right,” I said. “Look at his shoulders, the way he holds himself.”

She took the magnifying glass from my hand and stared through it, moving the depth of focus up and down, then concentrating on the face of a tall man in a wide-brim cowboy hat. Then she read the cutline.

“It says ‘H. Q. Skaggs.’ The reporter misspelled it. It’s Harpo Scruggs,” she said.

“Archer Terrebonne acted like he knew him only at a distance. I think he called him ‘quite a character,’ or something like that.”

“Why would they have him at their cabin in Colorado? The Terrebonnes don’t let people like Scruggs use their indoor plumbing,” she said. She stared at me blankly, then said, as though putting her thoughts on index cards, “He did scut work for them? He’s had something on them? Scruggs could be blackmailing Archer Terrebonne?”

“They’re joined at the hip.”

“Is there a Xerox machine out there?” she asked.

TWENTY-FOUR

WE GOT BACK TO NEW Iberia late the next day. I went to the office before going home, but the sheriff had already gone. In my mailbox he had left a note that read: “Let’s talk tomorrow about Scruggs and the Feds.”

That evening Bootsie and Alafair and I went to a restaurant, then I worked late at the dock with Batist. The moon was up and the water in the bayou looked yellow and high, swirling with mud, between the deep shadows of the cypress and willow trees along the banks.

I heard a car coming too fast on the dirt road, then saw Clete Purcel’s convertible stop in front of the boat ramp, a plume of dust drifting across the canvas top. But rather than park by the ramp, he cut his lights and backed into my drive, so that the car tag was not visible from the road.

I went back into the bait shop and poured a cup of coffee. He walked down the dock, looking back over his shoulder, his print shirt hanging out of his slacks. He grinned broadly when he came through the door.

“Beautiful night. I thought I might get up early in the morning and do some fishing,” he said.

“The weather’s right,” I said.

“How was Colorado?” he asked, then opened the screen door and looked back outside.

I started to pour him a cup of coffee, but he reached in the cooler and twisted the top off a beer and drank it at the end of the counter so he could see the far end of the dock.

“You mind if I sleep here tonight? I don’t feel like driving back to Jeanerette,” he said.

“What have you done, Clete?”

He ticked the center of his forehead with one fingernail and looked into space.

“A couple of state troopers almost got me by Spanish Lake. I’m not supposed to be driving except for business purposes,” he said.

“Why would they be after you?”

“This movie gig is creeping me out. I went up to Ralph & Kacoo’s in Baton Rouge,” he said. “All right, here it is. But I didn’t start it. I was eating oysters on the half-shell and having a draft at the bar when Benny Grogan comes up to me—you know, Ricky the Mouse’s bodyguard, the one with platinum hair, the wrestler and part-time bone smoker.

“He touches me on the arm, then steps away like I’m going to swing on him or something. He says, ‘We got a problem, Purcel. Ricky’s stinking drunk in a back room.’

“I say, ‘No,
we
don’t got a problem. You got a problem.’

“He goes, ‘Look, he’s got some upscale gash in there he’s trying to impress, so everything’s gonna be cool. Long as maybe you go somewhere else. I’ll pay your tab. Here’s a hundred bucks. You’re our guest somewhere else tonight.’

“I say, ‘Benny, you want to wear food on your face again, just put your hand on my arm one more time.’

“He shrugs his shoulders and walks off and I thought that’d be the end of it. I was going to leave anyway, right after I took a leak. So I’m in the men’s room, and they’ve got this big trough filled with ice in it, and of course people have been pissing in it all night, and I’m unzipping my pants and reading the newspaper that’s under a glass up on the wall and I hear the door bang open behind me and some guy walking like the deck is tilting under his feet.

“He goes, ‘I got something for you, Purcel. They say it hits your guts like an iron hook.’

“I’m not kidding you, Dave, I didn’t think Ricky Scar could make my heart seize up, but that’s what happened when I looked at what was in his hand. You ever see the current thread between the prongs on a stun gun? I go, ‘Dumb move, Ricky. I was just leaving. I consider our troubles over.’

“He goes, ‘I’m gonna enjoy this.’

