A Stained White Radiance (10 page)

“I don't have any authority here.”

“That's right. So they won't be expecting us. Fuck, mon, let's give them a daytime nightmare.” He stuck a matchstick in the corner of his mouth and grinned. “Come on, think about it. Is there
anything so fine as making the lowlifes wish they were still a dirty thought in their parents' mind?”

He snapped his fingers and rhythmically clicked his fists and palms together. His green eyes were dancing with light and expectation.

I
F YOU GREW UP
in the Deep South you're probably fond, as I am, of recalling the summertime barbecues and fish fries, the smoke drifting in the oak trees, the high school dances under a pavilion that was strung with Japanese lanterns, the innocent lust we discovered in convertibles by shadowed lakes groaning with bullfrogs, and the sense that the season was eternal, that the world was a quiet and gentle place, that life was a party to be enjoyed with the same pleasure and certainty as the evening breeze that always carried with it the smell of lilac and magnolia and watermelons in a distant field.

But there is another memory, too: the boys who went nigger-knocking in the little black community of Sunset, who shot people of color with BB guns and marbles fired from slingshots, who threw M-80s onto the galleries of their pitiful homes. Usually these boys had burr haircuts, jug ears, half-moons of dirt under their fingernails. They lived in an area of town with unpaved streets, garbage in the backyards, ditches full of mosquitoes and water moccasins from the coulee. Each morning they got up with their loss, their knowledge of who they were, and went to war with the rest of the world.

When we meet the adult bigot, the Klansman, the anti-Semite, we assume that he was bred in that
same wretched place. Sometimes that's a correct conclusion. Oftentimes it's not.

“Did this guy grow up in a shithole or something?” Clete said.

We were parked in my truck across from Bobby Earl's home out by Lake Pontchartrain.

“I heard his father owned a candy company in Baton Rouge,” I said.

“Maybe he was an abused fetus.” He blew cigarette smoke out the window and looked at the piked fence, the blue-green lawn and twirling sprinklers, the live oaks that formed a canopy over the long white driveway. “There must be big bucks in sticking it to the coloreds these days. I bet you could park six cars on his porch.” He looked at his watch. The sky was gray over the lake, and the waves were capping in the wind. “Let's give it another half hour, then I'll treat you to some rice and red beans at Fat Albert's.”

“I'd better head back pretty soon, Clete.”

He formed a pocket of air in one jaw.

“You always believed in prayer, Streak,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Don't you AA guys call it ‘turning it over'? Maybe it's time to do that. Worrying about Bootsie and what you can't change is putting boards in your head.”

“It sure is.”

“So?”

“What?”

“Why set yourself up for a lot of grief?” He was looking straight ahead now, his porkpie hat
resting on his brow. “I know you, noble mon. I know the thoughts you're going to have before you have them. Turn the dials on yourself long enough, tamp them down till you got all the gears shearing off against each other, and pretty soon the old life looks pretty good again.”

“That's not the way it is this time.”

“Yeah, probably not. I shouldn't be handing out advice, anyway. When I started drinking my breakfast there for a while, I got sent by the captain to this shrink who was on lend-lease from the psychology department at Tulane. So I told him a few stories, stuff that I thought was pretty ordinary—race beefs when I was growing up in the Irish Channel, a hooker who dosed me while I was married, the time you and I smoked that greaseball dope dealer and his bodyguard in the back of their Cadillac—and I thought the guy was going to throw up in his wastebasket. I always heard these guys could take it. I felt like a freak. I ain't kidding you, the guy was trembling. I offered to buy him a drink and he got mad.”

I couldn't help laughing.

“That's it, mon. Lighten up,” he said. “Nothing rattles the Bobbsey Twins from Homicide. And my, my, what do we have here?” He adjusted the outside mirror with his hand. “Yes indeedy, it's the All-American peckerwood. You know this guy's got broads all over New Orleans? That's right, they really dig his rebop. I've got to learn his technique. Come on, fire it up, Streak.”

I turned the ignition and followed the white,
chauffeur-driven Chrysler toward the entrance.

“I'm out of my jurisdiction, Clete,” I said. “No Wyatt Earp stuff. We don't bruise the fruit. Right? Agreed?”

