It was too good a day to dwell on Jimmie Lee Boggs and Gros Mama Goula and a lot a mojo claptrap, so Alafair and I took the jugboat and headed out Southwest Pass onto the salt. It was called a jugboat because it had been used by a marine seismograph company to lay out and recover the long rubber-coated cables and instruments, or "jugs," that recorded the vibrations off the substrata after an explosion was detonated in the drill hole. It was narrow and long, built for speed, with a low draft, a big Chrysler engine, two screws, and the windowed pilot's cab flush on the stern. I had outfitted it with gear boxes, ice bins, a small galley, a bait well, winches for my trawling nets, iron rod-and-reel sockets for trolling. In the middle of the deck I bolted down a telephone-company spool table, with a collapsible Cinzano umbrella set in the center hole.
The day was warm, the ground swells long and gentle and rolling, so that when they crested the wave broke into a thin froth and blew in the wind. I kept the bow into the wind and idled through the swells while Alafair set the rods into the sockets, spun out the lines behind us so the lures bounced in our wake, clicked on the drags, and threw chum overboard as if she were flinging shot. High up against the blue dome of sky, brown pelicans drifted in formation on the wind stream. Then suddenly their wings would collapse, cock into their sides like fins, and they would plummet with the speed of an aerial bomb into the water and rise from the foam with a menhaden or flying fish dripping from their pouched beak.
In the middle of a long green trough I saw a greasy slick on the water and smelled the fecund odor of speckled or white trout in a big school. I cut the engine, threw the anchor, and let the jugboat swing back against the tension in the rope. We reeled in our lines and rigged them with heavy teardrop weights, bait hooks, and big corks. Alafair's two-handed cast sent a lead weight and hook singing past my ear.
The clouds in the west looked like strips of flame above the green horizon when we headed back through the Pass into Vermilion Bay. The ice bin was loaded with gaff-top catfish and speckled trout, gutted and stiff and laid out in cold rows, their mouths hooked open, their eyes black and shiny as glass. Alafair sat on my lap and steered us between the buoys into the channel; when I touched her head with my chin I could feel the sun's heat in her hair.
"Let's take some to Batist tonight," she said.
"That's a good idea, little guy."
She twisted her head around and grinned up at me.
"Then maybe rent a movie," she said.
"You got it, Alf."
"Buy some boudin and fix some Kool-Aid, too."
"That's actually been on my mind all day."
"All right, big guy."
We were happy and tired when we drove down the dirt road under the oaks toward my house on the bayou. Our clothes were flecked with fish blood and membrane, our skin salty and dry from the wind and the sun. It had been a fine day. I was determined that it would remain so, even though I saw Minos Dautrieve's car parked by my gallery and Minos sitting on my front step.
Alafair rinsed the fish in the sink while Minos and I went out in the backyard and sat at my redwood picnic table under the mimosa tree. The moon was up, and I could see my neighbor's sugarcane in the field.
"I've got a proposal for you," he said.
"What's that, Minos?"
"You know I'm on that Presidential Task Force on Drugs?"
"Yeah."
"It's an election year, and everybody wants to stomp the shit out of the drug dealers. Never mind the fact that we've had our budgets cut for years. But that's all right, it's all rock 'n' roll, anyway. We'll cripple up as many lowlifes as we can and let somebody else worry about the rest, right?"
"Minos-"
"Okay, take it easy. Have you tried to turn up that black kid?"
"It's all dead-end stuff. His grandmother and his girlfriend probably know where he is, but they're not saying. I ended up last night talking with a traiteur woman named Big Mama Goula in a hot-pillow joint. That's a long way from Jimmie Lee Boggs."
"Look, I think your life's been too dull. So I talked with some people on the task force, then I talked with the Iberia sheriff. We want to put you inside the mob."
"What?"
"You're the perfect guy."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Hear me out."
"No. I went back with the sheriff's department to pay off some big debts. I got shot. You think I want to go undercover now?"
"That's why you're the perfect guy, Dave. It wouldn't be undercover. You resign from the department, we set you up in New Orleans, give you a lot of money to flash around the lowlifes. Then we put out the word with a couple of our snitches that you were encouraged to resign, you're a burnout, maybe you've been on a pad."
I was shaking my head, but he kept talking.
"There's a new player in New Orleans we want to nail real bad. His name's Anthony Cardo, also known as Tony C. and Tony the Cutter. No, he's not a shank artist. He's supposed to have a schlong that's a foot and a half long, the Johnny Wad of the Mafia. He grew up across the river in Algiers, but he's got operations in Miami and Fort Lauderdale. In fact, we think he's a linchpin between the dope traffic in South Florida and southern Louisiana."
"I'm not interested."
"Look, it'd be a three- or four-week scam. If it doesn't work, we'll mark it off."
"It won't work."
"Why not?"
"They won't buy a cop who just turned in his badge."
"Yeah, they will. They'll buy you," he said, and tapped his finger at the air.
"I have a feeling you're about to say something else complimentary."
"Let's look at your record, fair and square, podna. You were almost fired from the force in New Orleans, you have an alcoholic history, you've been in your own drunk tank, you were up on a murder charge, for God's sakes. All right, it was a frame, and that situation with the New Orleans P.D. was a rotten shake, too, but like I told you when I first met you, it makes socko reading material. How about your old Homicide partner, what's his name?"
"Cletus Purcel."
"He didn't have any trouble going to work for the wiseguys, did he? They bought him, toenails to hairline."
"He's clean now. He owns a club on Decatur."
"That's right. But he still knows the greaseballs. They come in his place."
"It's a free country."
"You've got the conduit into the mob, Dave. They'll buy it."
"Not interested."
"It's no more complicated than a simple sting."
"I told you you're talking to the wrong guy, Minos."
"There's another factor. We think Jimmie Lee Boggs might be back in New Orleans."
"Why?"
"A telephone tap. Last week one of Tony Cardo's people was talking about bringing in a mechanic from Florida to take care of a guy who held back twenty thou on a sale. Then yesterday somebody did this black street dealer with a baseball bat in Louis Armstrong Park. Sound familiar?"
"Why would he go back to a state where he's already been sentenced to the chair?"
"It doesn't make any difference where he is. There're warrants on him in three other states, and the FBI's after him as an interstate fugitive. Number two, he'll go where Tony Cardo tells him to go."
"I'm not up to it. You'll have to get somebody else."
"That's it, huh?"
"Yep."
He looked at me reflectively in the moonlight. I could see his scalp glisten through his thin crew cut.
"How you feeling?" he said.
"Fine."
"You're a good cop, Dave. The best."