Last Car to Elysian Fields

by James Lee Burke

  “Yeah?” Coyne said.

  “But his name was Kale. It was back when I was subcontracting on the Texas coast. The guy’s name was Lou Kale.”

  “No kidding? You never know, huh?”

  “Know what?” Clete said.

  “Who you’re talking to these days. Hey, one other thing? We don’t take coupons from Screw magazine.”

  Clete stared at him blankly.

  “That was a joke,” the man who called himself Lou Coyne said.

  CLETE CALLED ME that night from his hotel room and told me of what he had done.

  “Get out of there. He’s made you,” I said.

  “No, the phony name I gave him will check out on the Internet. He bought it. But tell you the truth, I’m not sure he’s our guy.”

  “Why not?”

  “The broad he sent ahead of him to scope me out came by the hotel and asked me to dinner. If they were jobbing me, she would have gone straight for my Johnson.”

  “They made you, Cletus.”

  “You never worked Vice. These people are not that complicated. Dave, you and I got inside the Mob and they were never on to us. Coyne or whatever bought it. I think this broad Babette is just a working girl.”

  “Babette?”

  “Kind of cute, don’t you think?”

  How do you tell your best friend that his old enemy, a weakness for female validation, has just deep-sixed his brains?

  “Call me on your cell in three hours,” I said.

  “Everything is solid. I’m going to exclude Lou Coyne as our Galveston pimp or find Ida Durbin. Now, pull your dork out of the wall socket.”

  But I did not hear from Clete again that evening and he did not respond to my calls.

  SHE GAZED OUT at the ocean, her chin tilted up in the breeze, and said she was originally from Hawaii, that she had been a bookkeeper before coming to Miami to work as a hostess at a supper club. But after her ex had blown town on a bigamy charge and stopped her alimony payments, she had drifted into the life. She said Babette was her real name, and that it had been the name of her grandmother, who had been born in Tahiti. Her knees touched Clete’s under the table as she said these things, on a fishing pier that was framed darkly against the ocean and the wan summer light that still hung in the sky, even though it was after 9:00 p.m.

  She had paid for the hamburgers and beer herself, and had made no commercial proposition to him of any kind. Her hair was mahogany-colored, bleached on the tips by the sun, and hung loosely on her bare shoulders. She lit a cigarette with a tiny gold lighter, crossed her legs, and smoked with her spine hunched, her posture like a question mark, as though she were cold.

  “Want to get out of the wind?” Clete said.

  “No, I like it here. I come here often to be by myself. I write poetry sometimes.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s not very good. But I’m gonna take a creative writing class at Miami-Dade Community College this fall. I showed my poems to a professor there. He said I had talent but I needed to study.”

  “I bet your poems are good,” Clete said.

  The sun had sunk beyond the Everglades, and the ocean was dark and flecked with whitecaps. At the end of the pier some Cuban kids had hooked a hammerhead shark and were fighting to hoist it clear of the water and over the guardrail. The woman smoked her cigarette and watched them, the thumb on her left hand repeatedly tapping the tips of her fingers. One of the kids drove a knife into the shark’s head, impaling it on a plank. “Yuk,” Babette said.

  “I got to ask you something,” Clete said.

  “Go ahead,” she replied, screwing her cigarette out inside a bottle cap.

  “You work for Lou Coyne?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, smiling in a self-deprecating way.

  “You were checking me out at the daiquiri stand?” he said.

  “It comes with my paycheck.”

  “I’m not knocking it.”

  “I know you’re not,” she said.

  “I just thought Coyne might be a guy I knew a long time ago, a Galveston guy by the name of Lou Kale.”

  “He’s always used the name ‘Coyne’ since I’ve worked for him. He’s a pretty good guy, actually. He’s just got to be careful.”

  “Dude I knew was hooked up with a gal by the name of Ida Durbin.”

  “You got me. Ask Lou. You like the hamburgers?”

  “They’re swell.”

