Fat Tuesday(121)

Pinkie was gripping the telephone so tightly his knuckles were white.

The diamond ring was digging painful rims into his small finger.

But he couldn't counter Pat's statements, and he was certain Pat was aware of that.

"May I be frank?" Without waiting for permission, Pat continued: "All indications are that this is a domestic matter. The solution to it doesn't rest with law enforcement authorities, but with you and your wife. And perhaps Basile. I suggest you work it out among yourselves."

Later, Pinkie wasn't sure how he'd managed to control his temper, but it had taken tremendous restraint. Pat's sanctimonious remarks tested it to the limit.

"Thank you for the advice, Pat, but I don't need any lessons from you on how to handle my wife. You'd like to think the matter is closed, wouldn't you? You'd like to tie it up in a neat bow and consider it over and done with. Because through this whole ordeal, you've protected your boy, Basile, and you'd be relieved if he came through it without too many dents and dings."

Constantly paranoid that his telephones were bugged, Pinkie was too smart to outline his plans for Basile via fiber optics. He'd already told Pat, perhaps ill-advisedly, that he planned to eliminate the former narc. He saw no reason to reiterate those plans now.

He did, however, want Pat to know that his attitude and lack of cooperation would be remembered."You can kiss goodbye your ambitions for the number-one spot in the N.O.P.D, Pat. From this minute forward, enemies are going to be charging you from all sides. You can count on it."

To Pat's credit, he kept his cool."I've dispatched a police helicopter to take me to Jefferson Parish. I'll personally escort Mrs. Duvall home. We should arrive in a couple of hours." Then the cordless phone went dead in Pinkie's hand.

Roman approached, asking tentatively, "Is Mrs. Duvall returning home today, sir?"

"That's right, Roman."

"Praise Jesus."

"Hmm. Yes." Deep in thought, Pinkie rapidly drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. After a moment, he looked up at the butler and smiled.

"I think this calls for a blow-out celebration, don't you?"

"Then you haven't forgotten, sir, that today is Mardi Gras? Our last day to party for a while."

"No, Roman, I hadn't forgotten. I've just been preoccupied. I had every intention of hosting a party. Here. Tonight. Will you see to it that preparations are made?"

"Already done, sir."

Roman rushed out to share the happy news with the rest of the staff.

Pinkie punched in Bardo's telephone number."Remy's been found."

"Where?"

"I'll give you the details later. Pat is delivering her."

"Basile?"

"Presently unaccounted for."

"So what do you want me to do now?"

"What we discussed last night."

"Even though Mrs. Duvall is coming home?"

Pinkie stared at the empty dining chair in which Remy usually sat.

"Especially since Mrs. Duvall is coming home."

Sister Beatrice's lips were pursed with stern disapproval."This is highly irregular."

"Yeah, well, it might be irregular, but that's what Mr. Duvall wants."

Wayne Bardo's arrogance communicated that he wasn't impressed either by her nun's habit or her reverent base of operation. Far as he was concerned, she was just another broad giving him a hassle. He could go over, around, or through her, but she wasn't going to keep him from doing what Duvall was paying him to do.

"I'm calling Mr. Duvall and speaking with him personally."

"Fine. You do that, sister."

Bardo slid her telephone across her desk toward her, then, with a notable lack of respect, sat down without an invitation to do so and propped his ankle on his opposite knee. He whistled tunelessly through his teeth as she placed a call to the Duvall residence.

"Mr. Duvall, please. This is Sister Beatrice at the Blessed Heart Academy. It's imperative that I speak with him."

Smirking, Wayne Bardo listened to her side of the conversation as she verified that Duvall had sent him to the school to pick up his sister-in-law.

"And Mrs. Duvall approves of these arrangements?" she asked. After a moment, she murmured, "I see. Very well, Mr. Duvall. Forgive me for troubling you, but please understand that I'm concerned for Flarra's safety." At that, she glared at Bardo, who flashed her his most beguiling smile.

When she hung up, he said, "Everything cool?"

"Yes, everything's cool."

She was so cool she was downright icy as she stood and rounded her desk, her traditional habit rustling and her rosary beads clacking.

"I'll notify Flarra to gather her things. She'll be with you shortly."

"Shortly" turned out to be twenty minutes. By that time, the place was beginning to get on Bardo's nerves, what with the painting of a bloody, crucified Christ staring at him with soulful eyes that seemed to follow him as he meandered around her office. Saints and angels floating around on pink clouds condemned him from their ornate gilt frames. He could swear the statue of some soldier saint standing in the corner raised his righteous sword against him. All that religious shit was enough to give anybody the creeps.