Heaven's Prisoners by James Lee Burke

warrant for him.”
    “It won’t do any good. I never saw his face. I couldn’t make him in a lineup.”
    “I don’t understand. How do you know it was this guy Keats?”
    “He was messing around my house yesterday. Call the DEA agent in Lafayette. He’s got a sheet on him. The guy works for Bubba Rocque sometimes.”
    “Oh boy.”
    “Look, you can pick up Keats on suspicion. He’s supposed to be a low-level hit man. Roust him in his automobile, and maybe you’ll turn something. Some weed, a concealed weapon, hot credit cards. These fuckers always have spaghetti hanging off the place somewhere.” I drank from the water again and laid my head back on the pillow. My scrotum, with the ice bag under it, felt as big as a bowling ball.
    “I don’t know about that. That’s Lafayette Parish. It’s a little like going on a fishing trip in somebody else’s pond.” He looked at me quietly, as though I should understand.
    “You want him back here again?” I said. “Because unless you send him a hard telegram, he will be.”
    He was silent a moment, then he wrote in a pad and put the pad and pencil back in his shirt pocket and buttoned it.
    “Well, I’ll give the DEA and the Lafayette sheriff’s office a call,” he said. “We’ll see what happens.”
    Then he asked some more questions, most of which were the formless and irrelevant afterthoughts of a well-meaning amateur who did not want to seem unsympathetic. I didn’t reply when he said good-bye.
    But what did I expect? I couldn’t be sure myself that the white man was Eddie Keats. New Orleans was full of people with the same Italian-Irish background that produced the accent you would normally associate with Brooklyn. I had admitted I couldn’t make him in a lineup and I didn’t know anything about the black man except that his name was Toot and he slept in a grave. What is an ex-dry cleaner who dresses like a Fritos delivery man supposed to do with that one? I asked myself.
    But maybe there was a darker strain at work inside me that I didn’t want to recognise. I knew how local cops would have dealt with Eddie Keats and his kind twenty years ago.
    A couple of truly vicious coonass plainclothes (they usually wore J. C. Higgins suits that looked like clothes on a duck) would have gone to his bar, thrown his framed liquor license in the toilet, broken out all his car windows with a baton, then pointed a revolver between his eyes and snapped the hammer on an empty chamber.
    No, I didn’t like them then; I didn’t like them now. But it was a temptation.
    Batist came in smelling of wine and fish, with some flowers I suspected he had taken from a hall vase and put in a Coca-Cola bottle. When I told him that the black man named Toot was possibly a tonton macoute from Haiti who practiced black magic, Batist got him confused with the loup-garou , the bayou equivalent of the lamia or werewolf, and was convinced that we should see a traiteur in order to find this loup-garou and fill his mouth and nostrils with dirt from a witch’s grave. He saw my eyes light on the pint wine bottle, with the paper bag twisted around its neck, that protruded from the back pocket of his overalls, and he shifted sideways in the chair to block my vision, but the bottle clanked loudly against the chair’s arm. His face was transfused with guilt.
    “Hey, podna, since when did you have to hide things from me?” I said.
    “I shouldn’t drink, me, when I got to look after Miss Annie and that little girl.”
    “I trust you, Batist.”
    His eyes averted mine and his big hands were awkward in his lap. Even though I had known him since I was a child, he was still uncomfortable when I, a white man, spoke to him in a personal way.
    “Where’s Alafair now?” I said.
    “Wit’ my wife and girl. She all right, you ain’t got to worry, no. You know she talk French, her? We fixing po’-boys, I say pain , she know that mean ‘bread,’ yeah. I say sauce piquante , she know that mean