  “You seem like a sweet guy. Look, I’ve got to check on my cousin’s house. I’m taking care of her parakeet while she’s out of town. You want to come?”

  They drove in her compact down I-95 and took an exit into a neighborhood of cinder-block apartment buildings and one-story wood-frame homes that looked like they had been built during the Depression years. Babette entered a dark street and turned into the driveway of a paintless house. The front porch was lit and the screens on it were stained with rust, the yard filled with waving shadows from clusters of untrimmed banana trees.

  “Your cousin lives in Little Havana?” Clete said.

  “She’s not Hispanic, if that’s what you mean,” Babette replied.

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” he said.

  “Before we go in, I need to tell you something. The cell number I gave you, it wasn’t mine. It belongs to a dial-in prayer service.”

  “Really?”

  “See, Lou took a bunch of us to Lake Charles, to the hotel and casino on the lake there. We met this famous evangelical leader. It was like a spiritual experience for me. I think for the first time in a long while I can stop living the way I do. But I don’t have enough money to quit yet and plus I got a little drug problem.”

  “That’s why they have Twelve-Step programs,” Clete said.

  She had cut the engine and now she opened the door partway, lighting the interior of the compact. “I just wanted you to know how it is with me and why I gave you the prayer number,” she said. “I’m just trying to be honest.”

  Clete did not try to follow her reasoning. He waited for her to ask him for money. But she didn’t. “I need to use the bathroom. Then I’ll clean the birdcage and we can go,” she said.

  The inside of the house was clean and squared away, the furniture bright, the rooms air-conditioned by two window units. Through a bedroom door he could see a water bed and a lava lamp on the nightstand. Babette went into the bathroom, then Clete heard the toilet flush and the faucet running before she came back out.

  “Why do you have that funny look on your face?” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “You think this is a fuck pad?”

  “Hey—” he said.

  “If that’s what you think, say so.”

  “Not me,” he said, and tried to smile.

  “I’ve got a pitcher of rum punch in the fridge. You want some?” she said.

  “I’m good,” Clete said.

  “I can’t find my aspirin. My head is coming off. Somebody is always hiding my aspirin,” she said, opening and slamming cabinets all over the kitchen.

  “I thought this was your cousin’s place.”

  “It is. I just visit here sometimes.”

  Clete decided he would have a drink after all. Babette broke apart a tray of ice, dropped cubes in two tall glasses that had been standing straight up in the dry rack, and filled them with rum punch from the pitcher. She took a long drink and the color bloomed in her face. “Oh, that’s a lot better,” she said.

  “You got a pretty heavy jones?” Clete said.

  “I got into smoking China white because I didn’t want to infect. But I ended up using needles anyway. I’ve got it down to two balloons a day. They say if you can get it down to one, it’s mostly manageable.”

  Clete drank from the punch, crunching ice between his molars, and tried to look attentive. He put a cigarette in his mouth and asked to borrow her cigarette lighter.

  “I didn’t think you smoked,” she said.

  “Just once in a while.” He opened and close
d his mouth to clear a popping sound from his ears. “You never heard of a hooker name of Ida Durbin?”

  “I already told you. You think I’m lying?”

  “No, I just feel kind of weird,” he replied.

  He reached out to take the lighter from her hand, but the gold surface seemed to turn soft and sink in the middle, like a lump of butter inside the warmth of a stove. His fingers went past her hand and knocked over a salt shaker, as though his motors had been snipped in half at the back of his brain. His mouth and throat became instantly dry; the overhead lighting caused his eyes to well with tears.

  “What’s happening?” he said.

  She stared at him mutely, her expression caught between fear and guilt. “I have a little girl. I’ve got to get clean. Just don’t lie to them. It makes them really mad,” she said.

  “Come here,” he said, catching a piece of fabric with one hand.

  But she pulled her canvas tote from him, looked back once, and rushed out the back door into the darkness.

  Clete felt himself slip from the chair and crash on the linoleum, his drink glass shattering inches from his face.

