Pegasus Descending: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke Page A
Authors: James Lee Burke
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Cafeteria.
“Bruxal doesn’t like the way we’re handling things?” she said.
“He thinks his son and Tony Lujan are getting dumped on. I told him the black kids might go down on the firearms charge.”
“The lab says there are a half-dozen different prints on the nine-millimeter we found in the trash can. So far nobody from McDonald’s has been willing to identify which black kid was holding it. I don’t think the D.A. is going to carry the ball very far on this one.”
“It looks like Bruxal is mixed up with some floating casinos and a couple of tracks here. I think a lot of big players from Florida have found a new home in Louisiana. Bruxal’s hunting on the game reserve.”
She nodded slowly, as though respectfully absorbing my words. But I knew I was bringing problems and complexities into her day that she didn’t need. She had heard it all before, and nothing I said would ever change the historical problems of our state. I only wish I had listened more often to my own counsel.
“Trish Klein is here to take Bruxal down, Helen. She was switching out dice at the new casino,” I continued.
“Good. We’ll let Calamity Jane take care of it.”
“Who?”
“That FBI field agent, Betsy Mossbacher. She was just in here.” Helen glanced at her watch. “She’s due back here in six minutes. Talk with her, then get her out the door.”
“Something happen?”
“You might say that,” she replied.
Chapter
6
E XACTLY SIX MINUTES LATER Betsy Mossbacher was at my office door. She wore Levi’s and boots and a black western shirt with pearl-colored snap buttons. Her face had the taut intensity of someone who has just been slapped.
“Would you like to sit down?” I asked.
“This won’t take long—”
I cut her off. “If something is going on between you and my boss, I don’t want to get caught in the middle of it,” I said.
“She called the FBI ‘Fart, Barf, and Itch.’”
“That’s an old NOPD heirloom.”
“I don’t care what it is. I told her we expect a degree of professionalism from her and her department, unless I walked into the tongue-and-groove club by mistake.”
“You said that to Helen Soileau?”
She widened her eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t seem to get what this investigation is about. This Klein woman is trouble—for us and herself. But she seems to have special status with you because of your relationship with her dead father.”
“We already covered that, Agent Mossbacher.”
“Your friend Clete Purcel helped her elude a surveillance in a casino where she was switching out the dice. But you didn’t relay that information to us.”
“I don’t think that’s my job.”
I could see the heat intensify in her face. “Listen, we have a couple of large issues on the burner—Whitey Bruxal and the robbery of a savings and loan. I don’t know how much you know of Bruxal, but he’s an extremely intelligent man and not to be underestimated. You know who Meyer Lansky was?”
“The financial brains of the Mob.”
“Bruxal used to hang in a Miami coffee shop called Wolfie’s. Lansky would challenge anyone in the place to stump him with a mathematical problem. The only person who ever did it was Whitey Bruxal. Lansky was so impressed, he used to take Bruxal fishing with him on a charter. God, I need a drink of water. Why do I have days like this?”
It was like listening to two people talking out of one face. The words “rolling chaos” went through my mind, and I hoped fervently she had no idea what I was thinking. “I’ll get you a cup from the cooler,” I said.
“Forget it. You busted Bruxal’s son in that racial beef in front of McDonald’s. This is the first handle we’ve had on him. We want to use it.”
“You had me under surveillance?”
“No, I was passing by McDonald’s and saw it go down.”
“I see. And you want to go after Whitey Bruxal by prosecuting his boy?”
Her eyes shifted off mine, and I knew the idea was not
“Bruxal doesn’t like the way we’re handling things?” she said.
“He thinks his son and Tony Lujan are getting dumped on. I told him the black kids might go down on the firearms charge.”
“The lab says there are a half-dozen different prints on the nine-millimeter we found in the trash can. So far nobody from McDonald’s has been willing to identify which black kid was holding it. I don’t think the D.A. is going to carry the ball very far on this one.”
“It looks like Bruxal is mixed up with some floating casinos and a couple of tracks here. I think a lot of big players from Florida have found a new home in Louisiana. Bruxal’s hunting on the game reserve.”
She nodded slowly, as though respectfully absorbing my words. But I knew I was bringing problems and complexities into her day that she didn’t need. She had heard it all before, and nothing I said would ever change the historical problems of our state. I only wish I had listened more often to my own counsel.
“Trish Klein is here to take Bruxal down, Helen. She was switching out dice at the new casino,” I continued.
“Good. We’ll let Calamity Jane take care of it.”
“Who?”
“That FBI field agent, Betsy Mossbacher. She was just in here.” Helen glanced at her watch. “She’s due back here in six minutes. Talk with her, then get her out the door.”
“Something happen?”
“You might say that,” she replied.
Chapter
6
E XACTLY SIX MINUTES LATER Betsy Mossbacher was at my office door. She wore Levi’s and boots and a black western shirt with pearl-colored snap buttons. Her face had the taut intensity of someone who has just been slapped.
“Would you like to sit down?” I asked.
“This won’t take long—”
I cut her off. “If something is going on between you and my boss, I don’t want to get caught in the middle of it,” I said.
“She called the FBI ‘Fart, Barf, and Itch.’”
“That’s an old NOPD heirloom.”
“I don’t care what it is. I told her we expect a degree of professionalism from her and her department, unless I walked into the tongue-and-groove club by mistake.”
“You said that to Helen Soileau?”
She widened her eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t seem to get what this investigation is about. This Klein woman is trouble—for us and herself. But she seems to have special status with you because of your relationship with her dead father.”
“We already covered that, Agent Mossbacher.”
“Your friend Clete Purcel helped her elude a surveillance in a casino where she was switching out the dice. But you didn’t relay that information to us.”
“I don’t think that’s my job.”
I could see the heat intensify in her face. “Listen, we have a couple of large issues on the burner—Whitey Bruxal and the robbery of a savings and loan. I don’t know how much you know of Bruxal, but he’s an extremely intelligent man and not to be underestimated. You know who Meyer Lansky was?”
“The financial brains of the Mob.”
“Bruxal used to hang in a Miami coffee shop called Wolfie’s. Lansky would challenge anyone in the place to stump him with a mathematical problem. The only person who ever did it was Whitey Bruxal. Lansky was so impressed, he used to take Bruxal fishing with him on a charter. God, I need a drink of water. Why do I have days like this?”
It was like listening to two people talking out of one face. The words “rolling chaos” went through my mind, and I hoped fervently she had no idea what I was thinking. “I’ll get you a cup from the cooler,” I said.
“Forget it. You busted Bruxal’s son in that racial beef in front of McDonald’s. This is the first handle we’ve had on him. We want to use it.”
“You had me under surveillance?”
“No, I was passing by McDonald’s and saw it go down.”
“I see. And you want to go after Whitey Bruxal by prosecuting his boy?”
Her eyes shifted off mine, and I knew the idea was not
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