Armand allowed himself a puzzled frown at that one. For the first time since the stranger started talking, Fortier had drawn a blank. He knew nothing of dead Gypsies, nor was he especially concerned.
"Oh, wait," the stranger said. "You didn't know about the Gypsies, did you? My guess is that Leon was working on his own."
The name set Armand's scalp to prickling, but he couldn't scratch it, even if he had been willing to display surprise-which he was not.
"Who's Leon?" he inquired, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.
The stranger grinned, a predatory flash of strong white teeth. "You haven't started going senile, have you, Armand? Hey, I know it happens, but you're young yet. Got your whole life still in front of you, if you call this living."
Fortier ignored the taunt and shook his head, in case they had a camera running, in addition to the audio. "This Leon don't mean shit to me," he said. "Don't know him. Don't know anything about no Gypsies."
"I believe you," said the stranger. "Well, the last part, anyway. See, how I figure it, Leon found out one of the Gypsies had a line on him, so he decided what the hell? He didn't know which one it was, so why not take 'em all? Of course, he missed a few. The one he wanted, in particular. Tough luck that sheriff's squad car passing on routine patrol."
Another troop of phantom ants swarmed over Armand's scalp and down his back. He ground his teeth, felt tremors starting in his knees and willed them to be gone.
"You got this guy, how come you come and bother me?"
"Did I say that?" The stranger frowned. "I don't think so. No, see, your wild man got away."
"Ain't none of mine," the Cajun said. Relief coursed through his veins, reviving him as fresh air does a drowning man.
"Or should I say your loup-garou?"
It hit him like a slap across the face, but Armand didn't flinch. At least, he didn't think he had. "You're a crazy fool," he said, and forced a bark of nervous laughter. "Believing old wives' tales like that. You got some garlic in your pocket?"
"That's for vampires," said the stranger. "Trust me. "
"Shee-it. I wouldn't know."
"About the loup-garou? That's strange, you know, because I had a talk with several of your men last night, and they were very helpful."
"Bullshit." It was coming at him much too quickly now. Armand could think of nothing else to say.
"You know Etienne DuBois? Friends call him Ham? I grant you, he's a little on the porky side, but hey, that gives you one more thing in common."
"I don't know no Etienne What's-his-face," Armand replied.
"That's weird, because he sure as hell knows you. In case you're wondering, he gave me Leon's name. Your other four gorillas helped fill in the blanks."
"Bullshit." With less conviction this time. "Ham, gorillas, loup-garou. Sound like you talkin' about some kinda zoo."
"Hey, that's not bad." The stranger grinned. "Too bad for you, these apes could talk. Did you see Congo, by the way? They weren't quite that advanced but they came up with the answers I needed."
The Cajun's mind was reeling; he had no small difficulty keeping the reaction from his face. He knew the pig DuBois, of course. As for the others, if he found out any of his men had spoken to this stranger, any stranger, he would see them dead before the week was out.
"I don't know what you want with me," he said at last. It sounded lame, but he could think of nothing else to say without tipping his hand, in some way admitting guilty knowledge of the crimes this stranger was discussing.
"That's okay," the stranger said. "Mostly, the reason why I'm here is to remind you that there's different kinds of justice, see? Sometimes the system works all right, but other times it gets clogged like a drain, and little bits of crud start floating to the top. See what I'm saying?"
"Can't say that I do."
"Okay, let's put it this way. I'm the plumber. When the drain backs up, I have to ream it out. I don't involve the courts, see what I'm saying?"
"That supposed to be a threat?"
The stranger smiled, stepped forward, reached down with his right hand for a corner of the wooden table. With his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the inch-thick oak and gave a twist, as if it were nothing, and a jagged piece of wood snapped right off in his hand. It left a scalloped wound perhaps two inches wide, as if the father of all termites had been gnawing on the table.
"Call it food for thought," the stranger said, as he advanced and slipped the piece of wood into Fortier's hand. That said, he brushed past the Cajun godfather and rapped his knuckles on the metal door.
"We're done in here," he told the guard outside. Armand Fortier was trembling in his chains when Eulus Carroll came to fetch him back, and he couldn't have said if it was fear or rage. Perhaps some combination of the two.
"Let's go, shithead," the black man ordered.
"Not so fast," said Fortier. "I need to use the telephone."
A PHONE CALL from the joint could only be bad news. First thing, the convicts always had to call collect, since none of them had calling cards inside, and that meant money out of pocket if you took the call. Worse yet, as soon as Bettencourt found out it was Atlanta calling, then he knew it had to be Armand, and Armand never simply called to pass the time of day, much less to share glad tidings. He called to give instructions or to bitch and moan, more often all of the above, the orders springing typically from some complaint that had occurred to him while he was sitting on his ass and killing time.
Still, turning down the call wasn't an option. Bettencourt's houseman was under orders to accept the charges, and he found Merle in the playroom, working on a solitary game of nine ball.
"Boss's on the phone," he said, and wandered off to God knew where.
Merle felt like yelling after him that he was the boss, but it would have been a waste of breath, aside from downright dangerous. Instead, he made a beeline for the nearest telephone and lifted the receiver. "Hey, Armand."
"Hey, Merle."
"Is this line like, you know, safe?"
"How should I know?" Armand snapped at him. "I'm callin' from the damn joint."
"Oh, yeah. What's up?"
"What's up is I just had a visitor," the Cajun godfather replied.
"Who is that?"
"I didn't catch his name, all right?"
That seemed a little odd to Merle, a total stranger showing up to visit at the federal pen and he forgets to give his name, but Bettencourt suspected that wasn't the problem Fortier had called up to discuss. "So, what'd he want?"
"Came by to tell me he been talkin' to some boys down your way," Fortier replied.
"My boys." You could at least have said our boys, Merle thought, but kept it to himself. And said, "Talkin' about what?"
"This thing with Leon," Fortier replied.
"Aw, merde. "