Pegasus Descending: A Dave Robicheaux Novel (13 page)

“Who was that?” Molly said.

“A grifter by the name of Trish Klein. The kind of gal who knows how to break Clete’s heart.”

Chapter
7

I
HAD THOUGHT
M
ONARCH
might be stand-up, might let the FBI do its worse, even if that meant he had to go down on what recidivists used to call “the bitch,” short for “habitual offender,” which was the old-time term for the Clinton-era equivalent known as the three-strikes-and-you’re-out law.

But on Monday morning Monarch came to the prosecutor’s office with his attorney and filed felony assault charges against Slim Bruxal. It was obvious the previous night had not been an easy one for him. He was raccoon-eyed, morose, and stank of beer sweat and weed. When he tripped on a carpet and knocked his head against a door, two teenage girls snickered.

I suspected Monarch’s life was about to unravel. How badly was up for debate. But there are no secrets in our small city on the Teche. In a short time the word would be on the street that Monarch Little had become a hump for the Feds to avoid taking his own bounce. It wouldn’t be improbable for his peers to conclude that he was not to be trusted and that he might start dimeing the same gangbangers who now hovered around him like candle moths.

In the meantime, he had empowered the Iberia Parish district attorney to go forward with assault charges against Slim Bruxal, by extension giving the FBI enormous leverage they could use against Slim’s father, Whitey Bruxal, in what I guessed was a RICO investigation.

I saw Monarch in the parking lot, on the way to his Firebird.

“You hep set this up, Mr. Dee?” he asked.

“I never jammed you, Monarch. Show a little respect,” I replied.

“Before I come down to the courthouse, I tried to join the army.”

“Really?” I said, my face deliberately empty.

“Guy said I might have a weight problem.”

It was hot and bright in the parking lot, and the crypts in St. Peter’s Cemetery looked white and hard-edged in the light, the weeds wilted and stained yellow by herbicide. Several deputies in uniform walked past us, talking among themselves, their cigarette smoke hanging in the dead air. “I need to talk to you,” I said to Monarch.

“I ain’t feeling so good right now. I’m going home and sleep.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

“Hey, you the man called me a pimp. I sell dope, but I ain’t no pimp. Maybe you the one need a little humbleness.”

T
HE PROSECUTOR’S OFFICE
lost no time serving the arrest warrant on Slim Bruxal. By lunchtime the same day, two Lafayette city police officers and an Iberia Parish detective were at Slim’s fraternity house, a few blocks from the university campus. Evidently he was not in a cooperative mood. The arrest report stated that after he was hooked up, he fought with officers and fell down a flight of stairs. I recognized the name of one of the arresting officers. His name had a way of appearing in news stories involving the apprehension of suspects who always seemed to resist arrest. The newspaper prose describing this type of event is usually written in the passive voice, which means the journalist copied it from the arrest report and used no other source. The telltale line to look for in this kind of print story is “The suspect was subdued.” Slim Bruxal got subdued and probably had it coming. I also suspected that if Slim stayed in custody, his cookie bag would get stepped on extra hard again.

But I wasn’t a player in Slim Bruxal’s fate and I tried to concentrate on the ebb and flow of petty concerns that constituted most of my ordinary business day. These included a terrorist bomb scare involving a suitcase someone abandoned in front of Victor’s Cafeteria; a sexual battery charge filed by a man who claimed his three-hundred-pound wife was forcing him to have sex with her four times a week; the disappearance from a picnic bench of a roasted pig, which turned out to have been eaten by a nine-foot alligator we found floating contentedly in the family swimming pool; the flight of a homemade airplane down the bayou, three feet off the water, that ended with the crash landing of the plane on a cockfighting farm and the shredding by propeller of at least a dozen roosters; the theft of bones from crypts in St. Peter’s Cemetery by a bunch of kids with rings in their lips and nostrils and pentagrams tattooed on their shaved heads. How the bones could add to what the kids had already done to their faces and heads remained a mystery.

