A Stained White Radiance by James Lee Burke

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.
    â€œHey, bubba, does it look like we’re from Fuller Brush?” he said.
    â€œWhat?” the man said.
    â€œWe’re here to see Bobby Earl. Open up.”
    â€œHe’s got dinner guests. Who are you?”
    â€œWho 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œSharp 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œNice 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?”
    â€œLet 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.
    â€œSure,” 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.
    â€œWhat’s the trouble, Felix?” the man in the suit said.
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œMr. 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.”
    â€œI appreciate your time, sir,” I said, and followed him up the drive.
    â€œHey, 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