The Neon Rain (10 page)

“You don’t hide hostility well.”

“I get a little emotional on certain subjects. You’ll have to excuse me. I went to Jesuit schools. They always taught us to be up front about everything. They’re the Catholic equivalent of the jarheads, you know. Get in there and kick butt and take names and all that stuff. I just think you’re a lousy actor, Lieutenant.”

“Look, Fitzpatrick—”

“Fuck off, man. I’m going to give you the scam and you can work out your own options. I’m surrounded by indifferent people and I don’t need any more of them. I just don’t want you on my conscience. Also, as a matter of principle I don’t like another guy taking the heat for me, particularly when he blunders into something he doesn’t know anything about. You’re damn lucky they didn’t blow out your light last night. The girl’s, too.”

He stopped talking while the waiter put down our plates of oyster and shrimp sandwiches, then he took a bite out of his sandwich as though he hadn’t eaten for weeks.

“You don’t like the food?” he said, his mouth still full.

“I lost my appetite.”

“Ah, you’re a sensitive fellow after all.”

“Tell me, do all you guys have the same manners?”

“You want it straight, Lieutenant? We’ve got some firemen and pyromaniacs on the same side of the street.”

“Who was that bunch last night?” I said.

“That’s the easy part. The one named Erik is an Israeli. He’s somebody’s little brother back in Haifa and they keep him around to clean up their mess, change toilet-paper rolls, stuff like that. The one you called Bobby Joe in your report is a real cut-up. That’s Robert J. Starkweather of Shady Grove, Alabama. The state took away his kid from him and his wife for the kid’s own protection. They think he fragged an NCO in Vietnam but they couldn’t prove it, so they eased him out on a BCD. How do you like that tattoo about killing them all and letting God sort them out? He’s sincere about it, too.”

“How about the guy in charge?”

“He’s a little more complex. His name is Philip Murphy, at least we think it is. We’ve run this guy all kinds of ways and we come up with some blank spots—no addresses, no record of earnings, no tax returns for a couple of years here and there. Or he shows up owning a shoe store in Des Moines. With this kind of guy it usually means protected witness or CIA. He’s probably one of those that bounces in and out of the Agency or freelances around. I suspect he’s off their leash right now. But it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

I picked up my poor-boy sandwich and started to eat. The shrimp, oysters, lettuce, onions, tomato, and
sauce piquante
tasted wonderful. The shadows of the oak and willow leaves moved in etched, shifting patterns across our table.

“I still don’t understand the connections. What have these guys got to do with Segura’s whores and dope?” I said.

“Nothing directly.” Then he started grinning again. “Come on, you’re a detective. Give me your opinion.”

“Are you sure these guys aren’t after you because of what you fancy is a sense of humor?”

“Maybe. Come on, give me your opinion.”

“I have a hard time believing you’re a Treasury agent.”

“Sometimes my supervisor does too. Come on.”

“You’re with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”

“Good.”

“Are we talking about guns?” I said.

“Excellento.”

“Nope, not excellento. I still don’t see it, and I already told you this meal has gotten expensive.”

“It’s simple. I think Segura is putting his dope money back into military equipment for the Contras in Nicaragua. It explains these other guys. The Israelis supplied arms to Somoza for years and they still sell to right-wing guys like Pinochet in Chile. From what we know about Buffalo Bob, who almost pinched your head off at the shoulders, he’s cowboyed for the CIA down on the Honduran border when he wasn’t mixing up his phallus with an M-16, and I’ll bet Philip Murphy is the tie-in to some arms contractors and military people here in the States. There’s nothing new or unusual about it. It’s the same kind of unholy trinity we had working for us down in Cuba. Look, why do you think the CIA tried to use some Chicago wiseguys to whack Castro? The mob had a vested interest. They got along very well with Batista, then Castro shut down all their casinos.”

“How did you get onto this current stuff?”

“We had our eye on a paramilitary training camp in Florida and one in Mississippi, then Buffalo Bob left a submachine gun in a Biloxi bus locker. We could have picked him up, but instead we let him keep ricocheting off the walls for a while. Philip Murphy showed up and it got a lot more interesting.”

