The Glass Rainbow: A Dave Robicheaux Novel Read online

  “So what this is, man, them two Jews in New Orleans cain’t run their bidness wit’out siccing you on me?” Stanga said to Clete’s back.

  But Clete didn’t reply. He adjusted his porkpie hat on his brow and stared at the dark green dorsal fins of the bream rolling in the water, the carpet of lily pads undulating from their movements.

  “Hey, you just turn deaf and dumb or something? I been nice, but I got a short fuse with crackers who t’ink they can wipe their ass on other people’s furniture. I ain’t intimidated by your size, either, man. Have your say or call your narc friend, but you quit fucking wit’ me.”

  “I identified one of the dead girls in Jeff Davis Parish,” Clete said. “The guy who did her broke bones all over her body. Was she one of yours, Herman? How many girls do you have on the stroll over in Jeff Davis?”

  Stanga snapped his fingers. “RoboCop sent you, didn’t he? You got an office up on Main in New Iberia. You’re RoboCop’s windup for the jobs he cain’t do hisself or he’s already fucked up. Let me line it out for you, man. I ain’t involved no more in certain kinds of enterprises. I don’t know what you t’ink you heard me say to that lady back there, but I’m totally into new kinds of endeavors . . . Are you listening to me? I don’t like talking to somebody’s back.”

  Clete turned around slowly. “I’m all ears.”

  “What you heard me talking about is the St. Jude Project. It’s an outreach program to he’p people nobody else cares about. That’s what I’m doing these days, not pimping off people, not committing no homicides or whatever it is you t’ink I’m doing. Are you hearing me loud and clear on this?”

  “St. Jude, the patron of the hopeless?”

  “Hey, big breakt’rew. Let your brain keep doing those push-ups, you getting there, man. We done here?”

  “No. You signed the paperwork on two of my bail skips. So under the the law, you’re my collateral. Turn around and place your hands on the tree trunk.”

  Stanga shook his head in exasperation, the pixielike quality gone from his face, his expression almost genuine, devoid of guile or theatrics. “You making a big fool out of yourself, man. Busting me ain’t gonna he’p no dead girls, ain’t gonna get no money back for them Jews, ain’t gonna make you look better in front of all these people. Grow up. I don’t sell nothing to nobody they don’t want. How you t’ink I stayed in bidness all these years? ’Cause I was selling stuff people didn’t have no use for?”

  “Turn around.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, anyt’ing you want, man. Big pile of white whale shit go in a black man’s club and blow his nose on people, bust some cat with recreational flake, make the world safe, and maybe get your fat ass on COPS ! All of y’all are a joke, man.”

  “You better shut your mouth.”

  “Gets to you, don’t it? Well, that’s the way it ought to be. If you didn’t have people like me around, you’d be on welfare. Look around you, man. Are all these people worried about me, or are they worried about you? Who brings the grief into their lives? Go ax them. There wasn’t no problem here till you come out that back door.”

  Clete turned Stanga around and pushed him against the tree, trying to suppress the dangerous urge that had bloomed in his chest. When Stanga turned to face him again, Clete stiff-armed him between the shoulders. Then he kicked Stanga’s feet apart and started patting him down, his face expressionless, trying to ignore the attention he was drawing from up the slope.

  “What we’re talking about here is hypocrisy, man,” Stanga said over his shoulder. “I can smell weed on your clothes and cooze on your skin. Tell me you ain’t had your dick in a black woman. Tell me you ain’t been on a pad for them New Orleans dagos. You cain’t see past your stomach to tie your shoes, but you t’ink a mail-order badge give you the right to knock around people ain’t got no choice except to take it. I wouldn’t let you clean my toilet, man, I wouldn’t let you pick up the dog shit on my lawn.”

  Clete’s right hand trembled as he pulled his handcuffs free from behind his back.

  “Take out your cell-phone cameras,” Stanga called to the crowd that was gathering up the slope. “Check out what this guy is doing. Y’all seen it. I ain’t done nothing.”

  “Shut up,” Clete said.

  “Fuck you, man. I was in an adult prison when I was fifteen years old. Anyt’ing you can do to me has already been done, magnified by ten.”

