"It is not just the poor who wish to come here, Mr. Cole. The poor crawl under the fence at Brownsville and work as day laborers picking vegetables. The upper classes and the educated wish to come here, also, and they wish to bring their lives and professions with them. That is much more difficult than crawling under a fence."

"They want to buy an identity."

"Si. Yes. The coyote, he tells them that they are buying citizenship, you see? They will be given birth certificates, a driver's license, the social security card, all in their own names and usually with their actual birth dates. This is what they pay for, and they pay a very great deal. With these things they can bring the medical degree, the engineering degree, like that."

"And do they get what they pay for?"

"Almost never." We walked to the edge of the promenade. The river was below us, cutting a great brown swath through the city, flat and wide and somehow alive. The river's edge was prickly with loading cranes and wharfs and warehouses. He glanced at the Haitian and lowered his voice. "Four months after he came, seven members of his family also bought passage through Frank Escobar. They were put in a barge out in the Gulf, fifty-four people put into a little space ten feet by eight feet, with no food and water, and the barge was set adrift. It was an old barge, and Escobar never intended to bring them ashore. He already have his money, you see, paid in full? A tanker reported the abandoned barge, and the Coast Guard investigated. All fifty-four men, women, and children had died. It got very hot in the hold of the barge with no openings for the ventilation and no water to drink. The hatch had been dogged shut, you see?" The Haitian's skin was a deep coal black, greasy with sweat. "His rather was a dentist. He wishes to be a dentist, also, but we see." He let the thought trail away and looked back at me. "That is the way it is with men like Escobar and Prima, you see? They get the money, then fft. Life means nothing. This is why I have so much protection, you see? I try to stop these men. I try to stop their murder."

Neither of us spoke for a time. "So what about Prima?"

"I hear that he has gone into business for himself, undercutting Escobar's price."

I said, "Ah."

Del Reyo nodded.

I said, "If Prima has set up a competing business, Escobar can't like it."

He sucked on the cigarette. "Si. There is trouble between them. There is always trouble between men like this." The smoke drifted up over his eyes, making him squint. "You say you know nothing about the coyotes, yet you ask about Donaldo Prima. You say you know that he is a bad man. How do you know these things?"

"I saw his people bring a dead child off a barge sometime around eleven-thirty last night. There were other people, but only the child was dead. An old man was making a deal about it, and I saw Prima shoot the old man in the head."

Ramon del Reyo did not move. "You saw this thing?"

I nodded.

"You have proof?"

"May I reach into my pocket?"

"Yes."

I showed him the old man's picture. He held it carefully, then took a deep breath, dropped the cigarette, and stepped on it. "May I keep this?"

"The cops might need it for the identification."

He stared at it another moment, then slipped the picture into his pocket. "I will return it to you, Mr. Cole. You have my word."

I didn't say anything.

"I tell you something, and if you are smart you will listen. These men come from places of war where life has no value. They have executed hundreds, perhaps thousands. This man Frank Escobar, he has murdered many and he murders more every day. Prima himself is such a man." He seemed to have to think about how to say it. "There is so much murder in the air it is what we breathe. The taking of life has lost all meaning." He shook his head. "The gun." He shook his head again, as if in saying those two words he had summed up all he was about, or ever could be about.

I said, "What about the feds?"

Ramon del Reyo rubbed his thumb across his fingertips and said nothing.

I said, "If I wanted to take down Donaldo Prima, how could I do it?"

He looked at me with steady, soft brown eyes, then made a little shrug. "I think that by asking these things, you are looking to do good, but you will not find good here, Mr. Cole. This is a Godless place."

"I don't think you are without God, Mr. Del Reyo."

"I am afraid I will not know that until the afterlife, no?" We reached the little bench by the azaleas. Ramon del Reyo sat, and I sat with him. "We have talked enough, now. I will leave, and you will sit here for exacdy ten minutes. If you leave before then, it will be taken the wrong way and you will be killed. I am sorry to be rude in this way, but there we are."

"Of course." I imagined the man with the rifle. I imagined him watching for the sign, and I wondered what the sign might've been. A yawn, perhaps. Perhaps wiping the brow. The sign, the trigger, history.

Ramon del Reyo said, "If the man who is with you approaches, have him sit beside you and he will not be harmed."

I said, "What man?"

Ramon del Reyo laughed, then patted my leg and moved away, del Reyo and the guy with the Ray-Bans, then the others, and finally the Haitian. The Haitian made a pistol of his right hand, pointed it at me, and dropped the hammer. Then he smiled and disappeared into the crowd. What a way to live.

I sat on the lip of the bench in the damp heat and waited. My shirt was wet and clinging, and my skin felt hot and beginning to burn. Joe Pike came through the crowd and sat beside me. He said, "Look across the square, corner building, third floor, third window in."

I didn't bother looking. "Guy widi a rifle."

"Not now, but was. Did you make him?"

"They told me. They made you, Joe. They knew you were there."

Pike didn't move for a while, but you could tell he didn't like it, or didn't believe it. Finally he made a little shrug. "Did we learn anything?"

"I think."

"Is there a way out for the Boudreauxs?"

I stared off at the river, at the steady brown water flowing toward the Gulf, at the great ships headed north, up into the heart of America. I said, "Yes. Yes, I think there is. They won't like it, but I think there is." I thought about it for a time, and then I looked back at Joe Pike. "These are dangerous people, Joe. These are very dangerous people."

Pike nodded and watched/the river with me. "Yes," he said. "But so are we."

CHAPTER 29

A hot wind blew in off Lake Pontchartrain. The last of the clouds had vanished, leaving the sky a great azure dome above us, the afternoon sun a disk of white and undeniable heat. We drove with the windows down, the hot air roaring over and around us, smelling not unlike an aquarium that has been too long un-cleaned. We reached Baton Rouge, but we did not stop; we crested the bridge and continued west toward the Evangeline Parish Sheriff's Substation in Eunice, and Jo-el Boudreaux. He wouldn't be happy to see us, but I wasn't so happy about seeing him, either.

It was late afternoon when Pike and I parked in the dappled shade of a black-trunked oak and walked into the substation. A thin African-American woman with very red lips and too much rouge sat at a desk and, behind her, a tall rawboned cop with leathery skin stood at a coffee machine. The cop looked over when we walked in and watched us cross to the receptionist. Staring. I gave the receptionist one of my business cards. "We'd like to see Sheriff Boudreaux, please. He knows what it's about."

She looked at the card. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, ma'am. But he'll see us."

The rawboned cop came closer, first looking at Pike and then looking at me, as if we had put in a couple of job applications and he was about to turn us down. "The sheriff's a busy man. You got a problem, you can talk to me." His name tag said WILLETS.