"Wow. You guys work fast."

"The firm is well positioned. You'll keep me informed?"

"Of course, Ms. Chenier." Elvis Cole, Professional Detective, discourses in a professional manner.

I located Rebenack's addresses on my map of Ville Platte, then went to find him. One was a business address, the other a residence. The residential address put Jimmie Ray Rebenack in a small frame duplex on the east side of town, four blocks north of a switching station for the Southern-Pacific Railroad. It was an older neighborhood, and it wasn't particularly proud, with small unkempt houses and spotty lawns and cars and trucks that were mostly Detroit gas guzzlers in need of paint. Jimmie's Mustang was not in evidence.

I cruised the block twice, then drove to Jimmie Ray Rebenack's office two blocks north of Main above a fresh-seafood market. The seafood market was set between a barber shop and a secondhand clothes store, and there was a little stairwell between the seafood and the clothes, and a black felt and glass directory for the offices up the stairs.

I circled the block, looking for the Mustang, but as with the house the Mustang was not there. I parked around the corner, then walked back to the little directory. There were five businesses listed, and Rebenack Investigations was the third. You had to shake your head. Jimmie Ray Rebenack in his brand-new Mustang, thinking he wouldn't be noticed as he followed me all over town.

I crossed the street to a little coffee shop opposite the fish market. There was a counter and a half-dozen Formica tables spread around the place sporting overweight men in thin cotton shirts drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. A napkin dispenser sat on each of the tables, alongside a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I sat at a table in the window, watching the fish market until a sturdy woman with about a million miles on her clock came over with a coffeepot. She poured without asking, and said, "You wan" some breakfast, sugah?"

"How about a couple of hard poached eggs, toast, and grits?"

"Wheat or white?"

"Wheat."

She walked away without writing anything and left me to sip at the coffee. It was heavy with flavor and about a million times stronger than the coffee people drink in the rest of the world, sort of like espresso that's been cooked down to a sludge. Mississippi mud. I tried to pretend that I enjoyed it, and I think I did a pretty good job. Maybe the Tabasco was on the tables for the coffee. I sneaked glances at the men with their papers. Okay. If they could drink it, I could drink it.

When the waitress brought the food, I said, "Mm-mm, that coffee's some kinda strong!"

She said, "Uh-huh."

I smushed the eggs into the grits and mixed in a little butter and ate it between bites of the toast. The grits were warm and smooth and made the awful coffee easier to drink. I watched the fish market. People came and went, and a couple of times people climbed the stairs, but none of them was Jimmie Ray Rebenack. The front of the fish market was covered with hand-lettered signs saying CATFISH and LIVE CRABS and GASPERGOO $1.89. The people who patronized the fish market came out with brown paper bags that I took to be the catfish and the crabs, and, as I watched them, I wondered what a gaspergoo was and why someone might want to eat it. Another little sign had been painted on the door. WE HAVE GAR BALLS; These Cajuns know how to live, don't they?

I was halfway along my third cup of sludge when Jimmie Ray Rebenack's Mustang rumbled down the street and pulled into a metered spot outside the clothing store. Jimmie Ray fed some money into the meter, then trotted up the stairs. He was wearing blue jeans and a red western shirt and gray snakeskin boots. His pompadour looked a foot high and must've taken most of the morning to shellac into place.

I gave it a few minutes, then paid at the counter, left a hefty tip, and crossed the street to Jimmie Ray Rebenack's office.

The building was dingy and low class, with crummy linoleum floors and water-stained paint. The smell offish was strong, and seemed a part of the fiber of the building. Three offices overlooked the front street, and three overlooked the alley behind the fish market. Rebenack had the middle office over the alley. I listened for a second, didn't hear anything, then let myself in.

Jimmie Ray Rebenack was sitting behind a plain wooden desk, feet up, staring at some papers when he heard the door. He saw me, then came out of the chair as if somebody had poured hot oatmeal into his lap.

"Hey."

"Nice boots, Jimmie Ray. You going for that Joey Buttafucco look?"

"Who?" Out of the cultural loop, down here in Ville Platte. "What do you want?" He slid the papers into his desk drawer. Surreptitious.

Jimmie Ray Rebenack had sharp features and pock-marks on his neck and the pink skin of a natural redhead. Maybe an inch shorter than me, but muscular in a rawboned kind of way. Grease from his part-time mechanic's job was embedded in the thick skin of his knuckles and fingers. He'd tried to wash it off, but the grease was in deep and probably a pan of him. A lowboy gray metal file cabinet sat in one corner of the little room, and a couple of padded dinette chairs sat against the wall opposite his desk. Both of the chairs looked like they had been out in the rain, and the padding on one had been patched with duct tape. Classy. Everything in the place looked like it had been picked up at a yard sale, or maybe bought secondhand from the Louisiana public school system. There was a framed picture of Tom Selleck as Magnum sitting on top of the file cabinet.

I said, "I want to know why you're following me, Jimmie Ray."

"Man, what d' hell you talkin' 'bout? I ain't followin' you." The accent was somewhere between Cajun and French Quarter New Orleans.

I crossed his office and looked out the window. He had a view of the Dumpster behind the fish market and, beyond that, a backyard with a little tomato garden. A mayonnaise jar with a two-headed turtle floating in alcohol was on his windowsill. Keepsake, no doubt. I said, "You're Jimmie Ray Rebenack. You drive this year's Mustang, license number 213X455, and you possess Louisiana State investigator's license number KAO154509."

You could see him relax. I hadn't shot him or thrown a punch, so the surprise of my entry was wearing off and he was getting himself together. He put together a pretty good smile, sort of a Jack Nicholson number, part sneer and part smirk. He sat again, leaning back and trying to look expansive. "You made me, huh? You must be pretty good."

"Jimmie, a twelve-year-old could've made you. Why are you following me?"

"I heard you was in town and I wanted to find out why, you know? Like there might be some money in it, thas all."

"Why were you talking to Martha Guidry and Claire Fontenot and Evelyn Maggio last year?"

He frowned and dug at the inside of his teeth with his tongue. Nervous. "I don't know whatchu talkin' 'bout, man."

"C'mon, Jeffrey."

He stared at me like he was trying to think of something to say, but couldn't. I grinned at him. "Gotcha."

He frowned, not happy about it. "They got me confused with somebody else."

"With hair like that?"

He leaned forward. "Hey, podnuh, this is my town. I ain't gotta tell you dick. I know your name is Elvis Cole, and you're from Los Angeles. I know you're stayin' at the motel over here." He pointed his thumb at me and smirked. "You see? I ain't no goddamned slouch in the detectin' department, either."

"Wow. You think we could have a detect-off? You think we could duke it out for the world middleweight detective championships?" I looked at the picture of Tom Selleck. Jesus Christ.

He said, "Maybe my business is knowing your business. Maybe I figured that since you was workin' in my town, I could cut myself in." He leaned back again, grinning at me like I was supposed to believe it. "These coonies won't open up to a stranger, and I know my way around. Figured that might be worth some cash. Whatchu think?"