DR07 - Dixie City Jam by James Lee Burke

noble mon?' he said.
    'I don't know what any of that has to do with the guy who hurt
Bootsie.'
    'Maybe it doesn't.' He watched the streetcar roll down the
track on the neutral ground and stop on the corner. It was loaded with
Japanese businessmen. In spite of the temperature they all wore dark
blue suits, ties, and long-sleeve shirts. 'If I were a worrying man,
you know what would worry me most? It's not the crack and the black
punks in the projects. It's a feeling I've got about the normals, it's
like they wouldn't mind trying it a different way for a while.'
    'What do you mean?'
    'Maybe I'm wrong, but if tomorrow morning I woke up and read
in
The Times-Picayune
that an election had just
been held and it was now legal to run the lowlifes through tree
shredders, you know, the kind the park guys use to grind oak limbs into
wood chips, it wouldn't be a big surprise.'
    'Did you ever hear of anybody in the city who fits the
description of this guy Buchalter?'
    'Nope. I've got a theory, though; at least it's something we
can check out. He's an out-of-towner. He went to your house to shake up
your cookie bag. Right? There doesn't seem to be any obvious connection
between our man and any particular local bucket of shit we might have
had trouble with. Right? What does all that suggest to you, Streak?'
    'One of the resident wise guys using out-of-town talent to
send a message.'
    'And whose Johnson did we just jerk on? It can't hurt to have
a talk with Tommy Bobalouba again, can it?'
    'I thought he was part of your meal ticket.'
    'Not anymore. I don't like the way he acted in front of
Martina. You take an Irish street prick out of the Channel, put him in
an eight-hundred-thou house by Lake Pontchartrain, and you've got an
Irish street prick in an eight-hundred-thou house by Lake
Pontchartrain. How about we have a little party?'
    'I'm on leave, and I'm out of my jurisdiction.'
    'Who cares? If the guy's clean, it's no big deal. If he's not,
fuck that procedural stuff. We scramble his eggs.'
    The cashier cut his eyes toward us, then turned the floor fan
so that our conversation was blown out the open door, away from the
other customers.
    'Let me call home first,' I said.
    'No argument?'
    I shrugged my shoulders. He watched my face.
    'How much sleep did you get last night?' he asked.
    'Enough.'
    'You could fool me.'
    'You want to go out to Lonighan's or not?'
    There was a pause in his eyes, a fine bead of light. He made a
round button with his lips and scratched at his cheek with one
fingernail.
     
    Lonighan lived a short distance from
the yacht club in an
imitation Tudor mansion that had been built by a New Orleans beer baron
during the 1920s. The grounds were surrounded by a high brick wall, at
the front of which was a piked security gate, with heavy clumps of
banana trees on each side of it, and a winding driveway that led past a
screened-in pool and clay tennis courts that were scattered with
leaves. We parked my truck, and Clete pushed the button on the speaker
box by the gate.
    'Who is it?' a voice said through the box.
    'Clete Purcel. Is Tommy home?'
    'He's over at his gym. You want to come back later or leave a
message?'
    'Who are all those people in the pool?'
    'Some guests. Just leave a message, Clete. I'll give it to
him.'
    'When'll he be home?'
    'He comes, he goes, what do I know? Just leave a fucking
message, will you?'
    'Here's the message, Art. I don't like talking to a box.'
    'I'm sorry, I'll be down. Hey, Clete, I'm just the hired help,
all right?'
    A moment later the man named Art walked down the drive with a
pair of hedge clippers in his hand. He was bare-chested and sweaty and
wore grass-stained white shorts and sandals that flopped on his feet.
    'Open up,' Clete said.
    'You're putting me in a bad place, man. Why'd you have to get
Tommy upset?'
    'I didn't do anything to Tommy.'
    'Tell that to him. Christ, Clete, you know what kind of guy he
is. How you think he feels when a broad tells him off in public?'
    'You gonna