the bar nodded at him, and he shook one man's hand. Old home week with the barfly regulars. He got a long-necked Dixie for himself, then came over and dropped into the chair across from me. His eye was still dark from where Joe Pike had hit him. He said, "Where're your spics?"
I said, "I'm here early."
He had some of the Okie, shooting a wink at the woman with the hair. "Yeah? Well, your spics better show or you in deep do-do."
I said, "LeRoy?"
He was sucking at his teeth.
"Do yourself a favor and don't call them spics."
LeRoy frowned like I was a turd. "That's what they are, ain't they?"
I shook my head. Some people never learn. Some people you just can't talk to.
I said, "Where's Milt?"
"He'll be here."
"I thought he might come with you."
LeRoy pulled on the Dixie. "You jus' worry about your spics." He lipped a Tarryton 100 and lit it with a big steel Zippo. The first two fingers on his right hand were yellow with smoke stains. His fingernails were grimed. He grinned at me and let the smoke leak out between his teeth. Probably hadn't brushed in a year.
LeRoy got up and put money in the jukebox. He finished the first Dixie and got himself a second. While he was at the bar the woman with the hair whispered something in his ear, and he whispered something back. She laughed. It's odd what appeals to people, isn't it? The guy with the Evinrude cap and a heavier guy who walked with a limp went home. I wished I could go with them. The rain came harder, filling ruts and depressions in the shell lot and hammering on the bar's roof, and little by little the remains of day were lost to the night. The parking lot filled with white light two quick times, followed almost instantly by twin booms of thunder, and the guys at the bar applauded. The thunder was so loud and so near that the little building shook, rattling glasses and making the jukebox skip. And they talk about earthquakes.
At two minutes before eight, headlights swung across the door, a baby blue BMW crunched onto the lot, and Frank Escobar came in, the guy with the pocked face holding an umbrella the size of a parachute canopy. LeRoy said, "Well, it's about goddamned time." He was working on his third Dixie and he said it too loud.
They came to the table and sat, Escobar shaking off his coat. "You pick a shit time to do business. Is Rossier here?"
"Not yet."
LeRoy stuck out his hand. "Mr. Escobar, my name is LeRoy Bennett. It's a pleasure, sir, yes it is."
Escobar looked at me without acknowledging the hand or the person. "Who is this?"
"Rossier's stooge."
LeRoy said, "Hey, what the ruck?"
Escobar hit LeRoy with the back of his right hand so hard that LeRoy almost went out of the chair. It was exactly the same move he'd used on his wife. Two of the guys at the bar looked over and the woman gave a little gasp. Escobar grabbed LeRoy by the face and dug a thumb under his jaw. "You see me sitting here?"
LeRoy tried to get away from the thumb, but couldn't. "Hey, yeah. Whatchu doin', bro?"
"If I'm here, where's your goddamned boss? You think I got time to waste?"
Even as he said it more lights swept the open door and you could hear the crunch, even over the jukebox and the rain. LeRoy stood away from the thumb, saying, "That's gotta be Milt right now," just as Milt Rossier walked in.
The woman behind the bar said, "Hey, Milt," but Milt didn't acknowledge her. He saw us at the little table and came over, offering his hand to Frank Escobar. "Frank, I'm Milt Rossier. Lemme apologize if I've kept you, but this rain is a bitch."
Escobar said, "Hey, forget about it. You shoulda seen the drive up from Metairie." He held Milt Rossier's hand longer than he needed to hold it. "I'm looking forward to a fruitful partnership, Milt, but let's get first things first. Where's Prima?"
"Oh, he'll be at the pumping station. You bet." Escobar glanced at me, then put it back on Milt Rossier. He still had the old man's hand. "I wanna make money with you, Milt, but you have to understand it's personal here, me and Prima. We ain't goin' forward with this until I get this bastard."
Milt was nodding and trying to get his hand away. Escobar's eyes were dark