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"Why does he write letters?"
"He was a Marine in Vietnam. He likes to talk about 'nape.'" Then Fontenot changed his voice, his eyes glittering happily. "'Five acres of fucking nape climbing up a hill. They smelled like cats burned up in an incinerator. Fucking nape, man.'" He started giggling.
"I think you'd better not put any more shit up your nose."
"Indeed you are a Rotary man."
We passed a gray, paintless general store under a spreading oak tree at a four-corners, then drove through a harvested sugarcane field that was covered with stubble and followed a bayou through a wooded area. The bayou was dented with rain, and I could see lights in fishing shacks set back on stilts in the trees. We came out into open fields, and it began to rain harder. It was almost completely dark now.
"There." Fontenot pointed at a small wood house with a gallery at the end of a dirt road in the middle of a field.
"This is it?"
"This is it."
"You guys can really pick them."
"You should be impressed. It's a historic place. You remember when a union man from up north tried to organize the plantation workers around here back in the fifties? He was crucified on the barn wall behind that little house. The barn's not there anymore, but that's where it happened. For some reason the state chamber of commerce hasn't put that on any of its brochures."
"Look, I want to get my goods and get out of here. How much longer is this going to take?"
"Kim'll fix some sandwiches. We'll have some supper."
"Forget the supper, Fontenot. I'm tired."
"You're an intense man."
"You're making things too complicated."
"It's your first time out. We make the rules."
"Fuck your rules. On any kind of score, you get in and out of it as fast as you can. The more people in on it, the more chance you take a fall. You went out on a score holding. That's affected my confidence level here."
"If you'll look around you, you'll notice that you can see for a mile in any direction. You can hear a car or a plane long before they get here. I think we'll keep doing things our way. Kim's sandwiches are a treat. Kim's a treat. Think about it. You didn't see her flex her stuff when you looked at her? Maybe she'd like you to probe her recesses."
His lips were purple and moist in the glow of the dashboard.
I followed the Buick down the dirt road to the house.
We all went inside, and Lionel turned on the lights. Kim carried a grocery bag into the kitchen, and Lionel started a fire of sticks and wadded-up newspaper in the fireplace.
"Where are my goods?" I said.
"They're being delivered. Be patient," Fontenot said.
"Delivered? What is this?" I said.
"A guy can always find another store if he doesn't like the way we do it," Lionel said. He was squatted down in front of the fireplace, and he waved a newspaper back and forth on the flames.
"You've got too many people involved in this," I said.
"He's an expert all right," Lionel said without turning his head.
"When's the delivery going to be here?" I said.
"In minutes, in minutes," Fontenot said.
I sat by myself at the window while the three of them ate ham and cheese sandwiches at a table in the center of the room. The house had no insulation, except the water-streaked and cracked wallpaper, and the yellow flames crawling up the stone chimney did little to break the chill in the room. The sky was black outside, and the rain slanted across the window. When they finished eating, Kim cleaned up the table and Lionel went into the back of the house. Fontenot opened the compact and took another hit on the blade of his penknife.