“Sure. We're just out here to visit. Talk some trash, maybe drink some mash. Get some political tips. Step on it, mon.” His arm was pressed flat against the side of the truck door, his face bright, like a man anticipating a carnival ride.

The Chrysler drove through the gate and on up the drive toward the white stucco, blue-tiled home with the sweeping porch and an adjacent swimming pool that was bordered with banana and lime trees and flaring gas torches. A man in pressed black pants and shined shoes, white shirt and black tie, with oiled red hair combed straight back on his head, swung the gate closed and walked away as though we were not there.

Clete got out of the truck and walked to the gate.

“Hey, bubba, does it look like we're from Fuller Brush?” he said.

“What?” the man said.

“We're here to see Bobby Earl. Open up.”

“He's got dinner guests. Who are you?”

“Who am I?” Clete said, smiling, pointing at his chest with his thumb. “Good question, good question. You see this badge? Dave, do you know who we're talking to here?”

He folded his private investigator's badge and replaced it in his coat pocket when the man reached for it.

“I bet you didn't think I recognized you, did you?” Clete said. “Gomez, right? You were a middleweight. Lefty Felix Gomez. I saw you fight Irish Jerry Wallace over in Gretna. You knocked his mouthpiece into the third row.”

The gateman nodded, his face unimpressed. “Mr. Earl don't want to be bothered by anybody tonight,” he said. “That badge you got. Pawnshop windows are full of them.”

“Sharp eye,” Clete said, his mouth still grinning. “I remember another story about you. You beat up a kid in a filling station. A high school kid. You fractured his skull.”

“I told you what Mr. Earl said. You can come back tomorrow, or you can write him care of the state legislature. That's where he works.”

“Nice tie,” Clete said, reached through the gate, knotted the man's necktie in his fist, and jerked his face tightly against the bars. “You've got a serious problem, Lefty. You're hard of hearing. Now, you get on that box and tell Mr. Earl that Cletus Purcel and Detective Dave Robicheaux are here to see him. Is my signal getting through to you? Are we big-picture clear on this?”

“Let him go, Clete,” I said.

A tall, good-looking man with angular shoulders in a striped gray, double-breasted suit, his silk shirt unbuttoned on his chest, walked down the drive toward us.

“Sure,” Clete said, and released the gateman, whose face had gone livid with anger except for the two diagonal lines where the flesh had been pressed into the iron bars of the gate.

“What's the trouble, Felix?” the man in the suit said.

“No trouble, Mr. Earl. We want a few minutes of your time. I don't think your man here was passing on the information very well,” Clete said.

“I'm Detective Dave Robicheaux of the Iberia Parish sheriff's office,” I said, and opened my badge in my palm. “I'm sorry for the late hour, but I'm in town only for today. I'd like to talk with you about Mr. Raintree.”

“Mr. Raintree? Yes. Well, I'm having someone for dinner, but—” His thick brown hair was styled and grew slightly over his collar, giving him a rugged and casual look. His skin was fine-grained, his jaws cleanly shaved, and his smile was easy and good-natured. The only strange characteristic about him was his right eye, whose pupil was larger than the one in his left eye, which gave it a monocular look. “Well, we can take a minute or two, can't we? Would you like to sit down by the pool? I'm not sure that I can help you, but I'll try.”

“I appreciate your time, sir,” I said, and followed him up the drive.

“Hey, Lefty, I forgot to tell you,” Clete said, winking at the gateman. “When you were in the ring, I always heard they tried to match you up with cerebral-palsy victims.”

We sat on canvas deck chairs by a swimming pool that was shaped in the form of a cross. The underwater lights were on, and the turquoise surface glistened with a thin sheen of suntan oil. On the flagstone patio a linen-covered table was set
with candelabra and service for two. Bobby Earl walked to the side door of his house and spoke to his chauffeur, who had changed into a white butler's jacket. Then a young blonde woman in a pink bathing suit, terry-cloth robe, and high heels came out the door and began arguing with Bobby Earl. His back was to us, but I could see him raise his long, slender hands in a placating gesture. Then she slammed the screen and went back inside.

