A Stained White Radiance by James Lee Burke

got it. Maybe his name screwed him up. When you think of Jewel Fluck, think of a hornet somebody just poured hot water on.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t he have a record?”
    â€œHe does. In Mississippi. I think he did four or five years in Parchman.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œCutting up a colored guy who was scabbing on a job. Or something like that. Look, the only reason I know about this guy is he hid out a bail jumper I was looking for. The jumper was in the AB. I heard Fluck is, too.”
    â€œThe Aryan Brotherhood?”
    â€œIntegrated jails breed them like fungus. I used to think it was the Black Muslims we had to worry about. But this is your genuine psychopathic white trash with a political cause up their butts. Hitler would have loved them.”
    He signaled the bartender for another pitcher of beer.
    â€œSomething wrong with your oysters?” he said.
    â€œI’m just trying to figure this guy’s tie-in with Weldon Sonnier,” I said.
    â€œMaybe it was just a robbery gone bad, Dave. Maybe it’s not that complicated a deal.”
    â€œYou didn’t see the inside of the house. Theyreally did a number on it. They were after something specific.”
    â€œMaybe this Sonnier guy is holding some dope. We live in funny times. The coke money’s a big temptation. A lot of straights have nosed up to the trough.”
    â€œIt could be. When’s the last time you saw Fluck?”
    â€œA year or so ago. I don’t think he’s around town. I’ll ask around, though. Look, Dave, from what you’ve told me, this Sonnier character has invited a pile of shit into his life. He also sounds like one of these white-collar cocksuckers who think cops have about the same status as their yardmen. Maybe it’s time he learned the facts of life.”
    â€œSir, could you watch your language, please?” the bartender said.
    â€œWhat?” Clete said.
    â€œYour language.”
    â€œWhat about my language?”
    â€œWe’re okay here,” I said to the bartender. He nodded and walked farther down the bar and started mixing a drink. Clete continued to stare after him.
    â€œDoes Fluck still have relatives in New Orleans?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” he answered, his eyes coming back into mine. “His mother probably wishes she’d thrown him away and raised the afterbirth. Forget about Fluck a minute. I’ve got a thought, a funny memory about somebody. The guy with the crowbar, the one named Eddy, tell me what he looked like again.”
    â€œHishead was real big, his face full of bone. The kind you break your fist on.”
    â€œDid he have a tattoo?”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    â€œA red and yellow tiger on his right arm?”
    I tried to see it in my mind’s eye, but the only image that came back was the bone-heavy face and the ridges of muscle under the T-shirt.
    â€œMaybe I couldn’t even pull him out of a lineup with any certainty,” I said.
    â€œThere’s one guy around town, he has a head like a pumpkin. His name’s Raintree, from Baton Rouge. I don’t know his first name, though.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œI get a security retainer out at the yacht club. Sometimes I check out backgrounds on potential members, keep out the riffraff supposedly, which means the south-of-the-border crowd. The tomato pickers are very big on clubs these days. But I also do security at dances, receptions, Republican geek shows, that kind of stuff. So one night Bobby Earl has a big gig out there. It’s black-tie stuff, respectable, people from the Garden District, no Red Man spitters allowed, get the picture? You couldn’t get the word ‘nigger’ out of this bunch at gunpoint.
    â€œExcept a guy shows up who Bobby Earl wasn’t planning on. Some character from the old States’ Rights party, a real oil can, Vitalis running out of his hair, shiny suit, enough cologne