cut them into steaks."
"Is that right?"
"You want to play some handball?"
"Handball?"
"Yeah, against the garage."
"No, I—"
"Tell the dyke I got no beef. I just didn't like the roust in
front of all them people."
"Tell the dyke? You're an unusual man, Swede."
"I heard about you. You were in Vietnam. Anything on my sheet
you probably did in spades."
Then, as though I were no longer there, he did a handstand in
the yard and walked on stiffened arms through the shade, the bottoms of
his gym shoes extended out like the shoulders of a man with no head.
CLETE PURCEL SAT IN the bow of the
outboard and drained the
foam out of a long-necked bottle of beer. He cast his Rapala between
two willow trees and retrieved it back toward him, the sides of the
lure flashing just below the surface. The sun was low on the western
horizon and the canopy overhead was lit with fire, the water
motionless, the mosquitoes starting to form in clouds over the islands
of algae that extended out from the flooded cypress trunks.
A bass rose from the silt, thick-backed, the black-green
dorsal fin glistening when it broke the water, and knocked the Rapala
into the air without taking the treble hook. Clete set his rod on the
bow and slapped the back of his neck and looked at the bloody smear on
his palm.
"So this guy Cool Breeze is telling you a couple of crackers
got the whack on him? One of them is maybe the guy who did these two
brothers out in the Atchafalaya Basin?" he said.
"Yeah, that's about it."
"But you don't buy it?"
"When did the Giacanos start using over-the-hill peckerwoods
for button men?"
"I wouldn't mark it off, mon. This greaseball in Igor's was
complaining to me about how the Giacano family is falling apart, how
they've lost their self-respect and they're running low-rent action
like porno joints and dope in the projects. I say, 'Yeah, it's a shame.
The world's really going to hell,' and he says, 'You telling me,
Purcel? It's so bad we got a serious problem with somebody, we got to
outsource.'
"I say, 'Outsource?'
"He goes, 'Yeah, niggers from the Desire, Vietnamese
lice-heads, crackers who spit Red Man in Styrofoam cups at the dinner
table.'
"It's the Dixie Mafia, Dave. There's a nest of them over on
the Mississippi coast."
I drew the paddle through the water and let the boat glide
into a cove that was freckled with sunlight. I cast a popping bug with
yellow feathers and red eyes on the edge of the hyacinths. A solitary
blue heron lifted on extended wings out of the grass and flew through
an
opening in the trees, dimpling the water with its feet.
"But you didn't bring me out here to talk about wise guy
bullshit, did you?" Clete said.
I watched a cottonmouth extend its body out of the water,
curling around a low branch on a flooded willow, then pull itself
completely into the leaves.
"I don't know how to say it," I said.
"I'll clear it up for both of us. I like her. Maybe we got
something going. That rubs you the wrong way?"
"A guy gets involved, he doesn't see things straight
sometimes," I said.
"'Involved,' like in the sack? You're asking me if I'm in the
sack with Megan?"
"You're my friend. You carried me down a fire escape when that
kid opened up on us with a .22. Something stinks about the Flynn
family."
Clete's face was turned into the shadows. The back of his neck
was the color of Mercurochrome.
"On my best day I kick in some poor bastard's door for Nig
Rosewater. Last week a greaseball tried to hire me to collect the vig
for a couple of his shylocks. Megan's talking about getting me on as
head of security with a movie company. You think that's bad?"
I looked at the water and the trapped air bubbles that chained
to the surface out of the silt. I heard Clete's weight turn on the
vinyl cushion under him.
"Say it, Dave. Any broad outside of a T&A joint must
have an angle if she'd get involved with your podjo. I'm not sensitive.
But lay off Megan."
I disconnected the sections of my fly rod and set them
"Is that right?"
"You want to play some handball?"
"Handball?"
"Yeah, against the garage."
"No, I—"
"Tell the dyke I got no beef. I just didn't like the roust in
front of all them people."
"Tell the dyke? You're an unusual man, Swede."
"I heard about you. You were in Vietnam. Anything on my sheet
you probably did in spades."
Then, as though I were no longer there, he did a handstand in
the yard and walked on stiffened arms through the shade, the bottoms of
his gym shoes extended out like the shoulders of a man with no head.
CLETE PURCEL SAT IN the bow of the
outboard and drained the
foam out of a long-necked bottle of beer. He cast his Rapala between
two willow trees and retrieved it back toward him, the sides of the
lure flashing just below the surface. The sun was low on the western
horizon and the canopy overhead was lit with fire, the water
motionless, the mosquitoes starting to form in clouds over the islands
of algae that extended out from the flooded cypress trunks.
A bass rose from the silt, thick-backed, the black-green
dorsal fin glistening when it broke the water, and knocked the Rapala
into the air without taking the treble hook. Clete set his rod on the
bow and slapped the back of his neck and looked at the bloody smear on
his palm.
"So this guy Cool Breeze is telling you a couple of crackers
got the whack on him? One of them is maybe the guy who did these two
brothers out in the Atchafalaya Basin?" he said.
"Yeah, that's about it."
"But you don't buy it?"
"When did the Giacanos start using over-the-hill peckerwoods
for button men?"
"I wouldn't mark it off, mon. This greaseball in Igor's was
complaining to me about how the Giacano family is falling apart, how
they've lost their self-respect and they're running low-rent action
like porno joints and dope in the projects. I say, 'Yeah, it's a shame.
The world's really going to hell,' and he says, 'You telling me,
Purcel? It's so bad we got a serious problem with somebody, we got to
outsource.'
"I say, 'Outsource?'
"He goes, 'Yeah, niggers from the Desire, Vietnamese
lice-heads, crackers who spit Red Man in Styrofoam cups at the dinner
table.'
"It's the Dixie Mafia, Dave. There's a nest of them over on
the Mississippi coast."
I drew the paddle through the water and let the boat glide
into a cove that was freckled with sunlight. I cast a popping bug with
yellow feathers and red eyes on the edge of the hyacinths. A solitary
blue heron lifted on extended wings out of the grass and flew through
an
opening in the trees, dimpling the water with its feet.
"But you didn't bring me out here to talk about wise guy
bullshit, did you?" Clete said.
I watched a cottonmouth extend its body out of the water,
curling around a low branch on a flooded willow, then pull itself
completely into the leaves.
"I don't know how to say it," I said.
"I'll clear it up for both of us. I like her. Maybe we got
something going. That rubs you the wrong way?"
"A guy gets involved, he doesn't see things straight
sometimes," I said.
"'Involved,' like in the sack? You're asking me if I'm in the
sack with Megan?"
"You're my friend. You carried me down a fire escape when that
kid opened up on us with a .22. Something stinks about the Flynn
family."
Clete's face was turned into the shadows. The back of his neck
was the color of Mercurochrome.
"On my best day I kick in some poor bastard's door for Nig
Rosewater. Last week a greaseball tried to hire me to collect the vig
for a couple of his shylocks. Megan's talking about getting me on as
head of security with a movie company. You think that's bad?"
I looked at the water and the trapped air bubbles that chained
to the surface out of the silt. I heard Clete's weight turn on the
vinyl cushion under him.
"Say it, Dave. Any broad outside of a T&A joint must
have an angle if she'd get involved with your podjo. I'm not sensitive.
But lay off Megan."
I disconnected the sections of my fly rod and set them
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