“I told you he was a gash hound,” Clete said.

“Clete, will you ease up? I mean it.”

“I'm mellow, I'm extremely serene. Don't sweat it. Hey, I didn't mention something else about the gateman back there. He was a coke mule for Joey Gouza and the Giacano family. It's funny he's out here with the white man's hope.”

“We'll run him later. Now stop shaking the screen on the zoo cage.”

“You've got no sense of humor, Streak. The sonofabitch is scared. Watch the corner of his mouth. Now's the time to squeeze his peaches.”

Bobby Earl came back to the pool, with his butler behind him. The butler set a bowl of popcorn crawfish down on a folding table between me and Clete.

“Would you gentlemen like something from the bar?” he said. His face was flat, with a small nose, close-set eyes, and a chin beard.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” I said.

“How about a double Black Jack, no ice, with a 7 on the side?” Clete said.

“I'll have a vodka collins, Ralph,” Bobby Earl said, sat down across from us, and folded one leg
across his knee. I studied his handsome face and tried to relate it to the 1970s newspaper photograph I had seen of him in silken Klan robes when he had been imperial wizard of the Louisiana Grand Knights of the Invisible Empire.

“Does Mr. Raintree work for you?” I asked. I opened a small notebook in my hand and clicked my ballpoint pen with my thumb.

“No.”

“He doesn't work for you?” I said.

“You mean Eddy?”

“Yes, Eddy Raintree.”

“He did at one time. Not now. I don't know where he is now.”

Then I saw what Clete had meant. The skin at the corner of his mouth wrinkled, like fingernail impressions in putty.

“When's the last time you saw him?” I asked.

“It's been a while. I tried to help him a couple of times when he was out of work. Has Eddy done something wrong? I don't understand.”

“I'm investigating the murder of a police officer. I thought Eddy might be able to help us. Do you know if Eddy has ever been up the road?”

“What?”

“Has he ever done time?”

“I don't know.” Then his peculiar, mismatched eyes focused on me thoughtfully. “Why do you ask me if he's been in prison? As a police officer, wouldn't
you
know that?”

“I didn't know his first name until you told me,” I said, and smiled at him.

The butler brought the drinks from the poolside bar and served them to Clete and Bobby Earl. Earl took a deep drink from his without his eyes ever leaving my face. When he lowered his glass his mouth looked cold and red, like a girl's.

“When was the last time you talked to him?” I asked.

“It was awhile back. I don't remember.”

I nodded and smiled again while I wrote in my notebook. Clete put a handful of popcorn crawfish in his mouth, drank out of his glass of 7-Up and cracked the ice between his molars.

“This is a great place,” he said. “You own it?”

“I lease it.”

“I hear you're going to run for the U.S. Senate,” Clete said.

“Perhaps.”

“Say, you ever see Jewel Fluck around?” Clete said.

“Who?”

“He's a little sawed-off guy. Hangs around with Eddy. He's in the AB.”

“I'm not sure what you're saying.”

“The Aryan Brotherhood,” Clete said. “They're jailhouse Nazis.”

“Well . . .” Bobby Earl began.

“You really don't know Fluck, huh?” Clete said.

“No.”

“Streak would really like to talk with him and Eddy. They almost blew out his light. You get Streak mad and he'll throw elephant shit through your window fan.”

Clete held up his glass for the butler to fill it again.

“I think we don't need to talk anymore,” Bobby Earl said. “I'm not sure why you're here anyway. I have the feeling you'd like to provoke something.”

“Here's my business card, Mr. Earl,” I said. “But I'll be back in touch one way or another. How's Eddy's face?”

“What?”

“He had a lot of splinters in it the last time I saw him. Do you know why he'd want to tear up your brother-in-law's house?”

“Now, you listen—”

“He and two others executed a policeman. They blew his brains all over a basement floor at pointblank range,” I said. “You'd better think up some better bullshit the next time cops come out to your house.”

The blood had drained out of his cheeks. Then a strange transformation took place in his face. The skin grew taut against the bone, and there was a flat, green-yellow venomous glaze in his eyes, the kind you see only in people who have successfully worked for years to hide the propensity for cruelty that lives inside them.