Who were the parents? I asked myself. Their, cars came from Bogalusa, Denham Springs, Plaquemine, Bunkie, Port Allen, Vidalia, and mosquito-infested dirt-road communities out in the Atchafalaya basin. But these were not ordinary small-town blue-collar people. This was the permanent underclass, the ones who tried to hold on daily to their shrinking bit of redneck geography with a pickup truck and gun rack and Jones on the jukebox and a cold Coors in the hand.

They were never sure of who they were unless someone was afraid of them. They jealously guarded their jobs from blacks and Vietnamese refugees, whom they saw as a vast and hungry army about to descend upon their women, their neighborhoods, their schools, even their clapboard church houses, where they were assured every Sunday and Wednesday night that the bitterness and fear that characterized their lives had nothing to do with what they had been born to, or what they had chosen for themselves.

But when you looked at them at play in a public park, in almost a tattered facsimile of a Norman Rockwell painting, it was as hard to be angry at them for their ignorance as it would be to condemn someone for the fact that he was born disfigured.

Then on a side street we saw Clemmie's junker car parked in a yellow zone. I found a parking place farther down the street, and Batist walked back to Clemmie's car, raised the hood, disconnected a fistful of sparkplug wires, and locked them in our trunk, I took my holstered.45 out of the glovebox, clipped it onto my belt, and put on my sports coat.

"You're sure you want to go?" I said.

"What else I'm gonna do, me? Stand here and wait for a man that's got a pistol?"

"Well, I don't think anybody is going to give us any trouble," I said. "They feel secure when they're in numbers. But if anybody gets in our face, we walk on through it. All right, Batist?"

"Dave, ain't nobody know these people better than a black man. They ain't worried by the likes of me, no. They scared of the young ones. They ain't gonna admit that, but that's what's on they mind. They scared to death of some noisy kids whose mamas should have whupped them upside the head a long time ago."

"They're scared of anybody who looks them in the eye, Partner.

"We gonna set around here and wait for that man to shoot Mr. Sonnier?"

"No, you're right. Let's go see what they're doing at the bottom of the food chain these days."

Batist peeled the cellophane off a cigar, put it deep into his jaw, and we walked back down the block and into the park, where someone had just turned on the field lights over the softball diamond.

"Hey, Dave, wasn't there s'posed to be a lot of policemens here?" Batist said.

"Yep."

"Where they at?"

I saw one uniformed cop directing traffic, another one eating a barbecue sandwich under a chinaberry tree. I saw no one in the crowd who looked like plain-clothes. I walked up to the cop under the chinaberry tree and unfolded my badge in my palm.

"I'm Detective Dave Robicheaux, Iberia Parish Sheriffs I said. "Did you guys get a report about a man with a pistol?"

His face was round, and his mouth was full of bread and meat. He wiped his lips with the back of his wrist and shook his head.

"I didn't," he said. "There's a guy around here with a gun?"

"Maybe. Have you seen a man with a burned face? You can't miss him. His skin looks like red putty."

"No."

"Where's your supervisor?"

"He was over at the pavilion a while ago. This is no shit, some guy's after Bobby Earl?"

"No, not Earl. His brother-in-law, a man named Weldon Sonnier. Do you know him?"

"I never heard of him. Look, you want me to, we can get on the mike and find this guy."

"You can do what?"

"We can page him. We can get him out of the crowd."

I tried to hide the expression that must have been on my face.

"How about finding your supervisor for me, then calling for some more help?" I said.

"Sure." Then he looked over my shoulder. "Who's he?"

"Find your supervisor, podna. Okay?" I said.

Batist and I walked through the crowd toward the concrete band shell. The western sky was piled with purple clouds that were scorched black and crimson on the edges in the sun's fiery afterglow. In the distance an emergency siren was pealing through the streets. The band in the pavilion stopped playing a moment, then suddenly it struck up "Dixie," and a second band, inside the concrete shell, in candy-striped vests and straw boaters, joined in as though on cue, and in the deafening exchange of trombones, clarinets, trumpets, and marital drum rolls, the crowd went insane.

Then somebody released the restraining ropes on a huge net filled with red, white, and blue balloons, which rose by the hundreds into the windstream, and I realized what was going on. It was Bobby Earl's moment. Amid a throng of applauding people he was walking from the pavilion, dressed in a double-breasted tropical suit, his dry, wavy hair tousled by the breeze, toward the speaker's stand that had been constructed in front of the concrete shell, where the microphones, American flags, television cameras, and banks of loudspeakers waited for him. His smile had all the ease and confidence of a man who knew that he was loved, that he had truly found his place in this world.

We worked our way through the crowd. The bands were still blaring out "Dixie," and a drunk fat man in a sweatstained pink shirt had climbed up on a picnic table and was screaming rebel yells at the speaker's platform. The smell of flat beer, deodorant, chewing tobacco, and talcum powder seemed to rise in a collective sticky layer from the people around us. I tried to push our way through the edge of the crowd into the picnic area behind the band shell. A uniformed police sergeant shouldered his way through a bunch of college kids and stood in front of me. He was a large man, with ridged brow, sunken green eyes, a fresh sunburn on his face, and sweat rings under his arms. His love handles hung over his gunbelt, and he rested one palm on the butt of his.357 magnum.

"You the sheriff's detective from New Iberia?" he asked.

"That's right. I'm Dave Robicheaux."

His eyes shifted to Batist, then back to me.

"I just heard about this burned man with a gun," he said.

"What's going on?"

"His name is Vic Benson. He's deranged, and I think he plans to harm Bobby Earl's brother-in-law."

"He's got a gun?"

"A chrome-plated revolver, caliber unknown."

"Hell of a fucking place to have a crazy man running loose with a gun. Every time I have to work one of these things, I have dreams the night before about earthquakes and tornados. My wife says I eat too much before I go to bed. Who's this man?"

"He's a friend."

"All right, I'm going to get some more uniforms into the crowd. In the meantime, you find Earl's brother-in-law, you get him out of here. A bunch like this can take to religion or flattening your town, either one, in about five minutes."

"Thanks for your help, sergeant."

"Don't thank me, podna. I worked a riot once at the stadium. The next time I get caught in one, I'm, going home, open a beer, and sit in the backyard. Maybe listen to it on the radio." He smiled.

The crowd began to thin at the edges, and finally Batist and I stepped out into an area of pine trees, barbecue pits, overflowing trash barrels, and a small sandy stretch of playground with seesaws and swing sets.

There, sitting in a child's swing, sipping beer out of a deep paper cup, was Weldon Sonnier.

"I think you aged me about ten years tonight," I said.

He looked up at me. "Hey, Dave. Hey, Batist. What's up?"

"Your father is around here somewhere with a pistol. Guess who he's looking for?"

"What?"

"After you left, he beat up the black maid and stole her car. It's parked about a block from here. He's got a revolver."