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Authors: James Lee Burke
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hammer into his ribcage. He wasn’t ready for it, and I felt a bone go like a stick. The blood drained out of his face, his tongue lay pink on his teeth, his skin tightened on his skull as though he were silently absorbing an intolerable pain and rage.
“Oh my, you shouldn’t have done that,” the man in the raincoat said.
Erik grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the side of the tub. I kicked at all of them blindly, but my feet struck at empty air. Then Bobby Joe locked his powerful arms around my neck and took me over the rim again, his body trembling rigidly with a cruel and murderous energy, and I knew that all my past fears of being shotgunned by a psychotic, of being shanked by an addict, of stepping on a Claymore mine in Vietnam, were just the foolish preoccupations of youth; that my real nemesis had always been a redneck lover who would hold me upside down against his chest while my soul slipped through a green, watery porcelain hole in the earth, down through the depths of the Mekong River, where floated the bodies of other fatigue-clad men and whole families of civilians, their faces still filled with disbelief and the shock of an artillery burst, and farther still to the mossy base of an offshore oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, where my father waited for me in his hardhat, coveralls, and steeltipped drilling boots after having drowned there twenty years ago.
Then Bobby Joe’s arms let go of my neck, as though he had tired of me, and I collapsed in a gasping, embryonic heap on the floor. I lay with one eye pressed against the wet tile.
“Get out there and see what it is!” the man in the raincoat said.
Bobby Joe stood erect, stepped over me, and was gone.
“Had a mind-change about Fitzpatrick?” the man in the raincoat said.
I couldn’t answer. In fact, at that point I didn’t even remember the name. Then I heard Bobby Joe in the doorway.
“His bitch got her feet loose from the bedstead and kicked a lamp through the window. The whole goddamn backyard is full of people from a party,” he said.
“Travel time,” the man in the raincoat said. He stood up and combed his hair as he walked past me. “You’re a big winner tonight, Lieutenant. But let the experience work for you. Don’t try to play in the major leagues. It’s a shitty life, believe me. Big risks, lots of crazy people running around, few side benefits like the piece you’ve got in the next room. You’ve got cojones , but the next time around, Bobby Joe and Erik will cut them off.”
Then they went out the front door into the dark like three macabre harlequins who on impulse visited the quiet world of ordinary people with baseball bats.
Three patrol cars from the Second District, an ambulance, and a fire truck answered the neighbor’s emergency call. Revolving red and blue lights reflected off the trees and houses; the lawn and house were filled with patrolmen, paramedics, firemen in yellow slickers, neighbors drinking beer and sangria, people writing on clipboards and talking into static-filled radios, and all of it signified absolutely nothing. Any candid policeman will tell you that we seldom catch people as a result of investigation or detective work; in other words, if we don’t grab them during the commission of the crime, there’s a good chance we won’t catch them at all. When we do nail them, it’s often through informers or because they trip over their own shoestrings and turn the key on themselves (drunk driving, expired license plates, a barroom beef). We’re not smart; they’re just dumb.
That’s why the feds were made to look so bad back in the late sixties and early seventies when they couldn’t nail a bunch of middle-class college kids who ended up on the “Ten Most Wanted” list. Instead of dealing with predictable psychopaths like Alvin Karpis and Charles Arthur Floyd, the FBI had to second-guess Brandeis and Wisconsin English majors who dynamited research labs and boosted banks and
“Oh my, you shouldn’t have done that,” the man in the raincoat said.
Erik grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the side of the tub. I kicked at all of them blindly, but my feet struck at empty air. Then Bobby Joe locked his powerful arms around my neck and took me over the rim again, his body trembling rigidly with a cruel and murderous energy, and I knew that all my past fears of being shotgunned by a psychotic, of being shanked by an addict, of stepping on a Claymore mine in Vietnam, were just the foolish preoccupations of youth; that my real nemesis had always been a redneck lover who would hold me upside down against his chest while my soul slipped through a green, watery porcelain hole in the earth, down through the depths of the Mekong River, where floated the bodies of other fatigue-clad men and whole families of civilians, their faces still filled with disbelief and the shock of an artillery burst, and farther still to the mossy base of an offshore oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, where my father waited for me in his hardhat, coveralls, and steeltipped drilling boots after having drowned there twenty years ago.
Then Bobby Joe’s arms let go of my neck, as though he had tired of me, and I collapsed in a gasping, embryonic heap on the floor. I lay with one eye pressed against the wet tile.
“Get out there and see what it is!” the man in the raincoat said.
Bobby Joe stood erect, stepped over me, and was gone.
“Had a mind-change about Fitzpatrick?” the man in the raincoat said.
I couldn’t answer. In fact, at that point I didn’t even remember the name. Then I heard Bobby Joe in the doorway.
“His bitch got her feet loose from the bedstead and kicked a lamp through the window. The whole goddamn backyard is full of people from a party,” he said.
“Travel time,” the man in the raincoat said. He stood up and combed his hair as he walked past me. “You’re a big winner tonight, Lieutenant. But let the experience work for you. Don’t try to play in the major leagues. It’s a shitty life, believe me. Big risks, lots of crazy people running around, few side benefits like the piece you’ve got in the next room. You’ve got cojones , but the next time around, Bobby Joe and Erik will cut them off.”
Then they went out the front door into the dark like three macabre harlequins who on impulse visited the quiet world of ordinary people with baseball bats.
Three patrol cars from the Second District, an ambulance, and a fire truck answered the neighbor’s emergency call. Revolving red and blue lights reflected off the trees and houses; the lawn and house were filled with patrolmen, paramedics, firemen in yellow slickers, neighbors drinking beer and sangria, people writing on clipboards and talking into static-filled radios, and all of it signified absolutely nothing. Any candid policeman will tell you that we seldom catch people as a result of investigation or detective work; in other words, if we don’t grab them during the commission of the crime, there’s a good chance we won’t catch them at all. When we do nail them, it’s often through informers or because they trip over their own shoestrings and turn the key on themselves (drunk driving, expired license plates, a barroom beef). We’re not smart; they’re just dumb.
That’s why the feds were made to look so bad back in the late sixties and early seventies when they couldn’t nail a bunch of middle-class college kids who ended up on the “Ten Most Wanted” list. Instead of dealing with predictable psychopaths like Alvin Karpis and Charles Arthur Floyd, the FBI had to second-guess Brandeis and Wisconsin English majors who dynamited research labs and boosted banks and
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