"What's the matter? You bored with her?"

He flashed a smile that was a little hard around the edges. "My attentions are needed elsewhere tonight."

"So are mine," Nick said, as Donnie pushed himself back from the bar and headed for the door, a solitary ambassador of gloom among the sea of smiling faces.

Nick turned his back as Bichon passed, setting his glass on the bar.

"Have another," Stokes offered, always magnanimous with the money of others.

"One's my limit tonight. Catch you later."

He worked his way out onto the gallery and spotted the Lexus backing carefully out of the lineup of pickups and beaters. He waited until it was headed toward the southern exit of the lot, then jogged up onto the road at the north end, and jumped in the truck.

Traffic was enough to keep Donnie distracted as they headed out of town. Still, Nick hung well back. Patience. He wanted to see how this would play out, give Donnie a little bit of rope to see if he would hang himself with it.

Twilight had surrendered to evening. Fog hung over the water. The Lexus turned east, crossed the bayou, then went south again, and passed down the main street of Luck. At the edge of town it turned in at a supper club called Landry's.

Nick cruised past the restaurant, his eye catching on the sleek silver Lincoln that sat apart from the other cars in the lot, the driver a hulking black shadow behind the wheel. He turned the corner two blocks down, doubled back, and drove in the service entrance at the back of the property.

He entered the restaurant through the kitchen door that stood open, letting the rich aromas of beefsteak and good Cajun cooking roll out into the night. The kitchen help chose to ignore him as he moved through their domain.

Landry's dining room was large and dimly lit. A freestanding fireplace with fake logs glowing orange for ambiance stood in the center. Perhaps two-thirds of the white-draped tables were taken, mostly by older middle class couples dressed up for their big night out. The low hum of conversation was constant, the chink of flatware against china like the sound of small bells ringing across the room.

Donnie and Marcotte sat in the wraparound banquette of a round corner table. To Marcotte's left, one of DiMonti's twin thugs sat hunched over a table for two, making it look like something from a child's tea set. DiMonti was nowhere in sight.

Nick adjusted the lightweight jacket he wore to show just the butt of the Ruger in its shoulder rig, slipped his sunglasses on, and moved toward the table with casual ease. Donnie spotted him when he was still ten feet away, and his color washed from ashen to chalk.

"Starting the party without me, Tulane?" Nick said, sliding onto the banquette beside him.

Donnie bolted sideways, nearly spilling his drink. "What the hell are you doing here, Fourcade?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Nick raised his eyebrows above the rims of his sunglasses. "Why, seeing for myself what a lying weasel you are, Donnie. I'd say I'm disappointed in you, but it's no less than I expected."

He reached inside his jacket for cigarettes and Donnie's eyes widened at the sight of the Ruger.

"This is a no-smoking table," he said stupidly.

Nick stared straight at him through the mirrored lenses of the shades and lit up.

Marcotte watched the exchange with mild amusement, relaxed, his forearms resting on the tabletop. He didn't look the least out of place in the setting. In a simple white shirt and conservative tie, he couldn't have been pegged for a business tycoon. In contrast, even the simplest bumpkin would recognize the muscle for what he was. The loan-a-thug turned in his seat for a better view, revealing a smashed nose, held to his face with adhesive tape. Brutus. Nick smiled at him and nodded.

"This is a private meeting, Nick," Marcotte said pleasantly. He glanced at Donnie. "Nick here has a bit of a learning disability, Donnie. He needs to be taught all his lessons twice."

Nick blew smoke out his nostrils. "Oh, no. Me, I learned my lesson the first time. That's why I'm here tonight as adviser to my good friend Donnie, who bailed me out of jail not long ago."

"A poor choice," Marcotte said.

"Well, Donnie, he's none too bright for a college boy. Are you, Tulane? I keep telling him he doesn't want the devil playing in his backyard, but I don't know if he's hearing me. He's too preoccupied by the sound of money fanning in his ear."

"I don't feel well," Donnie muttered, starting to rise. Sweat beaded on his pasty forehead.

Nick put a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down, Donnie. Last time I saw you near a toilet, you had your head in it. We don't want you to drown… just yet."

"Adding coercion to your list of crimes now, Nick?" Marcotte said with an indulgent chuckle.

"Not at all. I'm just pointing out to my friend Donnie here the disadvantages of doing business with you. The scrutiny a deal with you would bring to bear on him and on the untimely death of his lovely wife."

Tears welled in Donnie's eyes. "I didn't kill Pam."

His denial drew stares from two other tables.

Nick's gaze never wavered from Marcotte. He tapped the ash off his cigarette into Donnie's drink and took another long drag. "You don't have to be guilty of something to have it ruin your life, Tulane. Nor do the guilty necessarily pay for their crimes. See how well I learn my lessons, Marcotte?

"It looks cold, Donnie-you trying to swing this deal," he went on. "Hell, that business ain't even yours to sell yet, technically speaking. This looks like something my friends in the sheriff's office would want to go over with a fine-tooth comb. They'll wanna dig through all your records and whatnot. You been wheeling and dealing for a while now. Who knows what else they might come up with?

"Folks catch wind of that kind of thing, they start thinking maybe you cheated them, and then they wanna sue. And, hey, you got all that money what Duval Marcotte paid you, so why shouldn't they try to get themselves a piece of it? Meanwhile, the Davidsons are talking to a lawyer about custody of your daughter.

"You see where this is going, Donnie?" he asked, still looking at Marcotte. "Donnie, he doesn't always see the big picture. He fails to recognize the potential for disaster."

"And you, Nick my boy, see that train coming and throw yourself in front of it anyway," Marcotte said, shaking his head. "You were born out of time, Fourcade. Chivalry went out a while back. It's called foolhardiness now."

"Really?" The picture of disinterest, Nick crushed his smoke out and dropped the butt in Donnie's whiskey. "I don't keep up with trends."

"I have to go to the bathroom," Donnie muttered, turning gray around the gills.

Nick slid out of the banquette. "Take your time, Tulane. Do some thinking while you're in there."

Donnie shuffled away from the table with one hand pressed to his stomach. Nick sat back down and stared at Marcotte. Marcotte sat back against the padded seat and crossed his arms. His dark eyes shone like polished stones.

"I believe you may have succeeded in ruining my chances for a deal, Nick."

"I sincerely hope so. It's the least I can do, all things considered."

"Yes, I suppose it is. And the least I can do is be gracious in defeat. For the moment."

"You're giving up easily."

Marcotte gave a shrug, pursing his lips. "Que sera sera. It's been a diversion. I would never have come out here looking if it hadn't been for you rousing my interest, Nick. I'll draw some satisfaction from knowing you have that to dwell on. And you know what? Coming out here has just reminded me how much I like the country. Simple life, simple pleasures. I just may come back."

Nick said nothing. He had thought he'd cut Marcotte out of his life like a cancer. But just enough of the old obsession had remained to pull him back across that line, and now Marcotte would be drooling at the edge of his sanctuary like a wolf biding his time.