Fat Tuesday(56)

"That's a very good idea." Gregory looked relieved to have another workable plan already in place.

"I'll call Roman from the cafe," Errol said."She doesn't go anywhere without me."

They headed for the entrance to the cafe, Burke went in search of the auto mechanic. He found him inside the garage. Long, unwashed hair trailed from beneath a grimy dozer cap and lay on his bony shoulders like dirty hemp. He was wearing love beads and sandals with his greasy coveralls.

When he saw Burke, his gaunt face registered astonishment."When you was here yesterday, I didn't know you was a priest."

"Wonders never cease." Burke pressed a fifty-dollar bill into his hand.

"How quickly can you tape up that leak?"

The mechanic gestured to a roll of duct tape."Soon's it cools down, I'll hop to. Sure you don't want me to replace the hose? Ain't nothing to it. Tape won't hold her for long."

"Taping's fine. How long? Ten minutes?"

He sucked on his stubby, yellow teeth."Iffy. It's mighty hot."

Burke passed him a twenty."Wear gloves. The keys are in the van.

When you're done, pull it up out front and leave the motor running."

"Will do. Only, I don't get it. How come you rigged your own radiator hose to bust?"

"The Lord moves in mysterious ways."

Burke went into the crowded cafe and wove his way through the tables to join the party of three already seated."We ordered you coffee." \.

"Thank you, Father Gregory."

"Did you speak with a mechanic?" asked Mrs. Duvall.

Sending smiles around the table, he told them confidently that the van would be repaired shortly. A waitress served their coffees. While sipping his, Burke surveyed the room with affected casualness, but mounting concern.

He had checked out the cafe yesterday afternoon, when he made arrangements with the mechanic, who had told him that puncturing the radiator hose before they set out would guarantee that they wouldn't get far before it started boiling dry. This place had been perfect for his plan. It was in a rural area, at least four miles from the nearest local police force or sheriff's office. He'd been here just after lunch. With the exception of two tired waitresses, a chain-smoking cashier watching a soap opera on a portable TV, and a handful of desultory diners, the place had been empty.

Burke had figured that business might increase around dinnertime when a few locals would come in. Otherwise, it was a quiet, slow, sleepy place that catered to the occasional motorist who grabbed a bite to eat while getting the car filled up.

Unfortunately he'd miscalculated. It was now apparent that the Crossroads was a happy-hour watering hole for blue-collar workers who knocked off early and stopped here for a brew or two on their way home.

The cafe was far more crowded than he had planned on it being.

Cajun music blared from the jukebox that hadn't even been playing when he was here yesterday. Every table and booth was occupied, as well as every stool at the counter. Another problem was the demographics of the clientele. With the exception of the two priests, the babe, and the bodyguard, they were testosterone-powered, redneck regulars.

The center of their attention was Pinkie Duvall's wife.

Every man in the place was licking his chops, some literally, some figuratively, but all seemed to be pondering what a crotch-throb like her was doing in the company of two men of God and a meathead.

However, Errol wasn't as stupid as he looked."Mr. Duvall isn't gonna like this," he said, glaring back at one of the gawking rednecks "I called the house. Roman was out on an errand, but he's expected back in about ..." he checked his wristwatch "twenty more minutes."

"We'll be able to drive the van by then."

Burke's reassurance did nothing to assuage Errol's apprehension or to calm Gregory's jitters. Beneath the table his leg was bouncing up and down as rapidly as the motorized needle on a Singer. The nervous motion was driving Burke to distraction, and he was on the verge of telling him to cut it out when Gregory scooted his chair back and stood up.

"Excuse me." He left the table and headed for the men's room.

"Maybe I ought to call Mr. Duvall?" Errol ventured, putting it to Mrs. Duvall in the form of a question."He could send Bardo or somebody after us."

"I'd rather not bother him," she said.

"You're worrying for nothing, Errol." Burke's facial muscles strained to smile like a benevolent cleric."The mechanic promised it wouldn't take more than ten minutes to patch the hose. As soon as Mrs. Duvall finishes that second cup of coffee, we can be on our way. All right?"

"I guess," Errol grumbled."All I know is, Mr. Duvall isn't going to "Goddamn faggot!"

The shout was underscored by shattering glass. Like everyone else in the cafe, Remy Duvall and Errol turned to see what had caused such an outburst. Burke shot to his feet."Shit!"

Gregory lay whimpering on the floor, doused in spilled beer, and cowering from the man who reached down and grabbed him by the nape of his neck and his belt and jerked him to his feet.

In a rough, uncultured, and unmerciful voice, he told the room at large, "There I am, taking a piss, and I look over, and this twisted f*ck is waving it at me." He planted his boot on Gregory's backside and sent him crashing into another table."I'm gonna make the little f*cker wish he was dead."