the ground. I picked them up and they felt heavy and wet and filmed with grit in my palm. ”Our man doesn't use a sportsman's plug,“ Clete said. He looked at the shells in my hand. ”Are those pumpkin balls?“
”Yeah, you don't see them anymore.“
”He probably loads his own rounds. This guy's got the smell of a mechanic, Streak.“ He peeled a stick of gum with one hand and put it in his mouth, his eyes thoughtful. ”I hate to say this, but maybe dick-brain saved your life.“ Down by the dock a teenage kid was holding up a stringer of perch for a friend to see. He wore a bright-chrome-plated watchband on his wrist. ”You don't think this guy's a button man, he's mobbed-up?“ Clete asked. ”I was thinking about Sonny .. . the handcuffs .. . the way he took me down.“ Clete blew into the open breech of the shotgun, closed it, and snapped the firing pin on the empty chamber. He studied my face. ”Listen, Sonny's a walking hand-job. Stop thinking what you're thinking,“ he said. ”Then why are you thinking the same thing?“
”I'm not. A guy like Sonny isn't born, he's defecated into the world. I should have stuffed him down a toilet with a plumber's helper a long time ago.“
”I've seen federal agents with the same kind of cuffs.“
”This guy's no cop. You buy into his re bop and he'll piss in your shoe,“ he said, and put the shotgun hard into my hands. Clete ate lunch with us, then I went down to the bait shop and picked up a Styrofoam cooler that I had filled with ice Friday afternoon. The corner of a black garbage bag protruded from under the lid. I walked back up the incline through the shade and set the cooler in the bed of my truck. Clete was picking up pecans from under the trees and cracking them in his hands. ”You want to take a ride to Breaux Bridge?“ I asked. ”I thought we were going fishing,“ he said. ”I hear Sweet Pea Chaisson has rented a place out by the old seminary.“
He smiled broadly. We took the four-lane into Lafayette, then drove down the road toward Breaux Bridge, past Holy Rosary, the old Negro Catholic school, a graveyard with tombs above the ground, the Carmelite convent, and the seminary. Sweet Pea's rented house was a flat-roofed yellow brick building shielded by a hedge of dying azalea bushes. The lot next door was filled with old building materials and pieces of iron that were threaded with weeds and crisscrossed with morning glory vines. No one was home. An elderly black man was cleaning up dog feces in the yard with a shovel. ”He taken the ladies to the restaurant down on Cameron in Lafayette, down by the fo' corners,“ he said. ”Which restaurant?“ I said. ”The one got smoke comin' out the back.“
”It's a barbecue place?“ I said. ”The man own it always burning garbage out there. You'll smell it befo' you see it.“ We drove down Cameron through the black district in Lafayette. Up ahead was an area known as Four Corners, where no number of vice arrests ever seemed to get the hookers off of the sidewalks and out of the motels. ”There's his Caddy,“ Clete said, and pointed out the window. ”Check this place, will you? His broads must have rubber stomach liners.“ I parked in a dirt lot next to a wood frame building with paint that had blistered and curled into shapes like blown chicken feathers and with a desiccated privy and smoking incinerator in back. ”We're not only off your turf, big mon, we're in the heart of black town. You feel comfortable with this?“ Clete said when we were outside the truck. ”The locals don't mind,“ I said. ”You checked in with them?“
”Not really.“ He looked at me. ”Sweet Pea's a pro. It's not a big deal,“
I said. I reached inside the Styrofoam cooler and pulled the vinyl garbage bag out. It swung heavily from my hand, dripping ice and water. ”What are you doing?“ Clete said.
”I think Sweet Pea helped set up Helen Soileau.“
”The muff-diver? That's the one who had her animals
”Yeah, you don't see them anymore.“
”He probably loads his own rounds. This guy's got the smell of a mechanic, Streak.“ He peeled a stick of gum with one hand and put it in his mouth, his eyes thoughtful. ”I hate to say this, but maybe dick-brain saved your life.“ Down by the dock a teenage kid was holding up a stringer of perch for a friend to see. He wore a bright-chrome-plated watchband on his wrist. ”You don't think this guy's a button man, he's mobbed-up?“ Clete asked. ”I was thinking about Sonny .. . the handcuffs .. . the way he took me down.“ Clete blew into the open breech of the shotgun, closed it, and snapped the firing pin on the empty chamber. He studied my face. ”Listen, Sonny's a walking hand-job. Stop thinking what you're thinking,“ he said. ”Then why are you thinking the same thing?“
”I'm not. A guy like Sonny isn't born, he's defecated into the world. I should have stuffed him down a toilet with a plumber's helper a long time ago.“
”I've seen federal agents with the same kind of cuffs.“
”This guy's no cop. You buy into his re bop and he'll piss in your shoe,“ he said, and put the shotgun hard into my hands. Clete ate lunch with us, then I went down to the bait shop and picked up a Styrofoam cooler that I had filled with ice Friday afternoon. The corner of a black garbage bag protruded from under the lid. I walked back up the incline through the shade and set the cooler in the bed of my truck. Clete was picking up pecans from under the trees and cracking them in his hands. ”You want to take a ride to Breaux Bridge?“ I asked. ”I thought we were going fishing,“ he said. ”I hear Sweet Pea Chaisson has rented a place out by the old seminary.“
He smiled broadly. We took the four-lane into Lafayette, then drove down the road toward Breaux Bridge, past Holy Rosary, the old Negro Catholic school, a graveyard with tombs above the ground, the Carmelite convent, and the seminary. Sweet Pea's rented house was a flat-roofed yellow brick building shielded by a hedge of dying azalea bushes. The lot next door was filled with old building materials and pieces of iron that were threaded with weeds and crisscrossed with morning glory vines. No one was home. An elderly black man was cleaning up dog feces in the yard with a shovel. ”He taken the ladies to the restaurant down on Cameron in Lafayette, down by the fo' corners,“ he said. ”Which restaurant?“ I said. ”The one got smoke comin' out the back.“
”It's a barbecue place?“ I said. ”The man own it always burning garbage out there. You'll smell it befo' you see it.“ We drove down Cameron through the black district in Lafayette. Up ahead was an area known as Four Corners, where no number of vice arrests ever seemed to get the hookers off of the sidewalks and out of the motels. ”There's his Caddy,“ Clete said, and pointed out the window. ”Check this place, will you? His broads must have rubber stomach liners.“ I parked in a dirt lot next to a wood frame building with paint that had blistered and curled into shapes like blown chicken feathers and with a desiccated privy and smoking incinerator in back. ”We're not only off your turf, big mon, we're in the heart of black town. You feel comfortable with this?“ Clete said when we were outside the truck. ”The locals don't mind,“ I said. ”You checked in with them?“
”Not really.“ He looked at me. ”Sweet Pea's a pro. It's not a big deal,“
I said. I reached inside the Styrofoam cooler and pulled the vinyl garbage bag out. It swung heavily from my hand, dripping ice and water. ”What are you doing?“ Clete said.
”I think Sweet Pea helped set up Helen Soileau.“
”The muff-diver? That's the one who had her animals
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