Dickie lurched up to the top-floor suite of the swank hotel on Chartres Street and pounded on the door. It was almost midnight.
“Who is it?” a female voice asked.
“DEA!” said Dickie Lockhart. “Open the fuck up!”
The door opened and a beautiful long-haired woman stood there; at least she seemed beautiful to Dickie Lockhart. An apparition, really. She was wearing canvas hip waders and nothing else. Her lovely breasts poked out in a friendly way from under the suspenders. For a moment Dickie almost forgot he was supposed to be with the DEA.
“I got a warrant for Charles Weeb,” he snarled.
“What’s with the fishing pole?” the naked wader asked.
Dickie Lockhart had been carrying a nine-foot boron fly rod all night long. He couldn’t remember why. Somebody in a bar had given it to him; another damn salesman, probably.
“It’s not a fishing rod, so shut up!”
“Yes, it is,” said the woman.
“It’s a heroin probe,” Dickie Lockhart said. “Now stand back.” He brushed past her and marched into the living room of the suite, but the reverend was not there. Dickie headed for the master bedroom, the woman clomping after him in the heavy waders.
“Have you got a warrant?” she asked.
Dickie found the Reverend Charles Weeb lying on his back in bed. Another young woman was on top of him, bouncing happily. This one was wearing a Saints jersey, number 12.
From behind Dickie Lockhart the bare-breasted wader announced: “Charlie, there’s a man here to arrest you.”
Weeb looked up irritably, fastened his angry eyes on Dickie Lockhart, and said: “Be gone, sinner!”
It occurred to Dickie that maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to stop by unannounced. He went back to the living room, turned on the television, and slumped on the couch. The woman in the waders fixed him a bourbon. She said her name was Ellen O’Something and that she had recently been promoted to executive secretary of the First Pentecostal Church of Exemptive Redemption, of which the Reverend Charles Weeb was founder and spiritual masthead. She apologized for answering the door half-naked, said the waders weren’t really her idea. Dickie Lockhart said he understood, thought she looked darn good in them. He told her to watch out for chafing, though, said he spoke from experience.
“Nice fly rod,” she remarked.
“Not for bass,” Dickie Lockhart said. “The action’s too fast for poppers.”
The woman nodded. “I was thinking more about streamers,” she said. “A Muddler Minnow, for instance. Say a four or a six.”
“Sure,” Dickie Lockhart said, dumbstruck, dizzy, madly in love. “Sure, with the boron you could throw a size four, you bet. Do you fish?”
At that moment the Reverend Charles Weeb thundered into the room with a mauve towel wrapped around his midsection. The apparition excused herself and clomped off to a bedroom. Dickie Lockhart’s heart ached. He was sure he’d never see her again, Charles Weeb would make sure of that.
“Son, what in the name of holy fuck is the matter with you?” the clergyman began. “What demon has possessed you, what poison serpent, what diseased fucking germ has invaded your brain and robbed you of all common sense? What in the name of Our Savior Jesus were you thinking when you knocked on my door tonight?”
“I’m fairly plastered,” Dickie Lockhart said.
“Well, so you are. But see what you’ve done. That young lady in there—”
“The quarterback?”
“Hush! That young lady was on the brink of a profound revelation when you burst in and interrupted our collective concentration. I don’t appreciate that, Dickie, and neither does she.”
“The night’s young,” Dickie Lockhart said. “You can try again.”
The Reverend Weeb glowered. “Why did you come here?”
Dickie shrugged. “I wanted to talk.”
“About what?” Weeb hiked up the towel to cover the pale fatty roll of shrimp-colored belly. “What was so all-fired important that you would invade my personal privacy at this hour?”
“The show,” Dickie said, emboldened by Ellen’s bourbon. “I just don’t think you fully appreciate the show. I think you take me for granted, Reverend Weeb.”
“Is that right?”
Dickie Lockhart stood up. It wasn’t easy. He pointed the nine-foot boron fly rod directly at Reverend Weeb’s midsection, so that the tip tickled the gray curly hair.