As I sorted through all the people who might want to take Firpo off the board, I couldn’t exclude Clete. There had been slips in Clete’s life. He had taken ten grand from the Mob and killed a federal witness, although the shooting was an accident. More significantly, he experienced psychotic episodes that could visit unimaginable levels of rage on a misogynist or predator or an abuser of the elderly or someone who was cruel to animals. Plus, he daily nursed his hatred of neo-Nazis and was convinced they were going to have at one least one more historical grab at the brass ring.
Earlier in the evening he’d said he wanted to blow up someone’s shit. His favorite banzai cocktail was a jigger of Jack lowered into a mug of cold beer. I could imagine Clete throwing a couple in the tank and going after the man who had arranged for him to be tortured to death by Gideon. In fact, I wondered why he hadn’t already done it.
The last name on the list was the one I hated to think about, not because I believed he was guilty but because he was too honest, the kind of man the system can grind into pulp.
Look, this is how the system works. Or, rather, how it doesn’t work. The law is usually enforced only upon the people who are available. The members of the Pool are always close by. The Pool consists of recidivists and dysfunctional people who skipped toilet training and couldn’t discuss the recipe for ice water. The recidivists think their rap sheets have the historical importance of the Magna Carta; their jailhouse tats are the equivalent of military citations. They take pride in their first-name relationship with cops. If they aren’t guests of the gray-bar hotel chain or at the least don’t have a sheet, no one would know they ever existed.
What’s the point? The system was created to handle only certain kinds of people. If you are on the square and wander into it, chances are it will cannibalize you.
Excuse my digression. My real problem was the postage stamps on Firpo’s shoe. I would have to show them to the locals. I would also have to tell them where I thought they came from.
Just as the first homicide detective arrived, I saw Father Julian standing by the front entrance and walked over to him. “Let’s go outside,” I said.
“Why?” he said, looking at the paramedics bringing in the gurney.
“It’s important.”
“Who was hurt?”
“Eddy Firpo. He wasn’t hurt. He was murdered.”
“The lawyer with Mark Shondell?”
“Come outside. Don’t argue. We don’t have much time.”
Naturally, he resisted. I took him by the arm and walked him through the door. The wind was cold and damp and smelled of the chain of lakes north of the campus. “Were you carrying some collectible postage stamps tonight?” I said.
“No.”
“You didn’t buy some in Baton Rouge for your collection?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“There were three stamps stuck to Firpo’s shoe.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“How many people in Baton Rouge bring valuable historical postage stamps into a nightclub?”
“Are you saying I’m involved with this man’s death?”
“My opinion is irrelevant,” I said. “It’s those cops in there we need to worry about. If there’s anything you need to tell me, now’s the time.”
“What did the stamps look like?”
“I saw some Latin or Italian words on them. One stamp was postmarked 1891.”
The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes drained of color. “I didn’t bring any stamps into this club.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay, what?” he said.
“I believe you. If the cops question you, tell them what you just said. Then say nothing else. If they press you, tell them you want a lawyer.”
“I don’t need one,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Why did you react when I mentioned the 1891 stamp?”
He paused. “I have an 1891 Monaco stamp at home.”
“Get in your car and drive back to New Iberia,” I said. “Don’t talk to anyone until I call you.”
“What’s happening here, Dave?”
“Everything will be fine,” I replied. “I promise.”
Want to know what a pompous jerk sounds like? I had just outdone myself.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I told the Baton Rouge homicide detectives what I had seen but left out any mention of Julian. The next morning, which was Saturday, I drove to the hotel where Penelope was staying. I used the lobby phone and asked her to have breakfast with me in the dining room.
“Your voice,” she said.
“What about it?”
“You sound tense.”
“It’s a lovely day,” I said. “Toggle on down.”
“Toggle?” she said.
Fifteen minutes later, she walked into the dining room. She had on a pink sundress and a broad straw hat, the kind Scarlett O’Hara might have worn. “Why the flowers?” she said.
I handed her the bouquet of roses I had just bought at the florist not far from the Shadows. “Let’s order, then talk,” I said.
The waitress came to our table and wrote down our order, then smiled at the roses and left.
“So tell me,” Penelope said.
“Would you like to get married?”
“With whom?”
I looked out the window at the cars entering and leaving the four-lane. “Take a guess.”
“You?”
“I’ve never had to seek humility,” I said. “It always finds me.”
“You’re asking me to marry you?”
I watched the waitress filling our coffeepot at the service counter. She had auburn hair and the strong young body of a working-class Cajun girl.
“Unless you’re thinking of doing something this weekend,” I said.
“Because your conscience bothers you?”
“Good enough for a romance, good enough for a ring,” I said.
“I appreciate what you’re doing, Dave, but we may not be right for each other.”
“It was just a thought.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you.”
“You’ve probably been lucky,” I replied. I put a twenty-dollar bill on the tablecloth.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yep, see you around.”
I walked through the revolving glass door and out into the sunshine. But not fast enough.
“You’re not going to just walk away from me like that,” she said at my back.
“No offense intended,” I said.
“No offense? You drop flowers in a woman’s face, then give her five seconds to decide if she wants to live a lifetime with you?”
“Maybe I’ll have a short lifespan.”
“You’re doing this to get rid of me, aren’t you?”
“No, but I wonder why you’ve lived all these years with a Mafia gutter rat. An uptown one, but still a gutter rat.”
“I’ve told you. Others are dependent upon our families.”
“I think that’s pure rot. You’re a grand and charitable woman who befriended a man in a time of need. It was an honor to be part of your life.”
“Don’t go.”
“Got to do it. You deserve a better man than the likes of me.”
But I couldn’t move, and I didn’t know why.
“Second thoughts?”
“You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I’d like to kill Adonis Balangie. Know why?”
“No.”
“I know he’s had you. I also know you’ve lied about it. It’s not the man, it’s the lie that killed us, Penelope.”
I got in my truck and dropped the keys. I couldn’t put the key in the ignition. When I finally drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror. She was still standing in front of the hotel, the brim of her hat wilted on either side of her face. I don’t think I ever felt worse in my life.