"Did you see someone besides the postman up by the mailbox?" I asked.

He squinted his eyes in the glare and thought for a moment. The backs of his hands were shiny with fish mucus.

"A man pass on a mortorsickle," he said.

"Did he stop?"

"Yeah, I t'ink he stopped. Yeah, he sho' did."

"What did he look like?"

"I ain't real sure. I ain't paid him much mind, Dave. Somet'ing wrong?"

"It's nothing to worry about."

Batist tapped his spoon on the dock.

"I 'member he was dressed funny," he said. "He didn't have no shirt but he wore them Vings on his pants, what you call them t'ings, you see them in the movies."

I tried to visualize what he meant, but I was at a loss, as I often was when I tried to talk with Batist in either English or French.

"What movies?" I said.

"The cowboy movies."

"Chaps? Big leather floppy things that fit over the legs?"

"Yeah, that's it. They was black, and he had tattoos on his back. And he had long hair, too."

"What kind of tattoos?"

"I don't 'member that."

"Okay, partner. That's not bad."

"What ain't bad?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Worry about what?"

"Nothing. I'm going up to the house for lunch now. If you see this guy again, call me. But don't mess with him. Okay?"

"This is a bad guy?"

"Maybe."

"This is a bad guy, but Batist ain't suppose to worry, no. You somet'ing else, Dave. Lord, if you ain't."

He went back to scraping the fish with his spoon. I started to speak again, but I had learned long ago to leave Batist alone when I had offended him by underestimating his perception of a situation.

I walked up to the house, and Bootsie and I ate lunch on the redwood table under the mimosa tree in the backyard.

She wore a flowered sundress, and had put on lipstick and earrings, which she seldom did in the middle of the day.

"How do you like the sandwich?" she said.

"It's really good." It was, too. Ham and onion and horseradish, one of my favorites.

"Did something happen today?"

"No, not really."

"Nothing happened?"

"Somebody put some money in our mailbox. It's a bribery attempt. Batist thinks it was a guy on a motorcycle.

Somebody with riding chaps and tattoos on his back. So kind of look out for him, although I doubt he'll be back."

"Is this about Weldon Sonnier?"

"Yeah, I think Clete and I shook up somebody's cookie bag when we went to Bobby Earl's house."

"You think Bobby Earl's trying to bribe you?"

"No, he's slicker than that. It's probably coming from somewhere else, maybe somebody who's connected with him. I'm not sure."

"You got a call from Drew Sonnier."

"Oh?"

"Why did she call here, Dave?"

"I left my card at her house this morning."

"At her house. I see."

"Lyle said somebody broke into her house."

"Doesn't that involve the city police, not the sheriff's department?"

"She didn't report it to them."

"I see. So you're investigating?"

I looked at the mallards splashing on the pond at the back of our property.

"I promised Lyle I'd talk to her."

"Lyle made you promise? Is that right? I had the impression that you had a low opinion of Lyle."

"Ease up, Boots. This case is a pain in the butt as it is."

"I'm sure that it is. Why don't we ask Drew over sometime? I haven't seen her in a long time."

"Because I'm not interested in seeing Drew."

"I think she's very nice. I've always been fond of her."

"What should I do, Boots? Pretend she's not part of this case?"

"Why should you do that? I don't think you should do that at all."

I could see the peculiar cast coming into her eyes, as though inside her head she had seen a thought or a conclusion that should have been as obvious to the rest of the world as it was to her.

"Let's go to the track tonight," I said.

"Let's do. Will you call her this afternoon? I think you should."

I tried to read what was in her eyes. The mood swings, the distorted and fearful perception, took place sometimes as quickly as a bird flying in and out of a cage.

"I might talk to her," I said, and put my hand on top of hers, "but I don't think she'll be much help in the case. The Sonniers don't trust other people. But I have to try to do what I can."

"Of course you do, Dave. Nobody said otherwise." And she looked off at the periwinkles blowing in the shade next to the coulee. The light in her eyes was as private as a solcandle burning in a church.

"We'll take Alafair to Possum's for gtoufge before we go to the track," I said. "Or maybe we can just come home and rent a movie."

"That would be wonderful."

"The sandwiches were really good. It's sure nice to come home and have lunch with you, Boots. Maybe after I close the drawer on this case, I might take leave of the department. We're doing pretty well at the dock."

"Don't fool yourself. You'll never stop being a cop, Dave."

I looked into her eyes again, and they were suddenly clear, as though the breeze had blown a dark object away from her line of vision.

I squeezed her hand, rose from the wood bench, and went around behind her and kissed her hair and hugged her against me. I could feel her heart beating under my arms.

At the office I gave the sheriff the envelope containing the two thousand dollars and the unsigned letter.

"It must be a cheap outfit," he said. "You'd think they'd pay a little more to get a cop on the pad."

He had run a dry-cleaning business before he became sheriff. He was also a Boy Scout master and belonged to the Lions Club, not for political reasons but because he thoroughly enjoyed being a Scoutmaster and belonging to the Lions Club. He was a thoughtful and considerate man, and I always hated to correct him or to suggest that his career as an elected police officer would probably always consist of on-the-job training.

"Seduction usually comes a teaspoon at a time," I said. "Sometimes a cop who won't take fifty grand will take two. Then one day you find yourself way down the road and you don't remember where you made a hard left turn."

He wore large rimless glasses, and his stomach swelled over his gunbelt. Through the window behind his desk I could see two black trusties from the parish jail washing patrol cars in the parking lot. He scratched the blue and red veins in his soft cheek with his fingernail.

"Who do you think it came from?" he asked.

"Somebody with long-range plans, somebody who's always looking around to buy a cop. Probably the mob or somebody in it."

"Not from Bobby Earl?"

"His kind only pay out money when you catch them sodomizing sheep. I'm pretty sure we're dealing with the wiseguys now."

"What do you think they'll do next?"

"If I stay out of New Orleans, there will probably be another envelope. Then they'll offer me a job providing security in one of their nightclubs or in a counting room at the track."

He put an unlit cigarette in his mouth and rotated it with his fingers.

"I've got a bad feeling about all this," he said. "I surely do."

"Why?"

"Don't underestimate Bobby Earl's potential. I met him a couple of times ten or twelve years ago, when he was still appearing in Klan robes. This guy could make the ovens sing and grin while he was doing it."

"Maybe. But I never met one of those guys who wasn't a physical and moral coward."

"I saw Garrett's body before the autopsy. It was hard to look at, and I was in Korea. Watch your butt, Dave."

His eyes were unblinking over his rimless glasses.

By two Pm. it was ninety-five degrees outside; the sunlight off the cement was as bright as a white flame; the palm trees looked dry and desiccated in the hot wind; and my own day was just warming up.

I called Drew again and this time she answered. I was ready to argue with her, to lecture her about her and Weldon's lack of cooperation in the case, even blame her for my difficulties with Bootsie at lunch. In fact, my opening statement was "Who was this guy in your kitchen, Drew, and why didn't you report it?"