"Small world, isn't it?"
"Oh," she said. "It's a lot bigger than we think." A guy with a grease-stained Evinrude cap laughed when she said it.
I ordered a club soda and took it to one of the little tables by the door. The door was wedged open and it was cooler there, but it was a damp cool that made my skin clammy. The Dan Wesson would be picking up a lot of moisture, and I would have to clean it before it began to pit. Of course, if things didn't go well tonight, I wouldn't have to worry about it.
A couple of minutes later LeRoy Bennett's Polara pulled past the door and LeRoy Bennett came in, shaking his hat to get rid of the rain. He was wearing an Australian drover's coat, and he looked not unlike the Marlboro man. Cancer on the hoof. The woman with the hair squealed, "Hey, LeRoy," and leaned across the bar to plant one on his cheek. His face split with a smile and he pawed at her breasts, but she pushed him away like she didn't really mean it. A couple of the good ol' boys at the bar nodded at him, and he shook one man's hand. Old home week with the barfly regulars. He got a long-necked Dixie for himself, then came over and dropped into the chair across from me. His eye was still dark from where Joe Pike had hit him. He said, "Where're your spics?"
I said, "I'm here early."
He had some of the Okie, shooting a wink at the woman with the hair. "Yeah? Well, your spics better show or you in deep do-do."
I said, "LeRoy?"
He was sucking at his teeth.
"Do yourself a favor and don't call them spics."
LeRoy frowned like I was a turd. "That's what they are, ain't they?"
I shook my head. Some people never learn. Some people you just can't talk to.
I said, "Where's Milt?"
"He'll be here."
"I thought he might come with you."
LeRoy pulled on the Dixie. "You jus' worry about your spics." He lipped a Tarryton 100 and lit it with a big steel Zippo. The first two fingers on his right hand were yellow with smoke stains. His fingernails were grimed. He grinned at me and let the smoke leak out between his teeth. Probably hadn't brushed in a year.
LeRoy got up and put money in the jukebox. He finished the first Dixie and got himself a second. While he was at the bar the woman with the hair whispered something in his ear, and he whispered something back. She laughed. It's odd what appeals to people, isn't it? The guy with the Evinrude cap and a heavier guy who walked with a limp went home. I wished I could go with them. The rain came harder, filling ruts and depressions in the shell lot and hammering on the bar's roof, and little by little the remains of day were lost to the night. The parking lot filled with white light two quick times, followed almost instantly by twin booms of thunder, and the guys at the bar applauded. The thunder was so loud and so near that the little building shook, rattling glasses and making the jukebox skip. And they talk about earthquakes.
At two minutes before eight, headlights swung across the door, a baby blue BMW crunched onto the lot, and Frank Escobar came in, the guy with the pocked face holding an umbrella the size of a parachute canopy. LeRoy said, "Well, it's about goddamned time." He was working on his third Dixie and he said it too loud.
They came to the table and sat, Escobar shaking off his coat. "You pick a shit time to do business. Is Rossier here?"
"Not yet."
LeRoy stuck out his hand. "Mr. Escobar, my name is LeRoy Bennett. It's a pleasure, sir, yes it is."
Escobar looked at me without acknowledging the hand or the person. "Who is this?"
"Rossier's stooge."
LeRoy said, "Hey, what the ruck?"
Escobar hit LeRoy with the back of his right hand so hard that LeRoy almost went out of the chair. It was exactly the same move he'd used on his wife. Two of the guys at the bar looked over and the woman gave a little gasp. Escobar grabbed LeRoy by the face and dug a thumb under his jaw. "You see me sitting here?"
LeRoy tried to get away from the thumb, but couldn't. "Hey, yeah. Whatchu doin', bro?"
"If I'm here, where's your goddamned boss? You think I got time to waste?"
Even as he said it more lights swept the open door and you could hear the crunch, even over the jukebox and the rain. LeRoy stood away from the thumb, saying, "That's gotta be Milt right now," just as Milt Rossier walked in.
The woman behind the bar said, "Hey, Milt," but Milt didn't acknowledge her. He saw us at the little table and came over, offering his hand to Frank Escobar. "Frank, I'm Milt Rossier. Lemme apologize if I've kept you, but this rain is a bitch."
Escobar said, "Hey, forget about it. You shoulda seen the drive up from Metairie." He held Milt Rossier's hand longer than he needed to hold it. "I'm looking forward to a fruitful partnership, Milt, but let's get first things first. Where's Prima?"
"Oh, he'll be at the pumping station. You bet." Escobar glanced at me, then put it back on Milt Rossier. He still had the old man's hand. "I wanna make money with you, Milt, but you have to understand it's personal here, me and Prima. We ain't goin' forward with this until I get this bastard."
Milt was nodding and trying to get his hand away. Escobar's eyes were dark splinters and Milt Rossier seemed afraid of him. "Frank," he said, "I'm gonna bring you right to him." He finally got the hand away. "You ready to do some business or you wanna little snoot before we go? This is my place. It's on the house." Like a guy worth millions wouldn't pass up the chance at a free belt.
Escobar shook his head and stood. He snapped his fingers, and the pocked guy stood with him. "Prima." Talk about one track. You could see his hands flexing, already pulling the trigger. His coat flared when he stood, and you could see a glint in the darkness. Milt smiled. "Well, hell, let's go do it." We stepped out into the rain. Milt wanted everybody to go together in LeRoy's Polara, but there were five of us and it would be crowded, so Milt asked if Escobar would mind following us in his own car. Escobar said that that would be fine, and he and his goon hurried to their BMW, anxious to get out of the rain. Lightning crackled again, filling the parking lot with light. Escobar and his thug opened the Beamer's doors, the BMWs interior lights came on, and then two men stepped out from behind the Bayou Lounge. Balls of lightning flashed from their hands, and there was the sharp snapping of autoloading pistols muffled by the rain, and Escobar and his goon fell against their car. The pistols were still snapping when LeRoy Bennett slammed the side of my head with something hard and cold. I went down into the mud and Bennett was over me, hitting me twice more and saying, "Who's a stooge now? Who's a fuckin' stooge?" and then Rossier pushed him away, saying, "Stop that, goddammit, we ain't got time for that! Get'm up."
René LaBorde stepped out of nowhere and pulled me to my feet. Bennett, grinning like his face was split, took my gun and hit me again.
The rain fell harder and no one stirred from the Bayou Lounge.
The two men finished their killing and came to us. One of the men was Donaldo Prima. The other was Evangeline Parish Deputy Sheriff Tommy Willets. Willets looked scared. Donaldo Prima said, "We got that fawkuh good!" I knew then that the good guys were alone at the pumping station. All of the bad guys were here.
I said, "Jesus Christ, Willets."
Willets hit me on the forehead with the butt of his pistol and knocked me into the side of Bennett's Polara. Then Milt said, "Hurry up, goddammit, and get'm in the car. We got a lot of people to kill."
CHAPTER 37
W illets put his cuffs on me, then got René to help put me in the backseat of Bennett's Polara. Willets breathed hard as he did it, a torrent of rain running off the brim of his campaign hat, his Evangeline Parish sheriffs poncho molten in the lightning flashes. The lounge's wooden front door was closed, and I thought maybe Bennett had closed it as we'd left. Maybe.