them on the table. The jolly fat man who called himself Uncle Ray Fontenot and said he used to play trombone at Sharky’s Dream Room had emptied the drawers in the bedroom and had laid all my hangered clothes across the bed. My .45 lay on top of a neatly folded shirt. Both of them looked at me with flat, empty expressions, as though I were the intruder.
The fat man, Fontenot, wore a beige suit and a cream turtleneck shirt. I saw his eyes study my face and my right hand; then he smiled and opened his palms in front of him.
“It’s just business, Mr. Robicheaux,” he said. “Don’t take it personal. We’ve treated your things with respect.”
“How’d you get in?”
“It’s a simple lock,” he said.
“You’ve got some damn nerve,” I said.
“Close the door. There’s people out there,” Lionel, the man in the kitchen, said. He wore Adidas running shoes, blue jeans with no belt, a gold pullover sweater with the sleeves pushed up over his thick, sun-browned arms.
I could hear my own breathing in the silence.
“Lionel’s right,” Fontenot said. “We don’t need an audience here, do we? Getting mad isn’t going to make us any money, either, is it?”
I took my hand out of my coat pocket and opened and closed it at my side.
“Come in, come in,” Fontenot said. “Look, we’re putting your things back. There’s no harm done.”
“You toss my place and call it no harm?” I said. I pushed the door shut behind me.
“You knew somebody would check you out. Don’t make it a big deal,” the younger man said in the kitchen. He lit a dead cigar in his mouth and squatted down and started replacing the pots and pans in the cabinets next to the stove.
“I don’t like people smoking in my apartment,” I said.
He turned his head at me and paused in his work. The red Navy tattoo on his flexed bicep was ringed with blue stars. He was balanced on the ball of one foot, the cigar between his fingers, a tooth working on a bloodless spot on his lower lip. Fontenot walked out of the other room.
“Put out the smoke, Lionel,” he said quietly, His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Go on, put it out. We’re in the man’s home.”
“I don’t think it’s smart dealing with him. I said it then, I’ll say it in front of him,” Lionel said. He wet the cigar under the tap and dropped it in a garbage bag.
“The man’s money is as good as the next person’s,” Fontenot said.
“You were a cop,” Lionel said to me. “That’s a problem for me. No insult meant.”
“You creeped my apartment. That’s a problem for me.”
“Lionel had a bad experience a few years back,” Fontenot said. “His name doesn’t make campus bells ring for you?”
“No.”
“Second-string quarterback for LSU,” Fontenot said. “Until he sold some whites on the half shell to the wrong people. I think if Lionel had been first-string, he wouldn’t have had to spend a year in Angola. It’s made him distrustful.”
“Get off of it, Ray.”
“The man needs to understand,” Fontenot said. “Look, Mr. Robicheaux, we’re short on protocol, but we don’t rip each other off. We establish some rules, some trust, then we all make money. Get his bank, Lionel.”
Lionel opened a cabinet next to the stove, squatted down, and reached his hand deep inside. I heard the adhesive tape tear loose from the top of the cabinet behind the drawer. He threw the brown envelope, with tape hanging off each end, for me to catch.
“We want you to understand something else, too,”
Fontenot said. “We’re not here because of some fifty-thou deal. That’s toilet paper in this town. But the gentleman we work for is interested in you. You’re a lucky man.”
“Tony C. is interested?”
“Who?” He smiled.
“Five keys, ten thou a key, no laxative, no vitamin B twelve,” I said.
“Twelve thou, my friend,” Fontenot said.
“Bullshit. New Orleans is white with it.”
“Ten thou is the discount price. You get that down the
The fat man, Fontenot, wore a beige suit and a cream turtleneck shirt. I saw his eyes study my face and my right hand; then he smiled and opened his palms in front of him.
“It’s just business, Mr. Robicheaux,” he said. “Don’t take it personal. We’ve treated your things with respect.”
“How’d you get in?”
“It’s a simple lock,” he said.
“You’ve got some damn nerve,” I said.
“Close the door. There’s people out there,” Lionel, the man in the kitchen, said. He wore Adidas running shoes, blue jeans with no belt, a gold pullover sweater with the sleeves pushed up over his thick, sun-browned arms.
I could hear my own breathing in the silence.
“Lionel’s right,” Fontenot said. “We don’t need an audience here, do we? Getting mad isn’t going to make us any money, either, is it?”
I took my hand out of my coat pocket and opened and closed it at my side.
“Come in, come in,” Fontenot said. “Look, we’re putting your things back. There’s no harm done.”
“You toss my place and call it no harm?” I said. I pushed the door shut behind me.
“You knew somebody would check you out. Don’t make it a big deal,” the younger man said in the kitchen. He lit a dead cigar in his mouth and squatted down and started replacing the pots and pans in the cabinets next to the stove.
“I don’t like people smoking in my apartment,” I said.
He turned his head at me and paused in his work. The red Navy tattoo on his flexed bicep was ringed with blue stars. He was balanced on the ball of one foot, the cigar between his fingers, a tooth working on a bloodless spot on his lower lip. Fontenot walked out of the other room.
“Put out the smoke, Lionel,” he said quietly, His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Go on, put it out. We’re in the man’s home.”
“I don’t think it’s smart dealing with him. I said it then, I’ll say it in front of him,” Lionel said. He wet the cigar under the tap and dropped it in a garbage bag.
“The man’s money is as good as the next person’s,” Fontenot said.
“You were a cop,” Lionel said to me. “That’s a problem for me. No insult meant.”
“You creeped my apartment. That’s a problem for me.”
“Lionel had a bad experience a few years back,” Fontenot said. “His name doesn’t make campus bells ring for you?”
“No.”
“Second-string quarterback for LSU,” Fontenot said. “Until he sold some whites on the half shell to the wrong people. I think if Lionel had been first-string, he wouldn’t have had to spend a year in Angola. It’s made him distrustful.”
“Get off of it, Ray.”
“The man needs to understand,” Fontenot said. “Look, Mr. Robicheaux, we’re short on protocol, but we don’t rip each other off. We establish some rules, some trust, then we all make money. Get his bank, Lionel.”
Lionel opened a cabinet next to the stove, squatted down, and reached his hand deep inside. I heard the adhesive tape tear loose from the top of the cabinet behind the drawer. He threw the brown envelope, with tape hanging off each end, for me to catch.
“We want you to understand something else, too,”
Fontenot said. “We’re not here because of some fifty-thou deal. That’s toilet paper in this town. But the gentleman we work for is interested in you. You’re a lucky man.”
“Tony C. is interested?”
“Who?” He smiled.
“Five keys, ten thou a key, no laxative, no vitamin B twelve,” I said.
“Twelve thou, my friend,” Fontenot said.
“Bullshit. New Orleans is white with it.”
“Ten thou is the discount price. You get that down the
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