  Both the men who came through the front door carried lengths of chain and looked Hispanic. One wore a formfitting strap undershirt and had shaved armpits and the tapered lats and flat chest of a boxer. The other man was much bigger, his skin slick with black hair. The fingers of his right hand were inserted in the holes of a pair of brass knuckles.

  A third man entered the house. He wore white slacks belted high up on his waist and a western shirt sewn with chains of purple and red flowers. “We tossed your room and found your P.I. buzzer. Sorry to do this to you, big man, but it’s out of my control,” Lou Coyne said.

  “Yeah, you came here to get fucked, and that’s what you got, spermo—fucked,” the man in the formfitting undershirt said. Both he and the other Hispanic man laughed.

  Lou Coyne squatted down eye-level with Clete. “You working for Robicheaux? You working for some political people? These guys here are serious. Don’t underestimate their potential,” he said.

  Clete tried to rise to his feet, then collapsed again, pieces of broken glass knifing into his back.

  “This ain’t my way, big man. Please don’t do this to either one of us,” Coyne said.

  But the words Clete heard were muffled, distorted, like someone shouting inside the downdraft of a helicopter. In his mind’s eye he saw a hooch burning brightly on the edge of a flooded rice field. Boxes of AK-47 rounds were exploding inside the heat, and in the distance, against a storm-sealed sky, he could see a Zippo-track with a Confederate battle flag tied to the radio antenna grinding over a dike that flanged the rice field, automatic weapons fire dancing across the water’s surface.

  Clete got on his hands and knees and began crawling.

  That’s when a chain whipped out of the air and raked across his neck and the side of his face. Then the man with animal hair on his skin straddled him and drove the pair of brass knuckles deep into his back and a second time into his neck.

  What had they given him? Clete guessed it was chloral hydrate. Or maybe acid. Or maybe both. The room had melted, the colors in the walls and floor dissolving and running together. One of the men was now wrapping a chain around his forehead, tightening the links into his scalp. Clete drove his elbow into the man’s scrotum and heard him scream and the chain rattle to the floor.

  Clete crashed into a laundry room off the kitchen, knocking over an ironing board and a plastic basket filled with dried clothes. On his knees, he slammed the door behind him and shot the bolt. A cast-iron pipe, an old drain of some kind, extended four feet high up on one wall. He gripped it at the top, wrenched it back and forth until it broke loose from a rusted connection, then ripped it out of the floor.

  The pipe was heavy and thick in his palms. The floor seemed to be pitching under his feet, the roar of helicopter blades still thundering in his head. Or was that one of his attackers throwing his weight into the bolted door? The sounds in his head were so loud he couldn’t tell where they originated, but the door was shaking hard, vibrating through the walls and floor. Then the bolt splintered loose from the jamb and the door flew open in Clete’s face. Clete looked into the close-set pig-eyes of the man with brass knuckles, and drove the pipe into his mouth, breaking his lips against his teeth.

  The man held his hands to the lower portion of his face, his brass knuckles shiny with the blood and saliva that drained through his fingers. Clete lifted the pipe like a baseball bat and swung it into the other Hispanic man’s jaw, then across his back and rib cage. Both Hispanic men tried to shield their heads with their forearms and escape the blows raining down on them, but Clete followed them into the backyard, hitting them again and again, the pipe ringing in his palms.

  “They’re done! Jesus Christ! We’re done!” Lou Coyne said. “You’re gonna kill them guys! Hey, are you hearing me?”

  Clete stumbled out of the backyard, dropping the pipe on the front sidewalk. The air smelled of smoke, perhaps from outdoor barbecue pits, and mist was blowing off an elevated highway in the distance. He staggered down the street toward a clapboard bar that glowed with the hazy iridescence of a pistol flare burning inside fog. Again, he thought he heard the downdraft of helicopter blades and the labored breath of people running, clutching at his arms, speaking words to him that made no sense.

  Totally stoned, zoned, and shit-blown up the Mekong. I’m not going to make it, he thought.