  Then Herman Stanga, his wrists still uncuffed, turned and spat full in Clete’s face.

  Later, Clete would not be exactly sure what he did next. He would remember a string of spittle clinging to his face and hair. He would remember Herman Stanga’s fingers reaching for his eyes; he would remember the sour surge of whiskey and beer into his mouth and nose. He would remember grabbing Stanga from the back, lifting him high in the air, and smashing him into the tree trunk. He knew he fitted his hand around the back of Stanga’s neck and he knew he drove Stanga’s face into the bark of the tree. Those things were predictable and not unseemly or uncalled for. But the events that followed were different, even for Clete.

  He felt a whoosh of heat on his skin as though someone had opened a furnace door next to his head. His heart was as hard and big as a muskmelon in his chest, hammering against his ribs, bursting with adrenaline, his strength almost superhuman. One hand was hooked through the back of Stanga’s belt, the other wrapped deep into the man’s neck. He drove Stanga’s head and face again and again into the tree trunk while people in the background screamed. Stanga’s body felt as light as a scarecrow’s in Clete’s hands, the arms flopping like rags with each blow.

  When Clete dropped him to the ground, Stanga was still conscious, his face trembling with shock, his nose streaming blood, the split on his forehead ridged up like an orange starfish.

  The images and sounds Clete saw and heard as he stumbled up the slope toward the street would remain with him for the rest of his life. The witnesses who had gathered on the slope had been transformed into a group of villagers in an Asian country that no one talked about anymore. Their throats were filled with lamentation and pleas for mercy, their eyes wide with terror, their fingers knitted desperately in front of them.

  Clete could smell a stench like stagnant water and duck shit and inflammable liquid bursting alight and straw and animal hair burning. He wiped Stanga’s spittle off his face with his sleeve and pushed through the crowd, stumbling off balance, a man out of place and time, with no moat or castle to which he could return.

  CHAPTER

  3

  I GOT THE PHONE call from the St. Martin Parish Sheriff’s Department at 11:46 P.M. Clete had been barreling down the two-lane toward the Iberia Parish line when he hit the roadblock. Rather than think it through and let the situation decompress and play out of its own accord, he swung the Caddy onto a dirt road and tried to escape through a sugarcane field. The upshot was a blown tire, forty feet of barbed-wire fence tangled under his car frame, and a half-dozen Brahmas headed for Texas. The deputy who had called me was a fellow member of A.A. whom I saw occasionally at different meetings in the area. Her name was Emma Poche, and, like me, she had once been with the NOPD and had left the department under the same circumstances, ninety proof and trailing clouds of odium. Even today I had trepidation about Emma and believed she was perhaps one of those driven creatures who, regardless of 12-step membership, lived one drink and one click away from the Big Exit.

  She lowered her voice and told me she was subbing as a night screw and that her call was unauthorized.

  “I can’t understand you. Clete’s drunk?” I said.

  “Who knows?” she replied.

  “Say again?”

  “He doesn’t act drunk.”

  “What’s all that noise in the background?”

  “Four deputies trying to move him from the tank into an isolation cell.”

  The kitchen was dark, the moon high over the park on the far side of the bayou, the trees in the backyard full of light and shadows. I was tired and didn�
��t want to be pulled into another one of Clete’s escapades. “Tell those guys to leave him alone. He’ll settle down. He has cycles, kind of like an elephant in must.”

  “That pimp from New Iberia, what’s his name?”

  “Herman Stanga?”

  “Purcel tore him up at a bar in the black district. And I mean tore him up proper. The pimp’s lawyer is down here now. He wants your friend charged with felony assault.”

  “Stanga must have done something. Clete wouldn’t attack someone without provocation, particularly a lowlife like Stanga.”

  “He just poleaxed a deputy. You’d better get your ass up here, Dave.”

