"How did you get onto this current stuff?"

"We had our eye on a paramilitary training camp in Florida and one in Mississippi, then Buffalo Bob left a submachine gun in a Biloxi bus locker. We could have picked him up, but instead we let him keep ricocheting off the walls for a while. Philip Murphy showed up and it got a lot more interesting."

He paused a minute, then looked me flatly in the face again with those washed-out blue eyes that seemed to be immune to both protocol and insult.

"Have you ever had to dust anyone?" he said.

"Maybe."

"Be straight."

"Twice."

"How'd you feel about it?"

"They dealt the play."

"The next time you see Murphy or Buffalo Bob and Erik, they're going to take you out. You know that, don't you?"

"You said you're an up-front guy. Let me tell you a couple of my own meditations. I don't think you're an upfront guy."

"Oh?"

"I don't think you want me out," I said. "I think you want a partner. I've already got one. He's paid by the city, just like I am."

"You're a pretty slick cop."

"I don't like somebody trying to use me."

"I can't blame you. There's something I didn't tell you. The American priest that was killed in Guatemala was a friend of mine. Our government is into some real bullshit down there, buddy, but everybody who works for the government isn't necessarily on the same team. Some of us still believe in the old rules."

"Good for you. But if you're into the Boy Scout Manual, don't try to run a game on another cop."

"Nobody's asking you to sign a loyalty oath. What are you so afraid of?"

"You're genuinely starting to piss me off," I said.

"I didn't write this script. You got into it on your own. I'll tell you something else, too: you're not going to walk out of it easily. I guarantee it. Guys like Segura and Murphy are just functionary jackoffs for much bigger people. Here's another question for you, too, Mr. Clean. What were you thinking about while you were oiling your guns out on your boat deck? Maybe blowing bone and cartilage all over Buffalo Bob's walls?"

"I think with luck I can still make the fifth race."

"I'll drive you back."

"Don't worry about it. The city's got a tab with Yellow Cab."

"Take this card. My motel's number is on it."

"I believe my phone is still out of order. See you around," I said, and walked out of the courtyard onto Louisiana Avenue. Some black children roared past me on roller skates, and heat lightning flickered above the huge oak trees across the street.

I called Annie from the pay phone to try to save part of the evening, but no one was home. It started to rain and I waited a half hour under a leaky awning for my cab to arrive. I made a quiet resolution about accepting invitations from federal employees.

But, as Fitzpatrick had said, I'd written my own script, and the next morning I continued to write it, only with some disastrous consequences that made me wonder if my alcoholic, self-destructive incubus was not alive and well.

I started by looking for Bobby Joe Starkweather. I didn't have many threads, but he was the kind of guy who showed up at certain places. I tried a couple of indoor target ranges, outlaw motorcycle bars, sex shops, and a survivalist store that catered to people who relished the unlimited prospects of living in a post-World War III wasteland. But I struck out.

Then, at noon, while Cletus and I were eating a pizza out of a box on a bench in Jackson Square, I wondered why I was chasing after an unknown quantity like Bobby Joe Starkweather when the primary connection was already available. We sat under a mimosa tree, and St. Louis Cathedral and the square itself were drenched in hot sunlight. There were drops of perspiration and flecks of red pizza sauce on Clete's face while he ate. His eyes were looking abstractedly at the sidewalk artists in Pirates Alley.

"What have you got on the burner for this afternoon?" I asked.

"Not much. Figure out what I'm going to do with my goddamn wife. Get this. She just sent a check for six hundred dollars to the Buddhist priest out in Colorado. I tried to put a stop-payment on it, but it already went through. That's thousands she's given to this guy. When I say anything about it, she says I'm drunk."

"Maybe y'all should separate for a while."

"I can't. She's become suicidal. Her psychiatrist says she shouldn't even be driving an automobile."

"I'm hoping to take a girl out to dinner tonight, if I can get ahold of her. Why don't you and Lois think about coming along? It's on me."

"Maybe so, Dave. Thanks."

"I want to go out to Julio Segura's this afternoon."

"What for?"

"I'm going to roust him and take him in for questioning."

"He might file a harassment charge this time."

"He was the last person to see a murder victim alive."

"Sounds shaky. It's not our jurisdiction." His eyes smiled.

"You coming or not?"

"Hell, yes."

We drove in Clete's car along the lakefront road. There was a light chop on the slate-green surface, and pelicans were diving for fish out of the white sun. The palm trees on the esplanade clicked dryly in the wind; and on the right-hand side of the road beyond the pink stucco walls, the long iron pike fences, the impassable hedges and rows of myrtle trees, lay the terraced lawns and mansions of the rich. I knew liberals out at Tulane who would tell me these were the people whom we served. But I didn't like them any better than anybody else did. Actually, they didn't like the police, either, or at least trust us, because they hired their own security, kept attack dogs on the grounds, and maintained floodlight and burglar alarm systems that were an electronic miracle. They lived in fear of kidnappers of their children, sophisticated jewel creeps, minorities who would compromise their property values. The irony was that they were among the most secure people upon earth-secure from disease, poverty, political oppression, virtually everything except death.

"How much you think these places cost?" Cletus asked.

"I don't know, maybe a million bucks."

"My pop was a milkman in the Garden District, and sometimes in the summer I'd go on the route with him. One morning I was messing around in front of this big house right off St. Charles and this lady came out and said I was the cutest little fellow she'd ever seen and I should come back at three o'clock for some ice cream. That afternoon I took a bath and put on my nice clothes and knocked on her door right at three. At first she didn't remember who I was, then she told me to go around to the back door. I didn't know what the hell was going on. When I got into the backyard I saw the maid handing out ice cream to all these raggedy little colored kids that belonged to the yardmen around the neighborhood.

"This lady had a greenhouse back there. I came back that night with a box full of rocks and broke damn near every pane in it. She got it repaired and three weeks later I came back and broke them again. When my pop figured out I'd done it, he whipped me with a switch till blood ran down my legs."

Clete turned onto Julio Segura's street, which was filled with trees and blooming shrubs.

"You ever get that mad when you were a kid?" he asked.

"I don't remember."

"You told me once you and your brother had some rough times."

"Who cares, Clete? It's yesterday's ball game."

"So I know that. What's the big deal?" he said.

"You've got a rusty nail sideways in your head. Let it go, quit feeding it."

"You get a little personal sometimes, Streak."

"There he goes! Hit it!" I said.

Julio Segura's lavender Cadillac had just bounced out through his front gate onto the street. A dwarf was driving, and a blond woman sat in the front passenger's seat. Segura and another man were in back. Cletus floored the accelerator until we were abreast of them. The dwarf's face was frightened behind the glass, and he kept driving.