A house creep cut a hole through an attic roof to avoid setting off the alarm system and electrocuted himself when he tapped into a breaker box. A biker blitzed on weed and downers roared through a church picnic in City Park, punched a hole in a hedge, and almost decapitated himself on a wash line. But my favorite caper of the week was a 911 call we received from a meth addict who was outraged that his dealer had shown up at the door without the drugs the caller had paid for, committing fraud, according to the caller, and adding insult to injury by robbing him at gunpoint of seventy-eight dollars and his stash.

It was 3:16 p.m. when I looked at my watch. I couldn’t concentrate any longer on the Pool, my term for that army of merry pranksters and miscreants who wend their way endlessly through the turnstiles of the system. I dropped all the paperwork on my desk into a drawer and headed for Monarch Little’s house, where he lived in a rural black slum paradoxically located on a pastoral stretch of oak-shaded land along Bayou Teche, not far from the sugar mill community where Yvonne Darbonne had died.

I knocked on the screen door. Monarch’s house was made of clapboard, with a peaked tin roof, and was set amid a cluster of water oaks and pecan trees and slash pines down by the water’s edge. An old Coca-Cola machine beaded with moisture throbbed under an improvised porte cochere where his Firebird was parked. He was wearing boxer shorts and a strap undershirt when he opened the door. “What you want now?” he asked.

“Can I come in?”

“Don’t matter to me.”

If Monarch was getting rich in the dope trade, the interior of his house didn’t show it. The furniture was worn, the wallpaper spotted with rainwater, the linoleum in the kitchen split and wedged upward in a dirty fissure. A floor fan vibrated in front of a stuffed couch where he had probably been napping when I knocked.

“I think Slim Bruxal’s old man was mixed up in the murder of a friend of mine,” I said. “That means I want to see Whitey Bruxal brought up on homicide charges. That doesn’t mean I want to see you turned into fish chum.”

“I ain’t buying this, Mr. Dee.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“No, you just got your own reasons for doing what you doing. It don’t have nothing to do wit’ me.”

“I saw my friend shot point-blank in the face with a twelve-gauge. I tried to convince both the Feds and Miami-Dade P.D. that Bruxal or his friends were behind it. But I was a drunk back then and didn’t have much credibility. Now I have a chance to nail him. But I’m not going to do it by feeding a guy to the sharks. It’s not a complicated idea.”

“That’s all fine, but right now I ain’t got a lot of selections, starting wit’ how I make a living.”

I handed him my business card with a name and telephone number I had already penciled on the back. “This is the name of the United States Attorney in Baton Rouge. He’s a friend of mine. You tell him you’re cooperating with the FBI, but you need some protection. You have that right. Because you have a sheet doesn’t mean you don’t have constitutional guarantees.”

“Yeah, we all be having constitutional guarantees, but that ain’t my way.”

“You know what ‘bruising the freight’ means?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s what happened to Slim Bruxal when he got busted today. He also got dumped in a cell with a couple of black guys who haven’t had a fresh bar of white soap in a while. Who do you think the Bruxal family is going to blame for all this?”

He sat down on the couch and looked at his feet. “They took my nine,” he said.

“Who?”

“Them FBI agents. They say ain’t nobody gonna bot’er me.”

I sat down on a wood chair across from him. I removed my business card from between his fingers and wrote two more telephone numbers on it, then handed it back to him. “If I’m not at the department, you can call me at my house or on my cell,” I said.

Outside, the willows along the bayou were bending in the breeze, an old man and a child were cane-fishing in the shade, a pretty countrywoman in a sunbonnet was hoeing out a vegetable garden, a strand of black hair curled on her cheek. I had a feeling these ordinary moments in the ordinary day of ordinary people were possessions that Monarch would soon pay a great deal to own.

“Them FBI agents want Bruxal to put up a kite on me, don’t they? Miss Helen sent you out here to warn me?”

