The Haitian twisted in his seat to look at me, but Ramon del Reyo did not move.

I said, "I know how and where Prima gets people into the country, and I've got a parish sheriff who is willing to make the case."

Del Reyo wet his lips. "It is a Justice Department case."

"My guy will make the bust and collect the evidence. Justice comes in after the fact, everything laid out and undeniable." I leaned toward him. "It's solid. My guy just wants to clean up his place of business."

The Haitian looked at del Reyo. Del Reyo said, "There is more than that, my friend."

I said, "Yes, but I'm not going to tell you."

Del Reyo said nothing.

"All you need to know is that if we can set it up well, both Escobar and Prima are over."

The Haitian said something in Spanish, but del Reyo did not respond. The Haitian said it again, and this time del Reyo snapped something angrily. He frowned at me. "What is it you want?"

"I need Escobar to make the case. That means I need to learn about the coyote business. I need to know how much it costs and how much people get paid and how Escobar works and how Prima works. I want to make Escobar think I'm in the business, and that I'm trying to cut a deal with him, so I have to know what I'm talking about. If I don't have Escobar, I can't make it happen."

Ramon del Reyo laughed. "You're a fool."

"I think you've got someone inside with Escobar. I think that's how you keep tabs on him. Help me inside, Ramon. Come on."

The Haitian said something else, and this time Ramon nodded. He didn't seem to be liking it a whole lot, but he was going along with it. He said, "Why would Frank Escobar want to see you?"

"Because he hates Prima, and I can give him Prima. And if he wants Prima dead, I can give him that, too."

Ramon smiled at me.

"We haven't identified the old man, Ramon. I want the picture."

Ramon smiled some more and shook his head. He got out of the cab and walked south on Canal. He was gone for the larger part of an hour, and when he returned there was a middle-aged Asian guy with him. The Asian guy was slight and dark and looked Cambodian. The Cambodian leaned in to look at me and Pike, then he and del Reyo stepped away from the cab to talk. After maybe ten minutes the Cambodian walked away, and Ramon came back to the cab. He spent a little less than thirty minutes with us, first describing Escobar's setup, and then Prima's. He told us how much a guy like Escobar charged to sneak someone into the country and how much a guy like Prima paid to use Milt Rossier's pumping station. Everything was related to some sort of by-the-head payment. Escobar charged so much per head to get people in. Prima paid so much per head to use Rossier's waterway. Like we were talking about cattle. Something less than human.

Del Reyo gave me a slip of paper with a phone number. "We have a man on very good terms with Escobar. He is arranging the meeting. Should anyone need a reference, have them call this number."

I put it away without looking at it.

"I will leave you now. Jesus will take you there." I guess the Haitian was Jesus. "He will drop you off and leave, and you will be alone. If something happens, we will not be there to help. Do you understand this?"

"Sure."

Ramon del Reyo walked away without another word and without looking back. No "I'll be seeing you." No "good luck." No "win one for the gipper." Maybe he knew something we didn't.

We drove north across the city toward Lake Pontchartrain, and soon we were out of the business district and driving along narrow residential streets with high curbs and plenty of oak and magnolia and banana trees, and old people in rockers on front verandas. We seemed to just sort of drive around, turning here and there, taking our time without any clear destination. Killing time. The air was warm and moist and oily like air that was vented from a low-class kitchen, and the cab smelled of sweat and body odor. Maybe the cab smelled like fear, too, but I was trying not to think of that part of it. Elvis Cole, Fearless Detective. I glanced over at Pike and he appeared to be sleeping. Passed out from fear, no doubt.

Pretty soon the neighborhoods became nicer, and we were driving along a beautiful emerald golf course and a sculpted canal, and then we were at the lake. The levee was lush and well maintained, and Jesus wound through streets now lined with mansions, some behind walls and gates but most not. We turned into a cul-de-sac fronting the levee and stopped at an enormous two-story brick home with oak trees in the front and along the sides. A couple of Japanese mountain bikes were lying on the lawn, and a Big Wheel was in the drive. You could look down the drive and see a four-car garage in the back, along with a pool house and a pool, but it seemed pretty quiet. Jesus stopped the car and said, "Just go to the door and knock. It's set up."

"Thanks, Jesus."

Jesus said, "You got a gun this time?"

"Yeah."

He nodded. "Good."

Pike and I got out of the cab, and Jesus drove away.

Amazing how alone you can feel in somebody's front yard. I looked at the bikes and the Big Wheel. "Helluva house for a hood."

Pike grunted.

The door opened before we reached it, and an attractive dark-haired woman smiled at us. She was wearing a tasteful one-piece swimming suit with a towel wrapped around her hips like a skin. She was barefoot, and her hair was wet as if she'd just gotten out of the pool. She said, "Are you Mr. Cole?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Beaming, she offered her hand. "I'm Holly Escobar. Please come in. Frank's in back."

Pike offered his hand and introduced himself. Holly Escobar said that she was happy to meet us. A little boy maybe five years old raced out between us, hopped aboard the Big Wheel, and roared around the cul-de-sac, blurrping his lips to make engine noises. He was as brown as a walnut, and wearing only baggy red swimming trunks. Holly Escobar closed the door. "He's all right out there. We don't have any traffic."

She brought us through a house that looked like anyone else's house, past family photographs and a very fine collection of riding trophies (which I took to be hers) and two older boys planted in front of a television and into a bright, homey island kitchen where a man in baggy plaid shorts was stacking sandwiches on a plastic tray. He was about my height, but younger, with heavy muscles and slicked hair and blunt fingers. He looked at us when we walked in and Holly Escobar said, "Ronnie, these are the men Frank's expecting.

Why don't you take them out and I'll finish here." She smiled back at us. "Everybody's in back."

Ronnie led us out through a couple of French doors. Three men were sitting at a round table by the pool, drinking, and a woman was on a chaise lounge, sunning herself. Like Holly Escobar, she wore a one-piece, and she looked like somebody's wife. No bimbos at the house. Two of the men were wearing baggy shirts over their shorts, probably to cover weapons, but one of the men was shirtless. Ronnie said, "Frank?"

Frank Escobar was shirtless. He was short and wide and maybe in his early fifties, with a powerful, thick-bodied build. The hair on his head was streaked with gray, but his chest hair had already gone over, a thick gray thatch. He looked over at his name, and stood up when he saw us. "Oh, yeah, hey, let's go in the pool house for this." There was a slight accent, but he'd been trying to lose it. He held up a short glass. "We're doing gin and tonics. You guys want one?" The gang lord as host.

"No. Thanks."

He said, "C'mon. We'll have some privacy in here."

He staggered when he got up, and one of the shirted guys had to catch him. Middle of the day and he was zorched. The gang lord as lush.

We filed into the pool house. Pool table. Bar. Couple of slot machines and video games. A life-sized portrait of Frank Escobar from the old days, wearing an officer's uniform in some Central American jungle, close-cropped hair and bandito mustache. The real Frank Escobar slumped into a tall chair and waved his hand at Ronnie. "Check these guys, huh? See what they got."