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"How's the fishing?" he said.
"They've got your name on every fin," I said.
"I'll probably come out this evening. How you doin', Helen?"
"Just fine. Lovely day, isn't it?" she replied.
"Do we have our friend's attention?" he asked, his back to the glass doors.
"Yep," I said.
He took a notebook out of his pocket and studied the first page of it.
"Well, I have to pick up a couple of things for my wife, then meet her and her mother in Lafayette. We'll see you-all," he said. He put the notebook back in his pocket, then walked to the front doors of the finance company, cupped his hands around his eyes to shield them from the sun, and peered through the tinted glass.
After he had driven away, Alex Guidry came out on the sidewalk.
"What are you people doing?" he said.
"You're an ex-cop. Guess," Helen said.
"That man's a federal agent of some kind," Guidry said.
"The guy who just left? He's an ex-jock. He was ail-American honorable mention at LSU. That's a fact," I said.
"What is this?" he said.
"You're in the shithouse, Mr. Guidry. That's what it is," Helen said.
"This is harassment and I won't put up with it," he said.
"You're naive, sir. You're the subject of a murder investigation. You're also tied in with Harpo Scruggs. Scruggs has asked for immunity. You know where that leaves his friends? I'd get a parachute," I said.
"Fuck you," he said, and went back inside.
But his shirtsleeve caught on the door handle. When he pulled at it he ripped the cloth and hit a matronly white woman between the shoulder blades with his elbow.
TWO HOURS LATER GUIDRY called the office.
"Scruggs is getting immunity for what?" he asked.
"I didn't say he was 'getting' anything."
I could hear him breathing against the receiver.
"First guy in line doesn't do the Big Sleep," I said.
"Same answer. Do your worst. At least I didn't flush my career down the bowl because I couldn't keep a bottle out of my mouth," he said.
"Ida Broussard was carrying your baby when you killed her, Mr. Guidry."
He slammed down the phone.
THREE DAYS LATER, IN the cool of the evening, Lila Terrebonne and Geraldine Holtzner came down the dirt road in Clete Purcel's chartreuse Cadillac, the top down, and pulled into the drive. Alafair and I were raking leaves and burning them on the edge of the road. The leaves were damp and black, and the smoke from the fire twisted upward into the trees in thick yellow curds and smelled like marijuana burning in a wet field. Both Lila and Geraldine seemed delighted with the pink-gray loveliness of the evening, with our activity in the yard, with themselves, with the universe.
"What are you guys up to?" I said.
"We're going to a meeting. You want to tag along?" Geraldine said from behind the wheel.