He paused a minute, then looked me flatly in the face again with those washed-out blue eyes that seemed to be immune to both protocol and insult.

“Have you ever had to dust anyone?” he said.

“Maybe.”

“Be straight.”

“Twice.”

“How’d you feel about it?”

“They dealt the play.”

“The next time you see Murphy or Buffalo Bob and Erik, they’re going to take you out. You know that, don’t you?”

“You said you’re an up-front guy. Let me tell you a couple of my own meditations. I don’t think you’re an upfront guy.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t think you want me out,” I said. “I think you want a partner. I’ve already got one. He’s paid by the city, just like I am.”

“You’re a pretty slick cop.”

“I don’t like somebody trying to use me.”

“I can’t blame you. There’s something I didn’t tell you. The American priest that was killed in Guatemala was a friend of mine. Our government is into some real bullshit down there, buddy, but everybody who works for the government isn’t necessarily on the same team. Some of us still believe in the old rules.”

“Good for you. But if you’re into the Boy Scout Manual, don’t try to run a game on another cop.”

“Nobody’s asking you to sign a loyalty oath. What are you so afraid of?”

“You’re genuinely starting to piss me off,” I said.

“I didn’t write this script. You got into it on your own. I’ll tell you something else, too: you’re not going to walk out of it easily. I guarantee it. Guys like Segura and Murphy are just functionary jackoffs for much bigger people. Here’s another question for you, too, Mr. Clean. What were you thinking about while you were oiling your guns out on your boat deck? Maybe blowing bone and cartilage all over Buffalo Bob’s walls?”

“I think with luck I can still make the fifth race.”

“I’ll drive you back.”

“Don’t worry about it. The city’s got a tab with Yellow Cab.”

“Take this card. My motel’s number is on it.”

“I believe my phone is still out of order. See you around,” I said, and walked out of the courtyard onto Louisiana Avenue. Some black children roared past me on roller skates, and heat lightning flickered above the huge oak trees across the street.

I called Annie from the pay phone to try to save part of the evening, but no one was home. It started to rain and I waited a half hour under a leaky awning for my cab to arrive. I made a quiet resolution about accepting invitations from federal employees.

But, as Fitzpatrick had said, I’d written my own script, and the next morning I continued to write it, only with some disastrous consequences that made me wonder if my alcoholic, self-destructive incubus was not alive and well.

I started by looking for Bobby Joe Starkweather. I didn’t have many threads, but he was the kind of guy who showed up at certain places. I tried a couple of indoor target ranges, outlaw motorcycle bars, sex shops, and a survivalist store that catered to people who relished the unlimited prospects of living in a post-World War III wasteland. But I struck out.

Then, at noon, while Cletus and I were eating a pizza out of a box on a bench in Jackson Square, I wondered why I was chasing after an unknown quantity like Bobby Joe Starkweather when the primary connection was already available. We sat under a mimosa tree, and St. Louis Cathedral and the square itself were drenched in hot sunlight. There were drops of perspiration and flecks of red pizza sauce on Clete’s face while he ate. His eyes were looking abstractedly at the sidewalk artists in Pirates Alley.

“What have you got on the burner for this afternoon?” I asked.

“Not much. Figure out what I’m going to do with my goddamn wife. Get this. She just sent a check for six hundred dollars to the Buddhist priest out in Colorado. I tried to put a stop-payment on it, but it already went through. That’s thousands she’s given to this guy. When I say anything about it, she says I’m drunk.”

“Maybe y’all should separate for a while.”

“I can’t. She’s become suicidal. Her psychiatrist says she shouldn’t even be driving an automobile.”

“I’m hoping to take a girl out to dinner tonight, if I can get ahold of her. Why don’t you and Lois think about coming along? It’s on me.”

“Maybe so, Dave. Thanks.”

“I want to go out to Julio Segura’s this afternoon.”

“What for?”

“I’m going to roust him and take him in for questioning.”

“He might file a harassment charge this time.”

“He was the last person to see a murder victim alive.”

“Sounds shaky. It’s not our jurisdiction.” His eyes smiled.

“You coming or not?”