  I dressed and drove up the bayou ten miles to the lockup in the St. Martin Parish Sheriff’s Annex, next to the white-columned courthouse that had been built on the town square in the 1850s. Emma Poche met me at the door and walked me down to the holding cell where Clete had been forcibly transferred. Emma was around thirty-five and had gold hair and was slightly overweight, her cheeks always pooled with color, like a North European’s rather than a Cajun’s. A softcover book was stuffed in her back pocket. Before we got to the cell, she glanced behind her and touched my wrist with her fingers. “Does Purcel have flashbacks?” she said.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Get him moved to a hospital.”

  “You think he’s psychotic?”

  “Your friend isn’t the problem. A couple of my colleagues have a real hard-on for him. You don’t want him in their custody.”

  “Thanks, Emma.”

  “You can dial my phone anytime you want, hon.” She winked, her face deadpan. Then waited. “That was a joke.”

  I wouldn’t have sworn to that. She stuck me in the ribs with her finger and walked back down the corridor, her holstered pistol canting on her hip. But I didn’t have time to worry about Emma Poche’s lack of discretion. Clete looked terrible. He was alone in the cell, sitting on a wood bench, his big arms propped on his kneecaps, staring straight ahead at the wall. He didn’t speak or acknowledge my presence.

  Clete was a handsome man, his hair still sandy and cut like a little boy’s, his eyes a bright green, his skin free of tattoos and blemishes except for a pink scar through one eyebrow, where another kid had bashed him with a pipe during a rumble in the Irish Channel. He was overweight but could not be called fat, perhaps because of the barbells he lifted daily and the way he carried himself. When Clete’s boiler system kicked into high register, the kind that should have put his adversaries on red alert, his brow remained as smooth as ice cream, his eyes showing no trace of intent or anger, his physical movements like those of a man caught inside a photograph.

  What usually followed was a level of mayhem and chaos that had made him the ogre of the legal system throughout southern Louisiana.

  He turned his head sideways, his eyes meeting mine through the bars. The knuckles on his left hand were barked. “Just passing by?”

  “Why’d you bust up Herman Stanga?”

  “He spat on me.”

  “So you had provocation. Why’d you run from the St. Martin guys?”

  “I didn’t feel like putting up with their doodah.” He paused a moment. “I’d been smoking some weed earlier. I didn’t want them tearing my Caddy apart. They ripped out my paneling once before.”

  So you wrecked your convertible for them, I thought.

  “What?” Clete said.

  “Did you knock down a screw?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he slipped. I told those guys to keep their hands off me.”

  “Clete—”

  “Stanga was playing to an audience. I blew it. I stepped into his trap. He claims to be a member of a street-people outreach program called the St. Jude Project. You ever hear of it?”

  “That’s not the issue now. I’ll have a lawyer down here in the morning to get you out. In the meantime—”

  “Don’t shine me on, Dave. What do you know about this St. Jude stuff?”

  “Either I stay here tonight to protect you from yourself, or you give me your word you’re finished pissing off everybody on the planet.”

  “You don’t get it, Streak. Just like always, you’ve got your head wrapped in concrete.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re yesterday’s bubble gum. We’re the freaks, not Herman Stanga. That guy has wrecked hundreds, maybe thousands, of people’s lives. Guys like us follow around behind him with a push broom and a dustpan.”

  “What happened at the Gate Mouth?”

  “I saw villagers in the Central Highlands. We’d lit up the ville. I heard AK rounds popping under the hooches. All the old people and children and women were crying. The VC had already blown Dodge, but we torched the place with the Zippo track anyway. It was a resupply depot. Their wells were full of rice. We had to do it, right?”

  I leaned my forehead lightly against one of the bars. When I looked up, Clete was staring at the back of the cell as though the answer to a mystery lay inside the shadows cast by the lights in the corridor.

  On the way out of the annex, I saw Emma Poche in a small side office, reading her book. “Your friend quiet down?” she said.

  “I’m not sure. Call me again if there’s any more trouble.”

  “Will do.”

  “What are you reading?”

  She held up the cover so I could see it. “The Green Cage by Robert Weingart,” she said. “He’s an ex-con who supposedly works with some kind of self-help group around here. What do they call it? He’s hooked up with a rich guy in St. Mary Parish.”

  “The local rich guy is Kermit Abelard.”