  Then, while a Miami P.D. helicopter with a searchlight roared by overhead, the loving hands of women who made him think of black angels guided him into the backseat of a car. Their lips were arterial-red, their perfume like that of an enclosed garden inside the car, their hands cool and gentle as they wiped his face and hair and the cuts in his scalp.

  “What’s the haps, ladies?” Clete said, and passed out.

  Chapter 20

  CLETE ARRIVED BACK in New Iberia the following evening on the Sunset Limited, ensconced in a Pullman bedroom with his flight bag and golf clubs, although he had little memory of being put aboard the train.

  “These were black hookers?” I asked as I drove him to his cottage at the motor court.

  “Except the woman driving. She was white. A beanpole with a corn bread accent, but definitely in charge,” he replied. “She got on the cell phone and gave hell to this guy Lou Whatever.”

  “The pimp asked you if you were hooked up politically?”

  “Yeah, that brings up another subject. Remember I told you Raphael Chalons had this televangelical character fronting points for his casino interests and you blew me off?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “The dial-a-prayer number Babette gave me belongs to a TV huckster named Colin Alridge. He’s the same guy who’s working for Chalons. Babette said she and Lou Whatever and some other whores visited the casino in Lake Charles and met him. He looks like a college kid out of the 1940s. I think Babette creamed her pants when she shook his hand.”

  “Why should people be beating you up with chains because of Raphael Chalons’s connection to a lobbyist?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. He was quiet a long time, lost in thought, his back and neck marbled with bruises. “There’s one other thing I didn’t tell you.”

  I looked at him.

  “The white woman, the beanpole with corn fritters in her mouth? Before she and the black girls poured me into the Pullman, I’m pretty sure she said, ‘Tell Dave and Jimmie Robicheaux I said hello.’ What do you think of that, noble mon?”

  WAS THE WHITE WOMAN IDA DURBIN? There was no way to know. When Clete told me of his experience in Miami, he was still half-swacked on the drugs that the prostitute named Babette had probably dropped in his glass before she poured the rum punch into it.

  I also wondered if the story about Raphael Chalons’s connection with an evangelical political huckster had any relevance. If a political operative wired into the White House was on his payroll, Chalons’s breeding woul
d probably restrain him from revealing that fact at a formal dinner, but he would not care if someone else did. He was jaded, corrupt, sexually profligate, politically pragmatic, but not a hypocrite, a gentleman in the same way the Prince of Darkness is.

  FRIDAY MORNING Jimmie got back to town from New Orleans and I met him for lunch at Victor’s Cafeteria.

  “The white woman who saved Clete’s butt said to tell you and me hello?” he said.

  “That’s what he says. But he was still half-loaded when he got off the train.”

  “She was a beanpole with a peckerwood accent?”

  “Something like that.” I was beginning to regret I had brought up the possibility that Ida Durbin was indeed alive and in Miami and hooked up with Lou Kale. “Jim, if this woman is Ida, she’s better forgotten. Let the past slide.”

  “That from you? I’ve had her death on my conscience since 1958.” He had stopped eating. His eyes glistened, and he coughed slightly into his napkin to hide his emotion.

  “I’ve got a couple of calls in to Miami P.D. to check out the house where Clete got knocked around. Give me some time before you do something rash,” I said.

  “I need to go back over there,” Jimmie said, picking up the check, his lunch unfinished.

  THE TECHNICAL PROCESSES involving DNA identification are complicated and time-consuming. There is often a long waiting list at both federal and state laboratories, particularly in an era when large numbers of homicide and rape cases are appealed based on evidence that was gathered and stored years ago, before DNA identification was possible. But Mack Bertrand at our crime lab had pushed through the work on Honoria Chalons in less than four days. He called me at the office just before five on Friday.

  “No match with the Baton Rouge serial killer, no match with anything in the national database,” he said.

  “I never thought the Baton Rouge guy did this,” I said.

  “What did you think?”

  “Did the semen come from a relative?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “What kind of question is that?”