Free A Morning for Flamingos by James Lee Burke Page A

bouncing Betty had gotten me in Vietnam looked like a spray of small gray arrow points that had been slipped under the skin on my right thigh and side. I still had my father’s thick black hair and mustache, except for the white patch above my ear, and if I didn’t pay attention to the lines in my neck and around my eyes and the black-peppery flecks of skin cancer on my arms, I could still pretend it was only the bottom of the fifth.
    Question: Where do you score a few grams of coke in New Orleans?
    Answer: Almost anywhere you want to.
    But where do you score a thousand grams, a kilo? The question becomes more complicated. Minos had accused me of being simplistic. Later I would wonder when he had last been on the street with his own clientele.
     
    It was dusk when I got to the address on Esplanade on the edge of the Quarter; the air was crisp, the dry palm fronds on the neutral ground clattered in the breeze, and costumed Negro children with jack-o’-lanterns ran in groups from one high, lighted gallery to the next. The man I was looking for lived in a garage apartment behind a columned one-story wood house on the corner, which like many New Orleans antebellum homes was built up high above the lawn because of floods. But the wood doors on the drive were padlocked, and the iron gate that gave onto the side yard wouldn’t open either. I could see a man working under an automobile in the drive, with a mechanic’s lamp attached to an extension cord.
    I shook the gate against the iron fastenings in the brick wall. The man slid out from under the car on a creeper. A lighted cigar lay on the cement by his head. One eye squinted at me like a fist.
    “What do you want?” he said.
    “I’m looking for Lionel Comeaux.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Are you Lionel Comeaux?”
    “Yeah, what do you want?”
    “Can I come in?”
    “The latch is inside, at the top of the gate,” he said, and picked up a crescent wrench off the cement to begin working under the car again.
    I entered the yard and walked through flower beds filled with elephant ears and caladium and waited for him to slide back from under the car again. He didn’t, so I had to squat down to talk to him. “I want to make a buy.”
    “Buy what?” he said, blinking at the rust that fell out of the car frame into his eyes. He wore jeans and a purple and gold LSU jersey with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. His arms were big and covered with tan, and he had a deep red U.S. Navy tattoo on one bicep. His head was square, his dark hair crew cut. He chewed gum, and there were lumps of cartilage behind his ears.
    “I want some pure stuff, no cut, a good price,” I said. “I hear you’re the guy who can help me.”
    “Pure what? What are you talking about, buddy?”
    “What the fuck do you think I’m talking about?”
    He stopped working, removed a piece of grit from his eyelashes with his thumb, and looked at me. The backs of his hands were shiny with grease.
    “Who sent you here?” he said.
    “Some people in Lafayette.”
    “Who?”
    “People I do business with. What do you care?”
    “I care, man. What’s your name?”
    “Dave Robicheaux.”
    He pushed the creeper out from under the car and raised himself up on one elbow. He was maybe twenty-five and had the neck and shoulder tendons of a weight lifter.
    “You’re talking about dope, right? Skag, reefer, stuff like that?” he said. He picked up his cigar off the cement and puffed it alight.
    “I’m talking about cocaine, podna. Ten thou a key. I can take five keys off you.”
    “Cocaine?” he said.
    “That’s right.”
    “That’s interesting. But number one, I’m not your podna, because I don’t know who you are. Number two, I don’t know where you got my name or this address, but you’ve got the wrong information, wrong person, wrong house.”
    “You see Tony Cardo?”
    “Who?”
    “Look, I don’t mean to offend you, but the bozo routine is wearing thin. You tell Cardo there’re