“What kind of ammunition do you fire in it?”

“It’s a thirty-aught-six-caliber rifle. It fires thirty-aught-six-caliber rounds.”

I was sitting in a burgundy-colored soft leather chair, an autumnal green-gold light filtering through the trees outside. But the comfortable ambience did not coincide with the sense of disquiet that was beginning to grow inside me. “That’s not my point, sir. This is a military weapon. Do you fire metal-jacketed, needle-nosed rounds in it?”

“I target shoot. I don’t hunt. I shoot whatever ammunition is on sale. What is this?”

“It’s illegal to hunt with military-type ammunition, because it passes right through the animal and wounds instead of kills. I think the two shooting victims got nailed with a metal-jacketed rather than a soft-nosed round. One other thing. You keep referring to the DOA as a ‘kid.’ You call the other looters ‘guys.’”

“I didn’t notice.”

“You’re correct, the DOA was a teenager. The wounded man and his brother are both adults. The man who fled was probably a guy by the name of Andre Rochon, also an adult. You speak of these guys with a sense of familiarity, as though you saw them up close.”

He rolled his eyes. He started to speak, then gave it up. He was sitting in a chair at his desk, his long-sleeved white shirt crinkling. His stolid face and square hands and scrubbed manner made me think of a farmer forced to go to church by his wife. I continued to stare at him in the silence. “Listen, Mr. Robicheaux-”

“It’s Dave.”

“I’ve told you what I know. Right now there are thousands of people in Louisiana and Mississippi waiting to hear from their insurance carrier. That’s me. I wish you well, but this conversation is over.”

“I’m afraid it’s not over.” I closed the manila folder and set it by my foot, as though its contents were no longer relevant. “Years ago I attended a convention of Louisiana and Mississippi police officers at the Evangeline Hotel in Lafayette. That particular weekend the FBI had dragged the Pearl River in search of a lynching victim. They didn’t find the guy they were looking for, but they found three others, one whose body had been sawed in half. I was in the hotel bar when I heard four plainclothesmen laughing in a booth behind me. One of them said, ‘Did you hear about the nigger who stole so many chains he couldn’t swim across the Pearl?’ Another detective said, ‘You know how they found him? They waved a welfare check over the water and this burr-headed boy popped to the surface and yelled out, ‘Here I is, boss.’

“These guys not only made me ashamed I was a police officer, they made me ashamed I was a white man. I think you’re the same kind of guy I am, Mr. Baylor. I don’t think you’re a racist or a vigilante. I know what happened to your daughter. If my daughter were attacked by degenerates and sadists, I’d be tempted to hand out rough justice, too. In fact, any father who didn’t have those feelings is not a father.”

His eyes were blue and lidless, his big hands splayed on his knees, the backs as rough as starfish.

“Get out in front of this, partner,” I said. “The justice system is emblematic and selective. Don’t let some bureaucratic functionaries hang you out to dry.”

His eyes stayed locked on mine, his thoughts concealed. Then whatever speculation or conclusion they had contained went out of them and he looked toward the doorway.

“Hi, Melanie. This is Mr. Robicheaux, from New Iberia. He was in the neighborhood and just dropped by to see how we’re doing. I told him we’re doing just fine,” Otis Baylor said.

“Yes, I remember you. It’s very nice to see you again,” his wife said, extending one hand, an iced drink in the other. “We’re doing quite well, considering.” She looked at the Springfield rifle that was propped by my chair. “This isn’t about the Negroes who were shot, is it? We’ve already told the authorities everything we know. I can’t believe something like that occurred in front of our house.”

I WALKED NEXT DOOR and looked up the ladder at the bullet-headed man wrestling with a broken oak limb on his roof. Out in the alley, a forklift was unloading a massive generator from the bed of a truck.

“Could I speak with you, sir?” I called, lifting up my badge holder.

The bullet-headed man climbed down from the ladder, his face ruddy from his work. I told him who I was and why I was in the neighborhood. “Tom Claggart,” he said, his meaty hand gripping mine warmly.

“Has the FBI or the city police talked with you?”

“Hang on a minute.”

He walked out to the alley and told the forklift operator where to set the generator in his yard. Then he returned, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the generator ended up in the right place, on an old brick patio half sunk in mud.

“Got a friend who’s a shipbuilder. He gave me one of his generators,” he said. “I should have put one in before the storm, like Otis did. What was that you were saying?”

“Has the FBI or the city police been out?”

“No, I wish they had.”

“You heard the shot?”

“I didn’t hear anything. I was sound asleep. I’d been chasing those bastards all over the neighborhood.”

“I see. Why do you wish the FBI or NOPD had talked with you?”

“To tell them to clean up the goddamn city, that’s why.”

I nodded, my expression pleasant, my eyes focused on his flower bed. “You own firearms, sir?”

“You bet your ass I do.”

“Think any of your neighbors might have gotten sick and tired of being robbed and intimidated the other night?”

“Can you spell that out a little more clearly?”

“People get fed up. Or sometimes fed up and scared. A housewife picks up a thumb-buster and blows an intruder through a glass window. The guy turns out to be a serial rapist. At most police stations, there’s usually a round of applause at morning roll call.”

He looked at me blankly, his mouth a tight seam.

“The Second Amendment gives us the right to bear arms to protect our homes and our loved ones,” I said. “During a time of social anarchy, the good guys sometimes feel a need to use extreme measures. I think their point of view is understandable. You hearing me on this, Mr. Claggart?”

“Otis has had a big cross to carry,” he replied.

“I’m aware of that.” I kept my eyes fastened on his.

He huffed air out of his nose and looked at Otis Baylor’s house. For just a moment I thought I saw a cloud slip across his face, the stain of resentment or envy take hold in his expression. “He said something about hanging black ivory on the wall.”

“Mr. Baylor said this?”

“Earlier in the evening, when some guys were breaking into houses on the other side of the street.”

“Did others hear him say this?”

“A couple of friends were in the yard with me. Otis had been outside with his rifle. Listen, I don’t blame him. We offered to help him, in fact.”

“Would you write down the names of your friends and their addresses, please?”

“I hope I’m not getting anybody in trouble. I just want to do the right thing,” he said, taking my pen and notepad from my hand.

With neighbors like Tom Claggart, Otis Baylor didn’t need enemies.

BUT THERE WAS an ancillary player not far away I could not resist interviewing. Sidney Kovick was an enigmatic man whose personality was that of either a sociopath or a master thespian. He was tall, well built, with dark hair, close-set eyes, and a knurled forehead, and he wore fine clothes and shined oxblood loafers with tassels on them. When he walked he seemed to jingle with the invisible sound of money and power. When he entered a room, most people, even those who did not know who he was, automatically dialed down their voices.

He had grown up on North Villere Street and worked as a UPS driver before he joined the Airborne and went to Vietnam. He came home with a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart but seemed to have no interest in his own heroism. Sidney had liked the army because he understood it and appreciated its consistency and predictability. He also appreciated the number of rackets it afforded him. He lent money at twenty percent interest to fellow enlisted men, had ties with pimps in Saigon ’s Bring-Cash Alley, and sold truckloads of PX goods on the Vietnamese black market. Sidney didn’t believe in setting geographical limits on his talents.