"He told you his name was Vic Benson?"

"You know him?"

"Sure. I drove to Lafayette and talked to him the other day. We run a shelter in Baton Rouge and a couple of new guys told me about him."

"He's not your father, then?"

He smiled again and started his truck.

"It's him, all right. He denied it, said he had only one son and not some diddly-squat TV preacher he wouldn't waste his jizzurn on." He shook his head good-naturedly. "That old has-… that old son of a buck still knows how to rub a little pain into you. But he's a wet-brain now, been in and out of jails and insane asylums all over Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi, at least that's what the other wet-brains say. They say maybe he's got cancer in the lungs, too. So what are you gonna do except feel sorry for a guy like that? I gotta deedee, Loot. Hang loose."

He drove down the dirt road through the dark tunnel of oak trees, the chrome-plated cross vibrating against his cab, just as the first raindrops dimpled the bayou.

I was tired, but I had to drive to Lafayette that night and pick up a new aluminum shiner tank and water pump for the bait shop. On my way back out of town I saw one of Weldon Sonnier's company trucks pull out of the traffic and park under the trees in front of the Catholic home for handicapped children.

Weldon, in a pair of knife-creased brown slacks and a form-fitting T-shirt like a 1950s hood would wear, walked up the sidewalk to the front entrance with a stuffed shopping bag hanging from each hand.

I stopped at the traffic light, clicked my fingernails on the horn button, turned the radio on and off at least three times, resolved under my breath that I would continue on home and not intrude any more than necessary on Weldon's pride, hardheadedness, and carefully nursed store of private misery.

The light turned green, and I went around the block and parked across the street from Weldon's truck. The moon was up, and the sky in the north, where it hadn't yet started to rain, looked like a lighted ink wash. I headed up the walk toward the entrance.

Why?

Because he needs to know that you don't get the heat off your back by punching out a police officer on an oil rig floor, I told myself.

But that wasn't it. The truth was I wanted to believe in Weldon, in the same way that sometimes you encourage someone you care about to lie to you. Or perhaps I wanted somehow to dispel the fear that one day I would have to make him Joey Gouza's fall partner.

But what would I find in a Catholic children's home that would be of any value in eventually cutting Weldon loose from the investigation or prosecuting the executioners of a deputy sheriff or taking down a racist politician?

Answer: Nothing.

I walked through the front door into a softly lit and immaculately clean oak-floored hallway, with statues of St. Anthony, St. Theresa, and Jesus resting on pedestals against the walls, and looked through a set of open French doors into a large recreation room.

It was filled with the children whom nobody wanted.

They were retarded, spastic, mongoloid, born with deformed limbs, locked in metal braces, wired to electronic devices on wheelchairs. Scattered about on the floor was a tangle of torn wrapping paper., colored ribbon and bows, and boxes that had contained all kinds of toys. He must have made several trips back and forth to the truck.

Neither the nuns nor the children looked in my direction.

Weldon had taken off his shoes and was walking on his hands in the middle of the room. His face was almost purple with blood, his muscles quivering with tension, while coins and keys from his pockets bounced all over the rug and the children screamed in delight.

When he finally flipped himself over on his back, his mouth grinning crazily, his eyes bright with exertion, the children and nuns clapped as though they had just witnessed the world's greatest aerialist at work.

He sat up and rubbed his knees, still grinning. Then he saw me.

I waved at him with two fingers. His eyes lingered on mine a moment, bemused, faintly embarrassed perhaps, then he turned back to the children and said, "Hey, you guys, the ice cream man made a big delivery this evening. Sister Agnes says it's time to fang it down."

I turned and walked back outside into the night and a snap of lightning across the sky and the odor of rain striking warm concrete.

It rained hard during the night, and in the morning the sun came up yellow and hot and wreathed with mist over the marsh. I got up early and went down to the dock to help Batist open up, then had breakfast with Bootsie and Alafair in the kitchen. The backyard was wet and still blue with shadow, and the bloom of the mimosa was as bright as blood where the sun struck the treetop.

"What are you going to do today, little guy?" I said to Alafair.

"Bootsie's taking me to buy a new swimsuit, then we're going to have a picnic in the park."

"Maybe I can join you guys later," I said.

"Why don't you, Dave? We'll be under the trees by the Pool."

"I'll head over about noon, or a little earlier if I can," I said. Then I winked at Alafair. "You keep Boots out of the sun, little guy. She's already got enough tan."

"It's bad for her?"

Bootsie looked at me and made an impatient face.

"Well, she doesn't listen to us sometimes and we have to take charge of her," I said.

Bootsie rapped me across the back of the hand with her spoon, and Alafair's eyes squinted with delight. I grinned back at her, then when Bootsie was putting dishes in the sink I came up behind her and hugged her hard around the middle and kissed her neck.

"Later, later," she whispered, and patted me quietly on the thigh.

It was going to be a fine day. I kissed Alafair good-bye, then flipped my seersucker coat over my shoulder and was almost out the door when the phone on the counter rang and Bootsie picked it up.

"It's the sheriff," she said, and handed it to me.

I put my hand over the receiver and touched her shoulder as she walked away. "The picnic is at noon. I'll be there, I promise, unless he sends me out of town. Okay?" I said.

She smiled without replying and began washing dishes in the sink.

"I just talked to the city chief," the sheriff said. "They had to take Joey Gouza to Iberia General at seven last night. He went apeshit in his cell, crashing against the bars, rolling around on the floor, and kicking his feet like he was having a seizure, slurping water out of the toilet."

"You mean he had a psychotic episode?"

"That's what they thought it was. They got him in a van to take him to the hospital and he puked all over it. The doc at emergency receiving said he acted like he'd been poisoned, so they pumped his stomach out. Except by the time they got the tube down his throat there was hardly anything left inside him except blood from his stomach lining. Evidently the guy's got ulcers on top of his other problems."

"What do you think happened?"

"A guard found an empty box of ant poison in the food area. Maybe somebody dumped it into his mashed potatoes. But to tell you the truth, Dave, I don't believe the city people are in a hurry to admit they can't provide security for a celebrity prisoner. They're having more fun with Joey Gouza than pigs rolling in slop."

"What do you want me to do?"

"If he's connected with Garrett's murder, let's nail his butt before they take him out in a body bag. Not that half of New Orleans wouldn't get drunk in the streets."

I drove over to Iberia General and walked down the hall to Joey Gouza's room. A uniformed cop was reading a magazine outside the door.

"How you doin', Dave?" he said.

"Pretty good. How's our man?"

"I have a fantasy. I see him running down the hall in his nightshirt. I see me parking a big one in his brisket. Does that answer your question?"