"Jesus Christ."

"Pardon me, sir?"

"Is this Sid Markowitz's office?"

"It is, sir. May I help you?"

I didn't know what to say.

"Sir?"

"Does someone named Leon Williams work there?"

"No, sir."

"How about someone named Sandi?"

"No, sir. Who's calling, please?"

I said, "Tell Sid it's Elvis Cole, the Lied-to Detective."

"Pardon me?"

I hung up and dialed the other L.A. number. A young woman's voice said, "Jodi Taylor's office."

I went through it again. No Leon Williams. No Sandi. I hung up.

In the past three months, Jimmie Ray Rebenack had made seven calls to Sid Markowitz, one of the calls lasting almost an hour and one of the calls lasting thirty-five minutes. They were lengthy calls implying meaningful conversation. The longest call was made just three days before Jimmie Ray Rebenack deposited $30,000 in his checking account. My, my.

I put down the phone and stretched out on the floor and thought about things. A large monetary payoff seemed to imply the "B" word. But if Jodi Taylor was in fact being blackmailed, why not tell me that and hire me to find out who was doing it? Of course, since Sid had spent so much time on the phone with Jimmie Ray, it looked as if they already knew who was doing it and, besides that, what was there to blackmail her with? That she was adopted? That had already been in People. Jodi Taylor spoke of it publicly and often. Maybe they wanted me to get their money back. That seemed reasonable. Then again, it would seem even more reasonable if they had told me the score. I went back to the phone and called Sid Markowitz again. The same young man answered. I said, "This is Elvis Cole. May I speak with Sid?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cole, but he's not in." Great.

"Would you have him call me, please?"

"Of course."

I left the motel number and I called Jodi Taylor again, but she, too, was unavailable. I was getting angry at having been lied to and I wanted to know what was going on. I got up and paced around the room, and then I called Lucy's office again. Still not in. Nobody was in. Maybe I should leave and then I wouldn't be in, either. I looked up Jimmie Ray's office number, dialed, and hung up on the twenty-sixth ring. Another one. I decided to go back to Jimmie Ray's house and wait for him.

I gathered together the documents and the articles and hid them between the mattress and box spring. The Dan Wesson was too big to wear at my ankle, so I clipped the holster on the inside of my waistband and pulled out my shirt to hang over it. Neatness counts, but bullets often count more.

I had locked my room and was getting into my car when LeRoy Bennett and his sidekick René drove up. LeRoy showed me a Colt Government.45. "Get in," he said. "We goin' f' a little ride."

I guess Jimmie Ray would have to wait.

CHAPTER 11

I said, "Well, well. Bill and Hillary."

LeRoy lowered his gun. "Knew we'd see you again, podnuh." He tilted his head toward the backseat. "C'mon. Don't make ol' René have to get out."

René was in the backseat. His eyes were filmy and moved independently of each other, and I was struck again with the sense that maybe he was here with us, but maybe not. I said, "What if I won't go?"

LeRoy laughed. "Knock off da bullshit and les' go."

I said, "Tell me something, is René for real or did someone build him out of spare parts?"

René shifted and the Polara squeaked on its springs. He had to tip in at close to four hundred pounds. Maybe more. LeRoy said, "Get in front wi' me. René, he won't fit up front. He ride in back."

I got in and they brought me south through Ville Platte and down along the highway to Milt Rossier's Crawfish Farm. We drove slowly up between the ponds and along the oyster shell road past a couple of long, low cinder block buildings. The buildings had great sliding doors and the doors were open and you could see inside. Hispanic men driving little tractors towed open tanks alive with wiggling catfish into the near building. There, Hispanic women working at large flat tables scooped up the catfish, lopped off their heads, then gutted and skinned them with thin knives. Other men drove trucks filled with crawfish into the far building where women washed and sorted and bagged the crawfish in heavy burlap bags. With the windows down and no air conditioning, the crunching oyster shells were loud in the car and sounded like breaking bones. Jimmie Ray Rebenack's Mustang was parked on the far side of the processing sheds, and Jimmie Ray was standing with Milt Rossier at one of the ponds. LeRoy parked by the nearest building and said, "Here we go."

We got out and went over to them.

Milt Rossier was in his early sixties, with blotched crêpey skin and cheap clothes and a gut that hung well out over his belt. The short stub of a cigar was fixed in one side of his mouth, and his hands were pale and freckled with liver spots. He wore a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves down and cuffed at his wrists, and he was wearing the Panama hat again. Sensitive to the sun, no doubt. Milt said, "My name is Milt Rossier. They tell me you're some kinda private investigator."

"Did they?" René walked past us to the edge of the pond and stared into the water.

"Mm-hmm." The cigar shifted around in the side of his mouth. "What you doin' heah?"

"LeRoy brought me."

Rossier frowned. "I don' mean heah, I mean in my town. You been makin' waves in my town, and I want it to stop. You got no bidniss heah."

I said, "Wrong, Milt. I do have business here."

Jimmie Ray said, "He was with some woman, Milt. Some kinda attorney." I looked at Jimmie Ray and grinned. He couldn't have known that unless Sheriff Jo-el Boudreaux had told him.

I said, "I've been trying to find you, Jimmie Ray. I've been in your house."

Jimmie Ray looked at me as if I'd just shot him in the foot, but then he turned a very bright red. He said, "Well, we'll see about that. That ain't why you're here."

René suddenly dropped to his knees at the edge of the pond and reached into the water. He moved faster than I would have thought possible for such a large man. One moment out of the water, the next in. He lifted out something black and wiggling and bit it. The wiggling stopped.

LeRoy yelled, "Goddammit, René! You stop that!"

René dropped what was left back into the pond.

"Spit it out."

René spit something red and black and glistening into the grass. He walked a few feet away and sat down. LeRoy squinted after him, then hurried over for a closer look. "Goddammit, he's sittin' in red ants. Get up, fou!" René lumbered to his feet, and LeRoy brushed at his pants. "Fi de chien! Emplate!"

Milt Rossier shook his head, then took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. It had to be a hundred degrees in the sun, and the sweat seeped out but had nowhere to go with the humidity. He said, "That boy is a trial."

"I'll bet."

He looked back at me. "You know anythin' about me, son?"

"I can guess."

"Don't let's guess. I got business interests all over this parish, and I have to protect those interests. It's the dollah, you see?"

"Sure."

"Someone from outta town comes in, diggin' aroun', that can push things outta kilter." He took out the cigar, examined it, then put it back in his mouth. "Why you heah, son?"

"I'm here because you're blackmailing my client."

He stared at me, and when he did I could tell that he didn't know. I looked at Jimmie Ray, who was squirming like something from one of the ponds. It wasn't Rossier; it was Jimmie Ray, all by his lonesome. I said, "I'm here because this asshole is blackmailing a woman in California."

Jimmie Ray shrieked, "That's a goddamned lie!" He waved a hand at Milt Rossier. "That's pure bullshit, Milt! He's makin' this shit up!"