"What?" My hand went toward the drawer of the nightstand.

"No," he said, took my wrist, and pushed my arm back on the bed.

"What are you-"

"How scared you ever been?" he repeated. His eyes were absolutely black and glazed with light, as though they had no pupils.

I was sitting straight up now. The front door was halfway open, and leaves and mist were blowing inside the living room.

"Listen, Tony-"

"It was after you got hit, wasn't it? When you had to lie in the dark by yourself and think about it."

I couldn't smell alcohol on him. Then I looked again at his eyes, the lidless intensity, the heat that was like a match burning inside of black glass.

"Admit it," he said.

"I was scared every minute I was over there. Who cares? You're speeding, Tony."

Then I saw him raise the revolver from between his tights.

"You know how you overcome it?" he said.

I looked at the gateman. His face was empty of expression, beaded with raindrops.

"You confront the dragon," Tony said.

"Ease up, partner. This isn't your style."

"What the fuck you know about my style?"

"I didn't do it to you. I don't have anything to do with your life. You're taking it to the wrong guy."

"You're the right guy. You know you're the right guy."

"Everybody was afraid over there. It's just human. What's the matter with you?"

"You buy that? I say fuck you. You stare it in the face. Can you stare it in the face?"

His mouth looked purple in the glow from the window. His ears were like tiny white cauliflowers pressed against his scalp.

"I think you're loaded, Tony. I think we're talking black beauties here. I'm not going to help you with this bullshit. Go fuck yourself."

I could see his thin nostrils quiver as he breathed. He rested the revolver on the top of his right thigh. Then he said, "This is how you do it, my man."

He flipped out the cylinder from the frame and ejected six.38 cartridges into his palm. He clinked them all into his coat pocket except one. He fitted it into a chamber and snapped the cylinder back into place.

"Tony, pull the plug on this before it goes any further. It's not worth it," I said.

He set the hammer on half cock, spun the cylinder twice, then brought the hammer all the way back with his thumb and fitted the barrel's opening under his chin. The skin of his face became as stiff and gray as cardboard, his eyes focused on a distant thought somewhere behind my ear. Then he pulled the trigger.

"Jesus Christ, Tony," I heard the gateman say, his breath rushing out of his chest.

Tony put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, opened the cylinder again, and fitted the five rounds from his pocket back into the chambers.

"It wasn't even close, two chambers away from the firing pin," he said. "Don't ever let me see pity in your face when you look at me and my little boy again."

A solitary drop of water fell out of his hair and spotted the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

CHAPTER 7

The next morning the streets in the Quarter were thick with mist, and I could hear the foghorns of tugs and oil barges out on the river. I had coffee and beignets at a table inside the Café du Monde; then the sun broke out of the clouds and Jackson Square looked bright and wet and green after the night's rain. I walked over to Ray Fontenot's T-shirt shop on Bourbon and found him practicing his trombone in a small weed-grown, rubble-strewn courtyard in back. He wore a purple turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and shades, even though there was little sunlight in the enclosure. He was not a gelatinous man. The rings of fat across his stomach looked hard, the kind your fist would do little harm to.

My conversation with him did not go well.

"So we're agreed on everything," he said. "You'll bring your boat over from Morgan City, and we'll take a little tarpon-fishing trip out on the salt. By the way, what's your boat doing in Morgan City if you live in New Iberia?"

"I just had the engine overhauled."

"That's good. And you'll have all the money?"

"That's right."

"Because we want lots of product for all the little boys and girls. It's what keeps everybody's genitalia humming. Like little nests of bees."

"Day after tomorrow, two a.m. at Cocodrie. Dress warm. It'll be cold out there," I said, and started to leave.

"Thank you, kind sir. But there's one change."

He drained the spittle out of his trombone slide onto the weeds at his feet.

"What's that?" I said.

"Your friend Purcel is not going with us."

"He's my business partner. He's in."

"Not on this trip."

"Why not?"

"He hasn't quite learned how to behave. Besides, we don't need him."

"Listen, Fontenot, if Clete gave you a bad time over Tony's phone number, that's a personal beef you work out on your own. This is business."

"He no play-a, he no go-a."

"What does Tony say?"

"I make the deals for Tony, I make the terms. When you talk to me, it's just like you're talking to Tony."

"You mind if I make a call?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way, good sir." He took off his sunglasses and smiled. His eyes were flat and dead and looked as if they belonged in another face.

I used the telephone in Fontenot's office. I could hear him blowing into his trombone.

"Hey, good morning. How you doing today?" Tony Cardo said.

"I'm fine."

"Sure?"

"I'm just fine, Tony."

"You don't have a hard-on about last night?"

"You've got your own point of view about things. I don't want to intrude upon it."

"I got strong emotions. About family stuff. I get a little weird sometimes. You got to bear with me."

"I respect your feelings, Tony."

"You don't rattle, do you?"

"Morning and night, podna. I've got a problem here. Ray doesn't want my friend along on the tarpon trip."

"That's too bad."

"I think my friend should be able to go."

"I can't interfere, Dave. It's Ray's call."

"He's got his nose bent out of joint over a personal affront. It's not the way a pro does things."

"Indulge the man."

"He's a fat shit, Tony."

"Hey, catch a big fish for me. And I want you out to dinner this weekend. Bring your buddy, too. I like him."

He hung up the phone. Ray Fontenot stood in the doorway to the courtyard, his eyes filled with merriment, his tongue thick and pink on his teeth.

At noon I went to Clete's to pick him up for lunch. We drove in his car to a Fat Albert's off St. Charles and ordered paper plates of red beans and dirty rice with lengths of sausage. It was warm enough to eat outside, and we sat at a green-painted picnic table under a live oak whose roots had lifted up the slabs of sidewalk and cracked the edge of the parking lot. Out on St. Charles I saw the old iron streetcar rattle past the palm trees on the esplanade.

I told Clete about my conversation that morning with Fontenot. He chewed quietly without speaking, his green eyes thoughtful. I waited for him to say something. He didn't.

"Anyway, he says you're out, and Cardo backed him up."

He wiped the juice from his sausage off his mouth with a paper napkin, then sucked on the corner of his lip.

"I'd be careful," he said.

"What are you thinking?"

"He's up to something."

"I think he just doesn't like you. What did you do to him to get Cardo's phone number?"

"Nothing."

"Clete?"

"I told him I wasn't leaving till I got the number. I made a little noise in front of his customers. I didn't touch him."

"It surprises you he doesn't want to see you again?"

"What if I have another talk with him?"

"That's out. The deal has to go through."

"I'm worried about you, mon. You're not seeing things straight. You're doing the grunt work for the DEA, they take the glory. There's something else to think about, too. How's a drug buy out on the salt going to put Cardo away?"