"Boy."

He had a genuinely sweet face, with no recognition in it of his own limitations.

"Maybe we'll go riding with Dave and his daughter one day," Tony said.

"That'd be fine," I said.

"There's a couple of bridle paths here, or sometimes I take Paul on trips over by Iberia Parish," Tony said. "Maybe we'll drive over, take you guys out to eat, go out for a boat ride, something like that," he said.

"Yeah, that's a good idea, Tony."

"I hear the bus," Paul said.

His father hooked his canvas book bag, which had a lunch kit strapped onto it, on the back of the chair and wheeled him down the ramp to the waiting bus. The driver lowered a special platform from the back of the bus, and he and Tony fixed the wheels of Paul's chair to it. Before the driver raised the platform, Tony leaned down and hugged his son, pressed his head against his chest, and kissed his hair.

He came back in and sat down at the table. He wore white tennis slacks and a thick white sweater with blue piping on it.

"You have a fine little podna there," I said.

"You'd better believe it. How'd you sleep last night?"

"Good."

"You like my home?"

"It's beautiful."

"I wish my mom had lived to see it. We lived in Algiers and the Irish Channel. We had colored people living next door and across the street from us. You know what my mom used to do for a living?"

I shook my head no.

"She washed the hair of corpses. She'd come home, and I could smell it on her. Not just the chemicals. That same smell when you pop a body bag. Not as strong, but that same smell. Man, I used to hate it. I think that's why she always talked about lemon and lime trees back in Sicily. She said on her father's farm there was this old Norman tower made out of rocks, and lemon and lime trees grew all around it. When it was real hot she and her sisters would play inside the rocks where it was cool, and they could smell the lemons and limes on the wind."

Two men walked into the kitchen, their faces full of sleep, and began clattering around in the cabinets.

"Where's the cereal bowls at?" one of them said. He was dark and thin; he wore slippers and his print shirt was unbuttoned and hung half out of his slacks, but he hadn't forgotten to put on his shoulder holster.

"Right-hand side," Tony said. "Look, you guys, there's eggs and bacon in the warmer out in the dining room. There's extra coffee there, too."

They shuffled around in the kitchen and didn't reply. Then they went out into the dining room. These were only two of eight hired men I had seen in the house since the night before. They had slept on couches, in the attic, the television den, and guest cottage, and had taken turns walking around on the grounds and driveway during the night.

"They're good boys, just not too sophisticated," Tony said. "Do they make you uncomfortable?"

"No."

"A couple of them made you."

I looked at him blankly.

"They can spot a cop," he said. "I told them you're all right, though. You're all right, aren't you, Dave?"

His eyes took on that strange, self-amused light again.

"You have to be the judge of that, Tony."

"I think you're a solid guy. You know what a solid con is?"

"Yes."

"You're that kind of guy. You've got character."

"Maybe you don't know everything about me."

"Maybe I know more than you think," he said, and winked.

I didn't know his game, or even if he was playing one, but I didn't like meeting his eyes. I took a bite of my soft-boiled eggs and looked out at the mist in the citrus trees.

"Where's the contract coming from?" I said,

"There's one guy in Houston that wants me out bad. Two or three in Miami. Maybe they got permission from Chicago, maybe they're acting on their own, I don't know. You heard stories about me, Dave, about some stuff I do, waving the flag around, bullshit like that?"

"I guess I have."

"That I been breaking one of the big rules, getting mixed up in politics, focusing attention on the organization?"

"That's what you hear sometimes."

"Let me tell you about a guy used to live in Plantation, Florida. You remember the name Johnny__? This guy went back to the days of Bugsy Siegel, I mean he survived gang wars for forty years. But Johnny and a couple of other guys thought they could jerk the CIA around. They told some CIA people they could whack out Castro for the government, like do a patriotic act and maybe get the casinos open in Havana again. So the CIA buys it, and the word is out that our guys are going to clip Castro. Maybe they even sent a couple of kamikaze gumballs to do it, but the bottom line is that Castro looks pretty healthy today. In other words, it looks like it was a scam to pump juice and influence out of the government. So the commission in Chicago tells these guys that what they're doing is stupid and they'd fucking better knock it off. But Johnny doesn't listen. So one day a couple of guys invite him fishing out in Biscayne Bay, except they put one in his ear, cut his legs off, and stuff him inside an oil barrel.

"They weighted the barrel down with chains, and shoved an ice pick in Johnny's stomach to break the gas bag. Nobody would have ever seen him, but they screwed it up. They missed the wall of his stomach, and he floated the barrel up.

"It makes a good story, doesn't it, about what happens when a guy decides to get political?"

"I've heard it before."

"Then maybe you also know it's bullshit. Johnny got clipped because of money. It's always money, Dave. Those guys in Miami and Houston want to take over the action on the Louisiana coast. There's four or five other guys in New Orleans they'll have to cut in, guys who are anybody's cornhorn, but the word is I'm definitely not going to be a player." He smiled and put a dripping spoonful of cereal in his mouth. "There's supposed to be some real talent in town right now. I hear it's a twenty-five-thou contract."

"Maybe it's a good time to take the family on a vacation to the islands," I said.

"They don't hurt families. We don't do that to each other. Not even these guys, Dave." But I saw the cloud slide across his face. He looked out at the lawn and rubbed his finger against his temple.

"I need to use your phone," I said. "A lady was coming up to see me at the hospital this morning."

"Who is she?" he asked, and smiled again.

"Bootsie Giacano."

"No kidding? You got good taste. She's a class broad, I mean lady. You gotta excuse my vocabulary. I went to college, but most of the time you wouldn't know it."

"You know her?"

"Sure. I own part of her business. She's nice. I like her."

I used the phone in the kitchen and told Bootsie where I was and that I would see her later.

"You're where?" she said.

I cleared my throat and told her again I was at Tony's. I could hear her breathing into the mouthpiece of the receiver.

"I won't ask you any more questions," she said. "I'm sure you know what you're doing, Dave. You know what you're doing, don't you?"

"Sure," I said, then, "I'll call you tonight. Everything's fine, kiddo."

"Yeah, sure it is," she said, and hung up.

I sat back down with Tony just as his wife came into the kitchen in a blue house robe and slippers, her face dull with sleep, her hair in pink foam-rubber curlers. She didn't speak. She filled a coffee cup from the electric pot on the Formica counter, shook two aspirins from a bottle and set them by the side of her saucer, and sat at the kitchen table with her back to us, smoking silently while she drank her coffee. The backs of her hands were coarse and heavily veined, and her nails, long and bright red, made clicking sounds when she picked up her coffee cup.

"Clara, this is Dave Robicheaux. He stayed with us last night," Tony said.

Again she didn't speak. Her blond hair was dark close to her scalp. I could see nicotine stains on her fingers, dried makeup around the corners of her mouth, her thin whitened nostrils when she breathed.