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"Wet night to be out," I said.
She sat down at the counter and blotted her face with a paper napkin.
"I got a call from Adrien Glazier. She told me about this guy Ruben Esteban," she said.
Not bad, Adrien, I thought.
"This guy's record is for real, Dave. I heard about him when I covered the Falklands War," she said.
"He was in custody on a misdemeanor in Lafayette this morning. He doesn't blend into the wallpaper easily."
"We should feel better? Why do you think the Triads sent a walking horror show here?"
Megan wasn't one to whom you gave facile assurances.
"We don't know who his partner is. While we're watching Esteban, the other guy's peddling an icecream cart down Main Street," I said.
"Thank you," she said, and dried the back of her neck with another napkin. Her skin seemed paler, her mouth and her hair a darker shade of red under the overhead light. I glanced away from her eyes.
"You and Cisco want a cruiser to park by your house?" I asked.
"I have a bad feeling about Clete. I can't shake it," she said.
"Clete?" I said.
"Geri Holtzner is driving his car all around town. Look, nobody is going to hurt Billy Holtzner. You don't kill the people who owe you money. You hurt the people around them. These guys put bombs in people's automobiles."
"I'll talk to him about it."
"I already have. He doesn't listen. I hate myself for involving him in this," she said.
"I left my Roman collar up at the house, Meg."
"I forgot. Swinging dicks talk in deep voices and never apologize for their mistakes."
"Why do you turn every situation into an adversarial one?" I asked.
She raised her chin and tilted her head slightly. Her mouth reminded me of a red flower turning toward light.
Bootsie opened the screen door and came in holding a raincoat over her head.
"Oh, excuse me. I didn't mean to walk into the middle of something," she said. She shook her raincoat and wiped the water off it with her hand. "My, what a mess I'm making."
THE NEXT AFTERNOON WE executed a search warrant on the property where Alex Guidry was shot. The sky was braided with thick gray and metallic-blue clouds, and the air smelled like rain and wood pulp and smoke from a trash fire.
Thurston Meaux, the St. Mary Parish plainclothes, came out of the barn with a rake in his hand.
"I found two used rubbers, four pop bottles, a horseshoe, and a dead snake. That any help to y'all?" he said.
"Pretty clever," I said.
"Maybe Alex Guidry was just setting you up, podna. Maybe you're lucky somebody popped him first. Maybe there was never anything here," Meaux said.
"Tell me, Thurston, why is it nobody wants to talk about the murder of Jack Flynn?"
"It was a different time. My grandfather did some things in the Klan, up in nort' Louisiana. He's an old man now. It's gonna change the past to punish him now?"
I started to reply but instead just walked away. It was easy for me to be righteous at the expense of another. The real problem was I didn't have any idea what we were looking for. The yellow crime scene tape formed a triangle from the barn to the spot where Guidry's Cadillac had been parked. Inside the triangle we found old shotgun and .22 shells, pig bones, a plowshare that groundwater had turned into rusty lace, the stone base of a mule-operated cane grinder overgrown with morning glory vine. A deputy sheriff swung his metal detector over a desiccated oak stump and got a hot reading. We splintered the stump apart and found a fan-shaped ax head, one that had been hand-forged, in the heart of the wood.
