"The till's empty. I've got maybe ten dollars in my wallet," I said.

"Come on, Mr. Robicheaux. Give me a little credit." The accent was New Orleans, the voice one I had heard before.

"What do you want, partner?"

"To give you something. You just shouldn't have come to work so early… No, no, don't turn around-"

He shifted his position so that his face was well behind MY range of vision. But when he did I saw his distorted silvery reflection on the aluminum side of a horizontal lunchmeat and cold-drink cooler. Or rather I saw the reflected metal caps and fillings in his mouth.

Then he stooped, set something on the floor, and nudged me toward the counter.

"Lean on it, Mr. Robicheaux. You probably don't pack when you come down to your bait shop, but a guy can't take things for granted," he said, and moved his free hand down my hips and pockets and over my ankles.

"Look, a black man who works for me is going to be here soon. I don't want him to walk in on this. How about telling me what's on your mind and getting out of here?"

"Your ovaries don't get heated up too easy, do they?" He clicked off the light. "What time's the colored man get here?"

"Anytime now."

"That sure would change your luck in a bad way, believe me." Then he said, "Listen, the man I work for has fixations. Right now you're one of them. Why? Because you keep bugging the shit out of him. It's time you lay off, man.

This is an important guy. There's people up in Chicago don't want him puking blood all over New Orleans because of nervous anxiety… No, no, eyes forward-" He rubbed the pistol barrel along my jawbone.

"Is that it?" I said.

"No, that's not it, man. Look, nobody's got a beef with you, Mr. Robicheaux. Nobody had a beef with that cop who walked into Sonnier's house, either. That dumb fuck Fluck went out of control. We don't whack cops, you know that, man. So we're making it right.

"But it doesn't have to end here. You're a bright guy and you can have a lot of good things. Nothing illegal, no strings, just good business. Like maybe a nightclub down in Grand Isle. It's yours for the asking. All you got to do is call the right Italian restaurant on Esplanade. You know the place I'm talking about."

Through the slashed screen I could see the false dawn lighting the gray tops of the cypress trees in the marsh. I heard a fish flop loudly in the lily pads.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"Good… good. Now-"

I felt him shift his weight, felt the dangling object in his hand brush against my pants leg.

"What?" I said.

"I got to figure what to do with you. You keep walking in on me at the wrong time. Nothing personal but you've really fucked up my plans twice now."

"Like you say, so far it's not personal… Don't do the wrong thing, partner."

I could hear him breathing in the dark. The back of my neck and head felt naked, as though the skin had been peeled away from all the nerve endings.

"What's inside that door, the one with the lock on it?" he said.

"It's just a storage room."

"Well, that's where you're going."

From behind, he put his left hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the door. I felt the sacked object bump back and forth below my shoulder blade.

"Unlock it," he said.

I found the key on my ring and snapped open the long U-shaped shaft on the lock. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my wrist.

"Come on, get inside, man," he said.

"I want to give you something to think about when you leave me."

"You're gonna give me something to think about? I think you've got it turned around." He started to push me inside.

"No, I don't. I didn't see your face, so I can't identify you. That means you're home free on this one. But I know who you are, Jack. Don't go near my house. God help you if you get anywhere near my house."

"You don't know who your friends are. Hey, the man in New Orleans sent you a present. You'll like it. He's not a bad guy. He's got his own problems. How'd you like to have boils all over the lining of your stomach? Why don't you have a little compassion?"

With his knuckles he shoved me into the storage room, then snapped the lock shut. I heard him go out the front door, then moments later a car engine start out on the road.

I braced my back against a stack of beer cases and kicked as hard as I could against the door; but it was sheathed in tin, and the lock and hasp were solid. Then in the dark I tripped over an old twenty-five-horsepower Evinrude engine. I balanced it over my head by the shaft and the housing and hurled it against the slat wall next to the door. Two slats burst from the studs, and I splintered the others loose until I could squeeze through a hole back into the shop. I could hear the diminishing sound of Gates's car on the dirt road that led to the drawbridge over the bayou. I pulled the chain on the light bulb over the counter and started punching the office number on the phone. Both my hands were shaking.

"Sheriff's Department-"

"This is Dave… Jack Gates just tore out of my bait shop… He's armed and dangerous… Call the bridge tender and tell him to lift the bridge… I'll meet you guys at the-" Then I stopped.

"What is it, Dave?"

I looked at the weighted clear plastic bag hanging from a nail on a post in the center of my shop.

"I'll meet you guys at the bayou," I said.

"What's wrong, Dave? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm all right. Get hold of the bridge tender and seal the whole area off. Don't let this guy get out of town."

I put the receiver back in the cradle and stared numbly at the severed head inside the plastic bag. The eyes were rolled, the tongue lolled out of the mouth, the nose was mashed against the folds of plastic, and the blond hair was matted with congealed blood; but even in death the face looked like it belonged to a toy man. And to preclude the possibility that I could ever mistake Jewel Fluck for someone else, one of his fingers had been inserted in the thick, purple residue at the bottom of the bag.

I ran to the house, through the front door and into the bedroom, and grabbed the.45 out of the dresser drawer.

Bootsie sat up in bed and clicked on the table lamp.

"What is it?" she said.

"Jack Gates was in the shop. I'm going after him. Don't go in the shop, Boots. Call Batist and tell him not to come to work right now."

"What is it? What did he-"

"We might have to dust for prints. Let's just keep people out of there for a while."

I saw her eyes trying to read my expression.

"Everything's all right," I said. "Just don't go out of the house, Boots, till we get this guy in custody."

Then I was out the front door and in the truck, banging over the chuckholes in the dirt road that led to the drawbridge over the bayou, the.45 bouncing on the seat beside me, the early red sun edging the marsh with fire.

I could hear sirens in the distance now. I rounded a corner in second, where the bayou made a wide bend, and through the oak trees which lined the road I could see the drawbridge extended high in the air, a quarter of a mile away.

Jack, I think you're about to be hung out to dry, I thought, and this time Joey the Neck is going down with you. Welcome to Iberia Parish, podjo.

Vanity, vanity, vanity. Jack Gates was an old-time Mafia soldier and thriving button man in a state whose system of capital punishment involved as much charity as you would expect in the deep-frying of pork rinds. Jack was not one you would simply drive into a bottleneck and cork inside the glass and put on display like a light bug.

I heard his car before I saw it: the transmission wound up full-bore, the engine roaring through a defective muffler like a garbage truck, gravel exploding like grapeshot under the fenders. Then the TransAm skidded around the corner in a cloud of yellow dust, low on the springs, streaked and ugly with dried mud, ripping a green gash out of a canebrake.