A Private Cathedral

Chapter Twenty-eight

There were no witnesses to the murder. Firpo must have been seated in a stall shooting up when his executioner entered the room. What happened after that was a matter of speculation. The stall door was neither locked nor broken. Would Firpo sit on a commode and shoot up without sliding the bolt? That made no sense. Which meant he probably knew the killer and opened the door of his own volition.

Several people in the nightclub had motivation to punch Firpo’s ticket. Maybe financial need had forced Adonis Balangie to pimp out his stepdaughter to Firpo and Mark Shondell, and Adonis had sent one of his Sicilian gumballs into the stall to even the score. The vicious nature of the killing, the sawed-off pigtail stuffed in the mouth, had the ritualistic overtones of the traditional Black Hand — also known as the Mafia — which had been in New Orleans since 1890, the year they murdered the police commissioner.

Mark Shondell was another candidate. Firpo was a hype. Shondell probably blamed him for getting Johnny on the spike and for Johnny running off with Isolde. Also, Shondell was probably Firpo’s silent business partner, and perhaps Firpo’s company assets would transfer automatically to Shondell, who would have no trouble finding a psychopath with a box cutter.

Then there was Gideon Richetti. There seemed to be no end to his potential. Unfortunately, we had no idea who or even what he was. I wanted to dismiss him as a meltdown. But like all categorizations, that didn’t slide down the pipe. Truth be known, I wondered if I was having a nervous collapse.

As I sorted through all the people who might want to take Firpo off the board, I couldn’t exclude Clete. There had been slips in Clete’s life. He had taken ten grand from the Mob and killed a federal witness, although the shooting was an accident. More significantly, he experienced psychotic episodes that could visit unimaginable levels of rage on a misogynist or predator or an abuser of the elderly or someone who was cruel to animals. Plus, he daily nursed his hatred of neo-Nazis and was convinced they were going to have at one least one more historical grab at the brass ring.

Earlier in the evening he’d said he wanted to blow up someone’s shit. His favorite banzai cocktail was a jigger of Jack lowered into a mug of cold beer. I could imagine Clete throwing a couple in the tank and going after the man who had arranged for him to be tortured to death by Gideon. In fact, I wondered why he hadn’t already done it.

The last name on the list was the one I hated to think about, not because I believed he was guilty but because he was too honest, the kind of man the system can grind into pulp.

Look, this is how the system works. Or, rather, how it doesn’t work. The law is usually enforced only upon the people who are available. The members of the Pool are always close by. The Pool consists of recidivists and dysfunctional people who skipped toilet training and couldn’t discuss the recipe for ice water. The recidivists think their rap sheets have the historical importance of the Magna Carta; their jailhouse tats are the equivalent of military citations. They take pride in their first-name relationship with cops. If they aren’t guests of the gray-bar hotel chain or at the least don’t have a sheet, no one would know they ever existed.

What’s the point? The system was created to handle only certain kinds of people. If you are on the square and wander into it, chances are it will cannibalize you.

Excuse my digression. My real problem was the postage stamps on Firpo’s shoe. I would have to show them to the locals. I would also have to tell them where I thought they came from.

Just as the first homicide detective arrived, I saw Father Julian standing by the front entrance and walked over to him. “Let’s go outside,” I said.

“Why?” he said, looking at the paramedics bringing in the gurney.

“It’s important.”

“Who was hurt?”

“Eddy Firpo. He wasn’t hurt. He was murdered.”

“The lawyer with Mark Shondell?”

“Come outside. Don’t argue. We don’t have much time.”

Naturally, he resisted. I took him by the arm and walked him through the door. The wind was cold and damp and smelled of the chain of lakes north of the campus. “Were you carrying some collectible postage stamps tonight?” I said.

“No.”

“You didn’t buy some in Baton Rouge for your collection?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“There were three stamps stuck to Firpo’s shoe.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“How many people in Baton Rouge bring valuable historical postage stamps into a nightclub?”

“Are you saying I’m involved with this man’s death?”

“My opinion is irrelevant,” I said. “It’s those cops in there we need to worry about. If there’s anything you need to tell me, now’s the time.”

“What did the stamps look like?”

“I saw some Latin or Italian words on them. One stamp was postmarked 1891.”

The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes drained of color. “I didn’t bring any stamps into this club.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay, what?” he said.

“I believe you. If the cops question you, tell them what you just said. Then say nothing else. If they press you, tell them you want a lawyer.”

“I don’t need one,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Why did you react when I mentioned the 1891 stamp?”

He paused. “I have an 1891 Monaco stamp at home.”

“Get in your car and drive back to New Iberia,” I said. “Don’t talk to anyone until I call you.”

“What’s happening here, Dave?”

“Everything will be fine,” I replied. “I promise.”

Want to know what a pompous jerk sounds like? I had just outdone myself.