“Your name is Prospect Desmoreau?” I said.

“That’s me,” he said. But like every other mismatched element in his makeup, his accent didn’t fit. It was genuine peckerwood, a yeoman dialect that runs through the pine forests and plains from West Virginia into West Texas, one that probably goes back to the early days of the Republic. “Hep you with something?”

“Monarch Little said a man brought you a Buick last summer that had been damaged from a collision with a deer.”

“He sure did. I fixed it good as new, too.”

“Did this man act hinky to you?”

“No, suh.”

“What was this fellow’s name?”

Prospect Desmoreau looked at the wind ruffling the bayou, an amber blaze of late sunlight on its surface. But no matter where his eye traveled, he never stopped grinning. “Mr. Bello brought it in,” he said.

“Bellerophon Lujan?”

“Yes, suh. He give me a twenty-dollar tip.”

“Where was the damage?”

“Passenger-side fender, passenger-side headlight.”

“Did you see any material on the car body that indicated Mr. Bello hit a deer? Hair, a piece of antler embedded in the headlight?”

“Looked to me like somebody had already hosed it down and wiped it off. People do that sometimes when they plow into livestock and such. You looking for somebody done a hit-and-run on a pedestrian?”

“That pretty well sums it up, Prospect.”

“There was blood inside the headlight glass. I didn’t see no deer hair, though. Least none I remember. Don’t mean wasn’t none there.”

“There’s no way you saved the headlight glass, huh?” I said, putting my notebook back in my shirt pocket.

“You want to look at it?”

“Sir?”

“I got a pileful of trash and junk on the other side of the barn. ’Bout every two years I haul it to the dump. I know right where that glass is at, ’cause I seen it just the other day when I was hunting around in the pile for a radio speaker I pulled out of a ’fifty-five Chevy.”

“Broken glass with blood on it?”

“Yes, suh. It’s been under an old piece of tarp. I seen it.”

I stared at him stupidly. “Prospect, I think you’re a remarkable man,” I said.

“Women tell me that all the time.”

He dragged a large tangle of canvas off the pile, spilling a shower of wet pine needles and pooled water onto the ground. He lifted a jagged half-moon piece of broken glass from a circle of chrome molding. “Right there on the edge, you can still see the blood.”

I took a Ziploc bag from my back pocket and spread it open. “Just drop it right in there, partner. I need that molding, too. Is there anything else in here from Mr. Bello’s Buick?”

“No, suh, I don’t think so.”

“On another subject, how well do you know Monarch Little?”

“I taught him body-and-fender work. Taught him when he was knee-high to a tree frog.”

“Too bad he doesn’t make use of it.”

“Folks don’t always get to choose what they do,” he replied.

“You seem like a smarter man than that,” I said.

“His mama is at M.D. Anderson in Houston. She’s had every kind of cancer there is. Monarch ain’t tole you that?” he said, his pink-tinted eyes squinting in the sunlight.

I DROVE DIRECTLY to the Acadiana Crime Lab and logged in the evidence with Mack Bertrand. It was late and I could tell Mack was anxious to get home to supper and his wife and family. “What are you looking for on this?” he asked.

“A DNA match or an exclusion on Crustacean Man. ”

“How soon you need it?”

“The owner of the vehicle is probably Bello Lujan. I doubt he’s a big flight risk.”

Mack raised his eyebrows. “Use the process as a buffer between you and him, Dave. No matter what he does, don’t react, don’t let it get personal.”

“What’s the big deal about Bello?”

“I think he’s a driven man. He came to our church for a while, but we had to encourage him to attend one that’s probably more suited to his needs.”

“Can you translate the hieroglyphics for me?”

“He’s got sex on the brain, he’s full of guilt, he shouts in the middle of the service. He may be dangerous, at least to himself. We sent him to some Holy Rollers who speak in tongues. But I’m not sure even they can deal with him. Does that give you a better perspective?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What a sense of humor. I’ll have the DNA report for you in three days,” he said.

THAT EVENING I tried to disconnect my thoughts from Bello Lujan, in the same way that as a child I tried not to believe that a school-yard bully had become an inextricable part of my life. But I also remembered how, for some unexplainable reason, my path and the bully’s crossed regularly, as though by design, and regardless of what I did to avoid encountering him, my actions always led me back to a choice between public humiliation or the end of a fist.

Saturday morning I had visited Bello ’s home and questioned his son, Tony, about the T-shirt emblazoned with the image of Pegasus that Yvonne Darbonne had been wearing the day she died. Inadvertently, Tony Lujan had told me his father was an investor in the track and casino advertised on the shirt and that he had planned to give her a job in the casino restaurant. This was after Bello had denied knowing anyone by the name of Yvonne Darbonne.

I had managed to expose the school bully as a liar. I should have known he would come calling as soon as he returned from his weekend visit to New Orleans.

“There’s a man standing in the front yard,” Molly said.

I looked out the window. Bello ’s Buick was parked in the driveway, his son in the passenger seat, but Bello was staring at the street, as though he couldn’t make up his mind what he should do next. I walked out on the gallery. A sun-shower had just stopped, and water was ticking out of the trees.

I remembered Mack Bertrand’s cautionary words about using procedure as a buffer between me and Bello Lujan. “I suspect this is a business call. If that’s the case, I’d rather talk about it at the office, Bello,” I said.

“You questioned my boy while I was in New Orleans. About the T-shirt that dead girl was wearing,” he said.

The sunlight was tea-colored through the oak branches overhead, the air cool from the rain, the sky throbbing with the sound of tree frogs. It was too fine an evening for an angry encounter with a primitive, tormented, and violent man. I stepped off the gallery into the yard so I would not be perceived as speaking down to him. But I did not offer him my hand. “Come see me tomorrow, partner.”

“My boy told you I was going to give the dead girl a job waitressing at the track clubhouse. I told you I didn’t remember her name. That’s ’cause I give jobs to lots of kids, particularly ones wanting to go to college. You making me out a hypocrite in front of my family?”

“That’s a term of your own choosing.”

“You cracking wise now?”

“What I’m doing is telling you to get out of here.”

“You told my son this colored kid, what’s his name, Monarch Little, is a badass motherfucker who might put out his lights?”

“I don’t think I phrased it exactly that way.”

“Come over here, Tony!” Bello said.

His son stepped out of the car. His face was bloodless in the shade, his jaws slowly chewing a piece of gum.

“What did Mr. Robicheaux here say to you?” Bello asked.

“It’s like you say, Daddy.”

“He said that colored boy was gonna cool you out?”

“Not in those words,” Tony said.

“He said this kid was a badass motherfucker and was gonna hurt you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My son is lying, here?” Bello said to me.

You don’t argue with drunks and you don’t engage with stupid or irrational people. But when they insist that you are the source of all the unhappiness in their lives and denigrate you without letup, when they stand so close to you that you can smell their enmity in their sweat, at some point you have to take it to them, if for no other reason than self-respect. At least that’s what I told myself.