“Just then this biker pushes open the door and brushes by Ricky like this is your normal, everyday rest-room situation. When Ricky turned his head I nailed him. It was a beaut, Dave, right in the eye. The stun gun went sailing under the stalls and Ricky fell backward in the trough. This plumber’s helper was in the corner, one of these big, industrial-strength jobs for blowing out major toilet blockage. I jammed it over Ricky’s face and shoved him down in the ice and held him under till I thought he might be more reasonable, but he kept kicking and flailing and frothing at the mouth and I couldn’t let go.

“The biker says, ‘The dude try to cop your stick or something?’

“I go, ‘Find a guy named Benny Grogan in the back rooms. Tell him Clete needs some help. He’ll give you fifty bucks.’

“The biker goes, ‘Benny Grogan gives head, not money. You’re on your own, Jack.’

“That’s when Benny comes through the door and sticks a .38 behind my ear. He says, ‘Get out of town, Purcel. Next time, your brains are coming out your nose.’

“I didn’t argue, mon. I almost made the front door when I hear the Mouse come roaring out of the can and charge down the hallway at me, streaming ice and piss and toilet paper that was stuck all over his feet.

“Except a bunch of people in a side dining room fling open this oak door, it must be three inches thick with wrought iron over this thick yellow glass panel in it, and they slam it right into the Mouse’s face, you could hear the metal actually ding off his skull.

“So while Ricky’s rolling around on the carpet, I eased on outside and decided to cruise very copacetically out of Baton Rouge and leave the greaseballs alone for a while.”

“Why were state troopers after you? Why were you out by Spanish Lake instead of on the four-lane?”

His eyes clicked sideways, as though he were seriously researching the question.

“Ummm, I kept thinking about begging off from the Mouse when he put his stun gun on snap, crackle, and pop. So out there in the parking lot were about eight or nine chopped-down Harleys. They belonged to the same bunch the Gypsy Jokers threatened to kill for wearing their colors. I still had all my repo tools in the trunk, so I found the Mouse’s car and slim-jimmed the door and fired it up. Then I propped a board against the gas pedal, pointed it right into the middle of the Harleys, and dropped it into low.

“I cruised around for five minutes, then did a drive-by and watched it all from across the street. The bikers were climbing around on Ricky’s car like land crabs, kicking windows out, slashing the seats and tires, tearing the wires out of the engine. It was perfect, Dave. When the cops got there, it was even better. The cops were throwing bikers in a van, Ricky was screaming in the parking lot, his broad trying to calm him down, Ricky swinging her around by her arm like she was a stuffed doll, people coming out every door in the restaurant like the place was on fire. Benny Grogan got sapped across the head with a baton. Anyway, it’ll all cool down in a day or so. Say, you got any of those sandwiches left?”

“I just can’t believe you,” I said.

“What’d I do? I just wanted to eat some oysters and have a little peace and quiet.”

“Clete, one day you’ll create a mess you won’t get out of. They’re going to kill you.”

“Scarlotti is a punk and a rodent and belongs under a sewer grate. Hey, the Bobbsey Twins from Homicide spit in their mouths and laugh it off, right? Quit worrying. It’s only rock ‘n’ roll.”

His eyes were green and bright above the beer bottle while he drank, his face flushed and dilated with his own heat.

JUST AFTER EIGHT THE next morning the sheriff came into my office. He stood at the window and propped his hands on the sill. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms thick and covered with hair.

“I talked with that FBI woman, Glazier, about Harpo Scruggs. She’s a challenge to whatever degree of civility I normally possess,” he said.

“What’d she say?”

“She turned to an ice cube. That’s what bothers me. He’s supposed to be mixed up with the Dixie Mafia, but there’s nothing in the NCIC computer on him. Why this general lack of interest?”

“Up until now his victims have been low profile, people nobody cared about,” I said.

“That woman hates Megan Flynn. Why’s it so personal with her?”

We looked at each other. “Guilt?” I said.

“Over what?”

“Good question.”

I walked down to Helen’s office, then we both signed out for New Orleans.

WE DROVE TO NEW Orleans and parked off Carondelet and walked over to the Mobil Building on Poydras Street. When we sat down in her office, she rose from her chair and opened the blinds, as though wishing to create an extra dimension in the room. Then she sat back down in a swivel chair and crossed her legs, her shoulders erect inside her gray suit, her ice-blue eyes fixed on something out in the hallway. But when I turned around, no one was there.

