'What have you got on the wild man?'

'Not much. He had on a Halloween mask and wore brown leather gloves.'

'Was he white or black?'

'Nobody seems to remember. It was five in the morning. These guys were on the downside of smoking rock and bazooka and hyping all night.' He used his shoe to nudge a rubber that was curled on top of a piece of burnt newspaper like a flattened gray slug. 'You think these cocksuckers worry about safe sex? They get free rubbers from the family planning clinic and use them to carry brown scag in.'

'Motley, I think you might be a closet Republican.'

'I'm not big on humor this morning, Robicheaux.'

'Why did you want me down here?'

'Because I want to take this guy off the board. Because I'm not feeling a lot of support from Nate Baxter, or from anybody else, for that matter. If it hasn't occurred to you, nobody's exactly on the rag because a few black dealers are getting taken out.'

'Maybe Camel's operation is being hit on by another dealer.'

'You mean by another black dealer, don't you?' He bit into the cone of his ice cream, then flipped it away into a pile of trash. 'Come on, they've quit out there. Let's go see the show.'

'I didn't mean to offend you, partner.'

'Get off of it, Robicheaux. As far as the department is concerned, this is still nigger town. On a scale of priority of one to ten, it rates a minus eight.'

The air in the hallway was now gray with stone dust. Two workmen used crowbars to rake the bricks from the wall and the chunks of concrete inside onto the hallway floor. The gash in the wall looked like a torn mouth that they kept elongating and deepening until it almost reached the floor. One of the workmen paused, pushed his goggles up on his forehead, and leaned into the dark interior.

He brought his head back out and scratched his cheek.

'I can see a guy about three feet to the left. I'm not sure about what else I see, though,' he said.

'Look out,' Motley said, pushed the workman aside, and shined a flashlight into the hole. He pointed the light back into the recess for what seemed a long time. Then he clicked off the light and stood erect. 'Well, he always told everybody he was a war veteran. Maybe Camel'd appreciate a patriotic touch.'

I took the flashlight from Motley's hand and leaned inside the hole. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and rats and old brick.

The flashlight beam danced over Camel's body, his copper-bright skin, his hair shaved into dagger points and corn-rolled ridges, his dead eye that looked like a frosted blue-white marble. He was wedged in a reclining position between the bricks and a pile of broken cinder blocks. The workmen had entered the wall at the wrong location because Camel's blood had drained down a cement mound into a bowllike depression at the bottom of the wall.

The wound was like none I had ever seen in my years as a homicide detective. Someone had driven the winged, brass-sheathed end of a broken flagstaff through Camel's back, all the way through the heart cavity, until the staff had emerged below the nipple. The remnant of an American flag, long since faded almost colorless and partially burned by vandals, was streaked bright red and glued tightly against the staff by the pressure of the wound.

'Get the rest of the wall down,' Motley said to the workmen. Then he motioned me to follow him up the stairwell to the second floor. We stood on a landing outside a closed door. The building shook with the thudding of the jackhammer. 'What do you think?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I thought the vigilante specialized in heart removal.'

'So he modified his technique.'

'I thought he usually left flowers behind.'

'Maybe he didn't have time.'

'Did the killer take anything? Money or drugs?'

'He seemed to be too busy breaking heads. At least according to our witnesses.'

'Where are they?'

'Either in the hospital or in a holding cell at the district… Except one.'

'Oh?'

'Yeah,' he said. 'You want to check him out?'

He opened the door on a room that was stacked with school desks. Sitting on the floor, under a portable blackboard with holes the size of bowling balls knocked in the slate, was Zoot Bergeron, his knees drawn up before him, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. There was a puddle of what looked like urine in the corner.

'He walked in the back door about five minutes after two patrolmen got here,' Motley said. 'Bad luck for Lucinda's boy.'

Zoot looked at me, then dropped his eyes to his tennis shoes. He had made fists of both his hands, with his thumbs tucked inside his palms. Motley kicked him in the sole of the shoe.

'Look at me,' he said.

'Yes, suh,' Zoot said.

'Tell Detective Robicheaux what you told me.'

'I was picking up a friend. That's all. I don't know nothing about what goes on here.'

'Do you think all big people are dumb, Zoot? Do I look like a big, dumb, fat man to you?' Motley asked.

'I ain't said that, Sergeant Motley. My friend ax me to pick him up here and carry him to work.'

'Maybe we ought to take you down to the detox and get you UA-ed,' Motley said. 'You ever been there? You got to watch out for some of those old-time hypes in the shower, though. They'll try to take your cherry.'

'I don't care you UA me or not. I don't care you try to scare me with that kind of talk, either. I ain't used no dope, Sergeant Motley.'

'What do you know about Camel Benoit?' I said.

'Everybody up Magazine know Camel. He's a pimp.'

'He was a drug dealer, too, Zoot,' I said.

He fastened his eyes on his shoes again.

'Do you know who killed him?' I said.

'Sergeant Motley just said it. I wasn't here.'

He locked his hands on his knees, then rested his forehead on the back of his wrist. His eyelashes were as long as a girl's.

'You trying to fuck your mother?' Motley said.

'Suh?' Zoot said, raising his head. His face was the color of dead ash.

'You heard me, fuck your mother. Because that's what you're doing, you stupid little shit.'

Zoot tried to return Motley's stare, but his left eye began to tremble and water.

'Get out of here,' Motley said.

'Suh?'

'You got earplugs on? Get out of here. If I catch you around a crack house again, I'm going to kick your skinny ass all up and down Martin Luther King Drive.'

Zoot got to his feet uncertainly. He flinched when he straightened his back. Motley opened the door and leaned over the stair railing.

'There's a kid coming out. Let him go. He doesn't know anything,' he called to the detectives below. Then he walked back to Zoot and punched him in the breastbone with his forefinger.

'Don't ever give me reason to get mad at you. Do you understand me?' he,said.

'Yes, suh. I ain't.'

'You tell anybody I cut you loose, I'll kick your ass anyway.'

'Yes, suh.'

'Get out!'

After Zoot was gone, I looked at Motley. He was lighting a cigar. His whiskers were jet black inside the grain of his cheeks.

'You're all right, Motley.'

'Tell me that five years from now. That kid's going to end up facedown on a sidewalk.'

'Why?'

'Because he's like half the black kids in New Orleans. Every day he's got to prove he doesn't have his mama's pink finger up his butt. Come on, I'll buy you a beignet. This place is depressing me.'

I spent the next two hours in the library, or morgue, as it's called, of The Times-Picayune. I could find almost nothing on German U-boat activity in the Gulf of Mexico that had been printed during the war years, since all military news was censored from late 1941 until after V-J Day. There was one exception, however: a headline story which ran for three days concerning four Nazi saboteurs who had been apprehended by the FBI south of Baton Rouge in a truck loaded with explosives.