I didn’t want to tell him that Helen had nothing to do with my visit. “You loaded their gun, podna. They’re just doing their job. They win, you lose. The question is how badly do you lose. Just don’t take things into your own hands. That’s why I gave you those phone numbers.”

I got up to go.

“You still interested in somebody who might have done a hit-and-run last year sometime?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“Friend of mine up the bayou got a li’l shop in his backyard. Last summer a man brung a big Buick in there wit’ the headlight knocked in and the right fender scratched up. Said he hit a deer. Said he heard my friend done real fine work and he didn’t feel like paying the Buick dealer a lot of money when my friend could do the job just as good.”

“Who was the guy?”

Monarch looked up at me and let his eyes hold on mine. “You gonna t’ink I set it up.”

“Who was it, Monarch?”

“Better go out to my friend’s place and ax him yourself.”

T
HE FRIEND’S AUTO REPAIR BUSINESS
was conducted in a pole shed behind an ancient, rust-leaking trailer that sagged on cinder blocks, just outside St. Martinville. The sun was down in the sky now, red and dust-veiled above a line of live oaks on the opposite side of Bayou Teche. The air was breathless, the clouds crackling with electricity in the south. Monarch’s friend was one of the most unusual-looking human beings I had ever seen. He was an albino, with negroid features and gold hair and pink-tinted eyes, his entire body encased in long-sleeved coveralls zipped to the throat. He had been working next to a gas-fired forge. I couldn’t imagine what the temperature was like inside his clothes, but he grinned constantly just the same, as though a grin were the only expression he knew. He seemed delighted at my visit. I had the feeling he was one of those rare individuals who genuinely loves life and has no issue with the world or grievance against his fellow man, regardless of what they may have done or not done to him.

“Your name is Prospect Desmoreau?” I said.

“That’s me,” he said. But like every other mismatched element in his makeup, his accent didn’t fit. It was genuine peckerwood, a yeoman dialect that runs through the pine forests and plains from West Virginia into West Texas, one that probably goes back to the early days of the Republic. “Hep you with something?”

“Monarch Little said a man brought you a Buick last summer that had been damaged from a collision with a deer.”

“He sure did. I fixed it good as new, too.”

“Did this man act hinky to you?”

“No, suh.”

“What was this fellow’s name?”

Prospect Desmoreau looked at the wind ruffling the bayou, an amber blaze of late sunlight on its surface. But no matter where his eye traveled, he never stopped grinning. “Mr. Bello brought it in,” he said.

“Bellerophon Lujan?”

“Yes, suh. He give me a twenty-dollar tip.”

“Where was the damage?”

“Passenger-side fender, passenger-side headlight.”

“Did you see any material on the car body that indicated Mr. Bello hit a deer? Hair, a piece of antler embedded in the headlight?”

“Looked to me like somebody had already hosed it down and wiped it off. People do that sometimes when they plow into livestock and such. You looking for somebody done a hit-and-run on a pedestrian?”

“That pretty well sums it up, Prospect.”

“There was blood inside the headlight glass. I didn’t see no deer hair, though. Least none I remember. Don’t mean wasn’t none there.”

“There’s no way you saved the headlight glass, huh?” I said, putting my notebook back in my shirt pocket.

“You want to look at it?”

“Sir?”

“I got a pileful of trash and junk on the other side of the barn. ’Bout every two years I haul it to the dump. I know right where that glass is at, ’cause I seen it just the other day when I was hunting around in the pile for a radio speaker I pulled out of a ’fifty-five Chevy.”

“Broken glass with blood on it?”

“Yes, suh. It’s been under an old piece of tarp. I seen it.”

I stared at him stupidly. “Prospect, I think you’re a remarkable man,” I said.

“Women tell me that all the time.”

He dragged a large tangle of canvas off the pile, spilling a shower of wet pine needles and pooled water onto the ground. He lifted a jagged half-moon piece of broken glass from a circle of chrome molding. “Right there on the edge, you can still see the blood.”