A Morning for Flamingos by James Lee Burke Page B

can’t control who drinks at my bar. There’re some connected guys come in here. They know I used to work for the Dio family out in Vegas and Tahoe, so they’re always inviting me back to their booth. You’ve got to see it, Dave, to appreciate it. About six of them, all guys, cram into the vinyl booth back there on Saturday night. They always sit so all of them can look out at the dance floor and flash their bucks and shake hands with everybody like they’re celebrities. I’m talking about guys who couldn’t put spaghetti on a plate without a diagram.”
    “These are Cardo’s people?”
    “One way or another. He pieces off a lot of his action so all the greaseballs stay happy. You ever meet him?”
    “No.”
    “One of his broads lives in the Pontabla. He brings her in sometimes for a drink. He looks like somebody slammed a door on his head.”
    “When does he come in?”
    “He’s not a regular.”
    “What’s the woman’s name?”
    “Who knows? I got a proposition for you, though.”
    Emory, the black barman, brought in a tin tray loaded with oysters on the half shell, slices of lemon, and a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I gave him six dollars for the restaurant bill and a dollar for himself. He went into the back of the club and began stacking cartons of empty beer bottles in a storage room.
    “Let me in on it,” Clete said. There was a bead of light in his green eyes.
    “On what?”
    “The sting, mon.” He seasoned one of the oysters, squeezed lemon on it, cupped the shell in his hand, and let the muscle slide down his throat. He smiled and the juice ran down the corner of his mouth. “I figure it’s probably a DEA gig. They’ve got the gelt, they can afford another player.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Here’s what you tell them,” he said. “I can cover your back, I know most of the dealers on a first-name basis. I can open doors. Right now you’ve probably got a couple of street snitches doing your p.r.”
    “You don’t buy my cover?”
    “Are you kidding?” He started laughing.
    “I thought it was pretty good.”
    “It is, for anybody who doesn’t know you. But you’re talking to ole Cletus here, so save the shuck for the lowlifes and the melt-downs. I ain’t putting you on, mon, I’d love to get back in it. I’m thinking of opening up a P.I. office in the Quarter. A lot of it is running down bond jumpers and doing bullshit for attorneys, but so what? I can keep my hand in, carry a piece again, make life more interesting for some of the shit-bags.”
    “Call up the DEA in Lafayette. Tell them what you told me.”
    “Wouldn’t that be something, me and you working together again? You remember when we blew up Julio Segura’s shit in the back of his Caddy?”
    I looked out at the sunlight under the colonnade.
    “Hey, I don’t feel bad about smoking a pimp and drug dealer,” he said. “I think it’s a mainline perk of the business. There’s nothing like the smell of cordite to clear up your sinuses.”
    “You almost got us killed.”
    “Who’s perfect? But let’s be serious a minute, mon.” He pushed at an oyster with his fork. There were deep acne scars on the back of his red neck. His big shoulders were bent, and his shirt was stretched tight across the wide expanse of his back. “I don’t know what kind of info you’re operating on, but this is what I hear. Cardo’s out for the big score. Florida’s already locked up, so is Texas. So he wants to control the Louisiana coast. He’s got some nasty types working for him, too, guys who paint the ceiling when they do a job on somebody. You don’t want him to think you’re a competitor. Look, Dave, they say he’s different from the other greaseballs. He’s not predictable, he does strange stuff that nobody can figure out.
    “The last time he brought his broad in here, a Marine gunnery sergeant sat on the stool next to him. Cardo says, ‘Give me and the lady another Collins and give the gunny what he wants.’ Then