Read Online The Bayou Trilogy: Under the Bright Lights, Muscle for the Wing, and The Ones You Do by Daniel Woodrell - Free Book Online Page A

It’s yours for a cheeseburger.”
    They took a table in the back, far removed from the other customers. The Catfish drew a decent lunch business but it was still too early for the legitimately hungry to appear, so the few tables of customers were made up of unemployed, but entrepreneurial, young men, as well as the diurnal conventions of phlegmatic tipplers.
    Roque peeled a thin cigar and lit it. As he inhaled, he looked over the room and received waves from two of the tables. Not familiar waves, but respectful acknowledgments of his presence. He nodded back.
    Less relaxed than Roque, Ledoux spent considerably more time inspecting the clientele before hunching forward and saying, “I saw the papers this morning. Man, are they confused.”
    “Of course they are,” Roque said. “What’d you expect?” His brown eyes were not cold, but warm with malice and bright with confidence. “They might unravel it, but not in time to change much. That is, if you can hold your end up.”
    Poncelet approached the table, drying his hands on the untucked portion of his white T-shirt.
    “What’ll it be, fellas? Something to drink, or you want some chow?”
    “How about air conditioning?” Roque asked. To emphasize his request he scraped a finger across his forehead, then flicked sweat to the floor.
    “We don’t carry it,” Poncelet said.
    “How much is Tippy kickin’ to the building inspector, huh? ’Cause this is unsafe heat.”
    “Is that supposed to be in the nature of news to me?”
    Roque grunted.
    “No, I guess not. You hungry?” he asked Ledoux.
    “Nah. I’ll just have a Stag with a glass.”
    “Merci,” Poncelet said. “And you, Steve?”
    “I want to eat,” Roque said. “I’ll have a tall glass of ice water and some chicken stew.”
    “Coq au vin, you mean.”
    “Right. Chicken stew with a sneer. You sound like my grandmother.”
    “Look like her, too,” Poncelet said, then returned to the bar.
    “He’s a smart-ass,” Roque said.
    “But a likable one.”
    “Most of them are—up to a point.”
    The men sat in silence until Poncelet returned with their orders, then left them.
    “So—Crane had it in him, hunh,” Ledoux said. “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think he would for sure.”
    “Well, he did,” Roque said. “Took some convincin’. Had to mention Tony Duquette and Ding-Ding Stengel a couple of times. Had to remind him about Curly Boone, and how his house burned down around his ears that time when he couldn’t pay up. And he owed me less than you do, I said to Crane.”
    “And Teejay Crane’s a nigger, too. Boone at least was white.”
    Roque grunted, then shook his head.
    “That doesn’t mean a thing.” Roque spooned a piece of chicken from the bowl, then took it in his fingers and sucked the meat from the bone. “Payin’ what you owe is all that counts.”
    Ledoux’s eyes narrowed as he looked away. It couldn’t be true, what Roque said, about black or white not making a difference.
    “Why’d you bring up Duquette and Stengel? Ain’t I takin’ care of business good enough for you?”
    “Sure you are. I think. You keep tellin’ me you are, anyhow. But no sense in mentionin’ a guy like you to Crane, who was nervous and no idiot, you know. I think he could see how he’d be extra weight once he’d done the big dance with Rankin.” Roque nodded, then sipped some ice water. “I think he’d done this sort of thing once before.”
    After draining half a glass of Stag Ledoux began to stroke his chin reflectively.
    “It’s nice,” he said. “The way it fits together is nice. Crane thinks his dirty movie racket, there, is solvent again, and he don’t have to worry no more about his kids and stuff. That was ruinin’ his days, I’ll betcha, wonderin’ what closet was goin’ to spring open full of Frogs with bad intentions.”
    “I think maybe you’re right,” Roque said. “He knew he was in a spot. If Rankin hadn’t’ve started thinkin’ he could be cute with