Marco began shoving from behind, squatting down, pushing with his shoulder as though loading a horse onto a trailer. Then his fellow bodyguard Charlie Weiss came from the back of the shop and began pulling on Tommy’s arm, twisting it in the socket.
“Your face don’t look too good. You okay?” Marco said. “Get him a glass of water, Charlie.”
“He weighs enough as it is. Christ, his legs are giving out. Stand up, Tommy. This is not the place to sit down. Oh shit,” Charlie said.
By the time the paramedics arrived at the store, Tommy’s enormous girth had settled into the door frame like a partially deflated blimp. His lips were filmed with spittle, his breath an agonized gasp.
“Hang on, buddy. We’re going to knock out the wall,” a paramedic said.
But Tommy wasn’t listening. His face was pouring sweat, his eyes focused on Marco’s. “I’m fucked,” he said.
“No, we’re getting you out, Tommy. Just hang on, man,” Marco said.
Tommy breathed in and out, as though deliberately oxygenating his blood. “Listen, tell Sidney that Clete Purcel has got his queer. Tell Sidney to take care of my family.”
Then Tommy the Whale closed his eyes and swam out to sea, leaving Clete with a millstone hung around his neck. Chapter 15
O TIS BAYLOR CAME into my office early monday. He wore slacks and suspenders, a long-sleeved white shirt and a tie, and seemed to radiate the freshness of the morning. But obviously he did not want me to misinterpret the purpose of his visit. “I have a question that needs to be resolved,” he said.
“Sit down.”
“A man named Ronald Bledsoe came by my house Saturday, un-announced and uninvited. He said he’s a private investigator working for the state. He showed me a gold badge and an ID card with his photograph on it. Is this something the state is doing?”
“I’m not sure. What did this fellow want?”
“He said he’s investigating the shooting of those black kids. He asked me if one of them had gone up my driveway. I told him I didn’t know. He asked me if I’d found any items on my property that might have been stolen from other people’s homes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That if I’d found stolen goods anywhere, I would have turned them over to the authorities. He said my neighbor had seen one of the looters in my driveway.”
“Which neighbor?”
“At first he didn’t want to tell me. Then he said it was Tom Claggart. I didn’t like this man’s manner, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“It’s Dave.”
He ignored my correction. “I think this man is a fraud. He’s a strange-looking fellow. He has strange eyes.”
I took a yellow legal pad out of my desk. “Did he leave a business card?”
“No. I didn’t ask for one, either.”
“Would you describe him, please?”
“He’s a tall white man, bald, with a long face that’s sunken in the middle. His mouth is a funny color, like it has rouge on it, or it doesn’t go with his skin. He’s got a soft voice and accent, the kind people from the Carolinas have. His eyes are green. My daughter was working in the yard. He kept looking at her. I don’t want this guy around my house again.”
“If he comes back, tell him to leave. If he doesn’t, call us.”
“You’ll come out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all I needed to know.” He started to rise from his chair.
“I wanted to ask you a question on another subject,” I said, pushing aside my legal pad as though our official business were over. “In the army the first military weapon I fired was the ’03 Springfield.”
He was standing up now, waiting for me to pull the string.