  “Good book,” Emma said.

  “Yeah, if you like to get into lockstep with the herd, it’ll do the trick,” I replied.

  “You’re a joy, Streak,” she said, and resumed reading.

  BY NOON THE next day Clete had been charged with destroying private property, resisting arrest, and felony assault. I went his bond for twenty-five thousand dollars and drove him back to the motor court on East Main in New Iberia, where he lived in a tan stucco cottage, under spreading oaks, no more than thirty yards from Bayou Teche. He showered and shaved and put on fresh slacks and a crisp shirt, and I drove him to Victor’s cafeteria and bought him a huge lunch and a pitcher of iced tea. He ate with a fork in one hand and a piece of bread in the other, his hat tilted forward, his skin lustrous with the energies that burned inside him.

  “How you feel?” I asked.

  “Fine. Why shouldn’t I?” he replied. “I need to rent a car and get back to my office and talk to my insurance man.”

  “Why is it I think you’re not going to do that at all? Why is it I think you’ve got Herman Stanga in your bombsights?”

  The cafeteria was crowded and noisy, the sound rising up to the high nineteenth-century stamped-tin ceiling. Clete finished chewing a mouthful of fried pork chop and mashed potatoes and swallowed. He spoke without looking at me, his eyes intense with thought. “Stanga set me up and I took the bait. He’ll be filing civil suit by the end of the day,” he said. “I’m going to take Stanga down with or without you, Dave.”

  I paused before I spoke again. I could leave Clete to his own devices and let him try to resolve his troubles on his own. But you don’t let your friends down when they’re in need, and you don’t abandon a man who once carried you down a fire escape with two bullets in his back.

  “Robert Weingart may be hooked up with this St. Jude Project,” I said. “At least that’s the impression I got from Emma Poche.”

  “Weingart works with Stanga?”

  “I’m not sure of that,” I said.

  Clete wiped his mouth with his napkin and drank from his iced tea, pushing his half-eaten lunch away. “Does the St. Jude Project have an office hereabouts?”

  “Not exactly. Want to take a little trip back into ‘the good old days’?” I said.

  ST. MARY PARISH had a long history as a fiefdom run by a small oligarchy that had possessed power and enormous
fortunes, actually hundreds of millions of dollars, at a time when the great majority of people in the parish had possessed virtually nothing. The availability of the ancient cypress trees, the alluvial soil that was among the most fertile in the world, the untapped oil and natural-gas domes that had waited aeons for the penetration of the diamond-crusted Hughes drill bit, and, most important, the low cost of black and poor-white labor seemed like the ultimate fulfillment of a corporate dream that only a divine hand could have fashioned. Even the curds of white smoke rising from the mills into the hard blue Louisiana sky could easily be interpreted as a votive offering to a benevolent capitalist deity.

  To my knowledge, no members of the Abelard family had held rank of consequence in the Confederate army, nor had they participated in great battles, nor had their home been burned or vandalized by Yankee marauders. Nor did they choose to participate in the grand illusion that came to be known as the Lost Cause. In fact, rumors had persisted to the present time that the Abelards, originally from Pennsylvania, had gotten along very well with their Union occupiers and their cotton and molasses had been allowed to pass unobstructed up the Mississippi to markets in the North.

  The patriarch was Peter Abelard. He had been a successful haberdasher in Philadelphia and New York City during the 1840s and had brought his wife and children to the South with one objective—to buy as much land and as many slaves as possible. By the outbreak of the war, he had owned 185 slaves and was renting fifty more, the latter in a category known as “wage slaves.” After Emancipation, while others watched in quiet desperation as their fortunes went down the sinkhole or joined terrorist groups like the White League and the Knights of the White Camellia, Peter Abelard formed a partnership with the man who had converted Angola Plantation into Angola Prison and turned it into a giant surrogate for the slave-labor system that Lincoln had signed out of existence with one stroke of his pen. The two men created the convict-lease system that became a prototype throughout the South, resulting, in Louisiana alone, in the deaths of thousands of inmates, mostly black, who died of malnutrition, disease, and physical abuse.