“Hell, yes.”

We drove in Clete’s car along the lakefront road. There was a light chop on the slate-green surface, and pelicans were diving for fish out of the white sun. The palm trees on the esplanade clicked dryly in the wind; and on the right-hand side of the road beyond the pink stucco walls, the long iron pike fences, the impassable hedges and rows of myrtle trees, lay the terraced lawns and mansions of the rich. I knew liberals out at Tulane who would tell me these were the people whom we served. But I didn’t like them any better than anybody else did. Actually, they didn’t like the police, either, or at least trust us, because they hired their own security, kept attack dogs on the grounds, and maintained floodlight and burglar alarm systems that were an electronic miracle. They lived in fear of kidnappers of their children, sophisticated jewel creeps, minorities who would compromise their property values. The irony was that they were among the most secure people upon earth—secure from disease, poverty, political oppression, virtually everything except death.

“How much you think these places cost?” Cletus asked.

“I don’t know, maybe a million bucks.”

“My pop was a milkman in the Garden District, and sometimes in the summer I’d go on the route with him. One morning I was messing around in front of this big house right off St. Charles and this lady came out and said I was the cutest little fellow she’d ever seen and I should come back at three o’clock for some ice cream. That afternoon I took a bath and put on my nice clothes and knocked on her door right at three. At first she didn’t remember who I was, then she told me to go around to the back door. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. When I got into the backyard I saw the maid handing out ice cream to all these raggedy little colored kids that belonged to the yardmen around the neighborhood.

“This lady had a greenhouse back there. I came back that night with a box full of rocks and broke damn near every pane in it. She got it repaired and three weeks later I came back and broke them again. When my pop figured out I’d done it, he whipped me with a switch till blood ran down my legs.”

Clete turned onto Julio Segura’s street, which was filled with trees and blooming shrubs.

“You ever get that mad when you were a kid?” he asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“You told me once you and your brother had some rough times.”

“Who cares, Clete? It’s yesterday’s ball game.”

“So I know that. What’s the big deal?” he said.

“You’ve got a rusty nail sideways in your head. Let it go, quit feeding it.”

“You get a little personal sometimes, Streak.”

“There he goes! Hit it!” I said.

Julio Segura’s lavender Cadillac had just bounced out through his front gate onto the street. A dwarf was driving, and a blond woman sat in the front passenger’s seat. Segura and another man were in back. Cletus floored the accelerator until we were abreast of them. The dwarf’s face was frightened behind the glass, and he kept driving.

I held my badge out at him. He put his foot on the brake, both of his hands on the steering wheel, his chin pointed upward under his purple chauffeur’s cap, and scraped the front tire in a long black line against the curb.

“How do you want to play it?” Clete asked before we got out of the car.

“We run up the black flag,” I said.

Clete had stopped our own car in front of the Cadillac, and we walked back on opposite sides of it. I tapped on the passenger’s window and on Segura’s back window for them to roll down the glass. Later I was to go over this scene again and again in my mind, as well as the careless remark I’d made to Clete about the black flag, and wonder at how differently that afternoon might have turned out if I had approached the driver’s side of the Cadillac or if I had kept my own counsel.

Clete reached down into the ignition, pulled the keys, and threw them into a hedge. The dwarf was petrified with fear. His little hands gripped the wheel and his jug head swiveled back and forth between Clete and the back seat.

“You don’t have a blowgun hidden in your shorts, do you?” Clete said to him, then sniffed the air inside the Cadillac. “My, my, what is that aroma I smell? Colombian coffee? Or maybe we’ve been toking on a little
muta
on our way to the golf course?”

The air was heavy with the smell of marijuana. The blond woman’s face looked sick. I saw the cigarette lighter from the dash lying on the floor, and I suspected she’d been snorting the roach off the lighter and had eaten it when we’d pulled them over. She had a nice figure and was dressed in white shorts and heels and a low blouse, but her hair was lacquered with so much hair spray that it looked like wire, and her face was layered with cosmetics to cover the deep pockmarks in her complexion.

I opened the door for her. “Walk on back home,” I said.

“They lock the gate,” she said.