Read Online Purple Cane Road by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online
Authors: James Lee Burke
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, Private Investigators - Louisiana - New Iberia, Robicheaux, Dave (Fictitious Character), Mothers - Death, New Iberia (La.), Mothers
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closed his eyes and saw the scene take place again, watching it now through a red skein on the backs of his eyelids, the cracker lifting a machete off the counter, one his cousin had honed on an emery wheel, swinging it across Zipper’s forearm, chopping through tendon and bone like a butcher’s cleaver.
Zipper stared down at the .38 and his severed arm and the fingers that now seemed to be trying to gather up the gold twenty-dollar piece from the countertop. Zipper’s boom box was playing Louie Prima’s “Sing, Sing, Sing,” and he remembered a little boy on Bourbon Street stooping in mid-dance to catch the coins that bounced out of the cigar box by his feet and rolled across the sidewalk.
“It was supposed to be a clean hit. That’s the way I work. So it’s on you,” the cracker said, and came quickly behind the counter and shoved Zipper to the floor.
The cracker pulled back the slide on a .25 automatic and bent over and pulled the trigger, straddling Zipper, his cowboy boots stenciling the floor with Zipper’s blood. But the gun clicked and did not fire.
The cracker ejected the shell, then aimed the muzzle an inch from Zipper’s forehead and shielded his face with one hand to avoid the splatter.
“You the trail back to Robicheaux’s mama. You got a mouth like a girl. You got blue eyes. You got skin like milk. You never done no outside work. You six feet tall. Boy, you one badass motherfucker,” Zipper said.
“You got that last part right,” the cracker said.
It was funny how loud a .25 was. A couple of pops and you couldn’t hear for an hour. The shooter recovered his empty brass and the ejected dud from the floor, pulled off his T-shirt, which was now splattered with blood, wiped off the machete’s handle, and walked to his truck with his shirt wadded up in his hand.
Then something bothered him. What was it? He went back inside and kicked the boom box on the floor and smashed its guts out with his boot heel. Still, something wasn’t right. Why had the pimp started taking his inventory? A mouth like a girl’s? What was that stuff about somebody’s mama? Maybe the pimp was a latent fudge packer. There was a lot of weirdness around these days. Well, that’s the way the toilet flushed sometimes.
The old woman outside, who was deaf, waved to him as he twisted the steering wheel of his truck, a pocket comb in his teeth, and turned into the traffic.
6
M ONDAY MORNING AN old-time NOPD homicide investigator named Dana Magelli sat down in my office and played the recording tape that had been recovered from the destroyed boom box at the murder scene off Magazine Street. Magelli had dark, close-clipped hair and dark skin and wore a neat mustache and still played an aggressive handball game three days a week at the New Orleans Athletic Club. Photos from the crime scene and a composite sketch of the shooter were spread on top of my desk.
“Why would Zipper call the hitter the trail back to your mother?” he asked.
“Zipper says ‘Robicheaux’ on the tape. He doesn’t mention a first name. Why do you connect the tape to me?” I replied.
“You and Clete Purcel were at First District asking questions about him.”
“He told me he saw two cops kill my mother back in the sixties.”
“I see,” Magelli said, his eyes going flat. “Which leads you to conclude what?”
“That maybe the guys who did it put the hitter on Zipper Clum.”
“Who might these guys be?”
“Search me,” I said, my eyes not quite meeting his.
He wore a beige sports jacket and tan slacks. He leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on my desk.
“You’re a good cop, Dave. You always were. You got a rotten deal. A lot of guys would like to see you reinstated in the department,” he said.
“How about Purcel?”
“Purcel was a wrong cop.”
“The whole department was wrong,” I said.
“It’s not that way now. Maybe a few guys are still dirty, but the new chief has either suspended or put most
Zipper stared down at the .38 and his severed arm and the fingers that now seemed to be trying to gather up the gold twenty-dollar piece from the countertop. Zipper’s boom box was playing Louie Prima’s “Sing, Sing, Sing,” and he remembered a little boy on Bourbon Street stooping in mid-dance to catch the coins that bounced out of the cigar box by his feet and rolled across the sidewalk.
“It was supposed to be a clean hit. That’s the way I work. So it’s on you,” the cracker said, and came quickly behind the counter and shoved Zipper to the floor.
The cracker pulled back the slide on a .25 automatic and bent over and pulled the trigger, straddling Zipper, his cowboy boots stenciling the floor with Zipper’s blood. But the gun clicked and did not fire.
The cracker ejected the shell, then aimed the muzzle an inch from Zipper’s forehead and shielded his face with one hand to avoid the splatter.
“You the trail back to Robicheaux’s mama. You got a mouth like a girl. You got blue eyes. You got skin like milk. You never done no outside work. You six feet tall. Boy, you one badass motherfucker,” Zipper said.
“You got that last part right,” the cracker said.
It was funny how loud a .25 was. A couple of pops and you couldn’t hear for an hour. The shooter recovered his empty brass and the ejected dud from the floor, pulled off his T-shirt, which was now splattered with blood, wiped off the machete’s handle, and walked to his truck with his shirt wadded up in his hand.
Then something bothered him. What was it? He went back inside and kicked the boom box on the floor and smashed its guts out with his boot heel. Still, something wasn’t right. Why had the pimp started taking his inventory? A mouth like a girl’s? What was that stuff about somebody’s mama? Maybe the pimp was a latent fudge packer. There was a lot of weirdness around these days. Well, that’s the way the toilet flushed sometimes.
The old woman outside, who was deaf, waved to him as he twisted the steering wheel of his truck, a pocket comb in his teeth, and turned into the traffic.
6
M ONDAY MORNING AN old-time NOPD homicide investigator named Dana Magelli sat down in my office and played the recording tape that had been recovered from the destroyed boom box at the murder scene off Magazine Street. Magelli had dark, close-clipped hair and dark skin and wore a neat mustache and still played an aggressive handball game three days a week at the New Orleans Athletic Club. Photos from the crime scene and a composite sketch of the shooter were spread on top of my desk.
“Why would Zipper call the hitter the trail back to your mother?” he asked.
“Zipper says ‘Robicheaux’ on the tape. He doesn’t mention a first name. Why do you connect the tape to me?” I replied.
“You and Clete Purcel were at First District asking questions about him.”
“He told me he saw two cops kill my mother back in the sixties.”
“I see,” Magelli said, his eyes going flat. “Which leads you to conclude what?”
“That maybe the guys who did it put the hitter on Zipper Clum.”
“Who might these guys be?”
“Search me,” I said, my eyes not quite meeting his.
He wore a beige sports jacket and tan slacks. He leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on my desk.
“You’re a good cop, Dave. You always were. You got a rotten deal. A lot of guys would like to see you reinstated in the department,” he said.
“How about Purcel?”
“Purcel was a wrong cop.”
“The whole department was wrong,” I said.
“It’s not that way now. Maybe a few guys are still dirty, but the new chief has either suspended or put most
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