Then I saw it in her face, the dryness at the corner of the mouth, the skin that twitched slightly below the eye, the chin lifted as though to remove a tension in the throat.

“We thought y’all might want to help bring down this guy Scruggs. He’s going back and forth across state lines like a Ping-Pong ball,” I said.

“If you don’t have enough grounds for a warrant, why should we?” she said.

“Every cop who worked with him says he was dirty. Maybe he even murdered convicts in Angola. But there’s no sheet on him anywhere,” I said.

“You’re saying somehow that’s our fault?”

“No, we’re thinking Protected Witness Program or paid federal informant,” Helen said.

“Where do you get your information? You people think—” she began.

“Scruggs is the kind of guy who would flirt around the edges of the Klan. Back in the fifties you had guys like that on the payroll,” I said.

“You’re talking about events of four decades ago,” Adrien Glazier said.

“What if he was one of the men who murdered Jack Flynn? What if he committed that murder while he was in the employ of the government?” I said.

“You’re not going to interrogate me in my own office, Mr. Robicheaux.”

We stared mutely at each other, her eyes watching the recognition grow in mine.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You
know
Scruggs killed Megan Flynn’s father. You’ve known it all along. That’s why you bear her all this resentment.”

“You’ll either leave now or I’ll have you removed from the building,” she said.

“Here’s a Kleenex. Your eyes look a little wet, ma’am. I can relate to your situation. I used to work for the NOPD and had to lie and cover up for male bozos all the time,” Helen said.

WE DROVE INTO THE Quarter and had beignets and coffee and hot milk at the Cafe du Monde. While Helen bought some pralines for her nephew, I walked across the street into Jackson Square, past the sidewalk artists who had set up their easels along the piked fence that surrounded the park, past the front of St. Louis Cathedral where a string band was playing, and over to a small bookstore on Toulouse.

Everyone in AA knows that his survival as a wet drunk was due partly to the fact that most people fear the insane and leave them alone. But those who are cursed with the gift of Cassandra often have the same fate imposed upon them. Gus Vitelli was a slight, bony Sicilian ex-horse trainer and professional bouree player whose left leg had been withered by polio and who had probably read almost every book in the New Orleans library system. He was obsessed with what he called “untold history,” and his bookstore was filled with material on conspiracies of every kind.

He told anyone who would listen that the main players in the assassinations of both John Kennedy and Martin Luther King came from the New Orleans area. Some of the names he offered were those of Italian gangsters. But if the Mob was bothered by his accusations, they didn’t show it. Gus Vitelli had long ago been dismissed in New Orleans as a crank.

The problem was that Gus was a reasonable and intelligent man. At least in my view.

He was wearing a T-shirt that exclaimed “I Know Jack Shit,” and wrote prices on used books while I told him the story about the murder of Jack Flynn and the possible involvement of an FBI informant.

“It wouldn’t surprise me that it got covered up. Hoover wasn’t any friend of pinkos and veterans of the Lincoln Brigade,” he said. He walked to a display table and began arranging a pile of paperback books, his left leg seeming to collapse and then spring tight again with each step. “I got a CIA manual here that was written to teach the Honduran army how to torture people. Look at the publication date, 1983. You think people are gonna believe that?” He flipped the manual at me.

“Gus, have you heard anything about a hit on a black guy named Willie Broussard?”

“Something involving the Giacanos or Ricky Scarlotti?”

“You got it.”

“Nothing about a hit. But the word is Ricky Scar’s sweating ball bearings ‘cause he might have to give up some Asian guys. The truth is, I’m not interested. People like Ricky give all Italians a bad name. My greatgrandfather sold bananas and pies out of a wagon. He raised thirteen kids like that. He got hung from a street-lamp in 1890 when the police commissioner was killed.”

I thanked him for his time and started to leave.

“The guy who was crucified against the barn wall?” he said. “The reason people don’t buy conspiracy theories is they think ‘conspiracy’ means everybody’s on the same program. That’s not how it works. Everybody’s got a different program. They just all want the same guy dead. Socrates was a gadfly, but I bet he took time out to screw somebody’s wife.”