But before we could answer, he resumed talking. “Okay, let’s do that. But a couple of things we have to remember. Monarch Little gave you the lead on the bloody headlight. Bello ’s defense attorney is going to point out to a jury that Monarch has a vested interest in screwing the Lujan family.”

“How could Monarch plant DNA on the Lujans’ Buick?” I said.

“‘Nobody ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public.’ Know who said that?”

“No, but please tell us,” Helen said.

Lonnie gave her a look. “That great American sociologist P. T. Barnum.”

“You said there were a couple of items we need to remember,” I said.

“When it comes to Bello Lujan, we’re not the first in line. The FBI already has this guy under investigation. You’ve met Special Agent Betsy Mossbacher?” Lonnie said.

“How could I forget? How many federal agents track horseshit on your carpet?” Helen said.

Lonnie gave her another look, then began playing with his rubber band again. I had the feeling Helen was one of the few people who could stick thumbtacks deep into Lonnie’s scalp. “They’re after Bello and Whitey Bruxal,” he said. “However, my guess is they have some conflicts among themselves about the real goal of their investigation. The Mossbacher woman seems more intent on bringing down this televangelist Colin Alridge. You ever meet him?”

I had. Colin Alridge was a homegrown product who had returned to New Orleans a national celebrity. He was not simply telegenic, either. In person, he seemed to exude goodness and rectitude. Outside of Mickey Rooney in his role as Andy Hardy, I could not think of a public figure who was more representative of Norman Rockwell’s America. But I didn’t respond to Lonnie’s question, in part because I wanted to know Lonnie’s attitude toward Alridge. More candidly, I didn’t trust Lonnie. His prosecutorial eye seemed to be selective, and he chose his enemies with discretion.

“Alridge has probably been fronting points for the Indian casinos in the central portion of the state at the expense of those on the Texas state line,” he said. “A lot of people around here have no objection to a guy like Alridge helping the local economy. A lot of these same people get their paychecks from Bello Lujan and by extension Whitey Bruxal. Which means a lot of people around here might not like the idea of Crustacean Man messing up the cash flow. You with me?”

“You want to back off on the warrant for right now?” Helen said.

“Helen, why not listen a little more attentively to what’s being said? My point is the Feds are already investigating crimes committed in our backyard. So how does that make us look? Like bumbling hicks. So the question presents itself: How do we take the initiative away from the FBI and act like the elected servants we’re supposed to be? The answer is we drop the hammer on our own miscreants and, while we’re at it, see if we can’t show this televangelical asshole that just because you were born in Louisiana, you don’t get to wipe your feet on Iberia Parish. Is this starting to gel for you, Helen?”

It was so quiet I could hear the air-conditioning in the vents. “We’ll have Bello and his son in custody by close of business,” I said.

“Good,” Lonnie said, rocking back in his chair, raising one finger in the air. “One other thing-I want daily updates on every aspect of this investigation. Any memoranda are eyes-only. All conversations regarding the investigation stay within our immediate circle. Any sharing of information with federal authorities will be performed by this office and this office only. Are we all on the same page here?”

“I’ll notify you as soon as we bring Bello and Tony Lujan in,” I said.

I had slipped his punch, but he didn’t seem to take note of it. “Helen?” he said.

Her face was thoughtful, even placid, before she spoke. “No, I can’t think of a thing to say, Lonnie. Nothing at all. But if I do, I’ll give you a buzz.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Friday, Bello Lujan was placed under arrest for destruction of evidence in a vehicular homicide. He was not told that simultaneously his son was being removed from a classroom at UL by me, a uniformed Iberia Parish sheriff’s deputy, and a Lafayette City Police detective. When Tony Lujan protested, we cuffed his wrists behind him and led him across the quadrangle, just as a bell rang and his peers poured out of the surrounding buildings and filled the colonnaded walkway that surrounded the main campus. Tony’s face was as red as raw hamburger.

We left him cuffed behind the wire screen in the cruiser and headed for New Iberia, with me in the passenger seat and Top, our retired Marine Corps NCO, behind the wheel.

“You treated me like I’m a rapist or a drug dealer in front of all those people. You can’t do that unless you charge me with something,” Tony said.

“We don’t have to charge you, because you’re not under arrest,” I said.

“Then why am I in handcuffs?”

“You gave us a bad time,” I replied.

“If I’m not under arrest, take the cuffs off.”

“When we stop,” I said.

I saw Top look into the rearview mirror. His red hair was turning gray and two pale furrows ran through it on each side of his pate. His mustache looked as stiff as a toothbrush. “I’m not as forgiving as Dave, here,” he said.

“What I’d do?”

“You stepped on my spit shine. You scratched the leather on my brand-new shoes. Those are forty-dollar shoes.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony said.

“How would you like it if somebody stepped on your new shoes?” Top said.

“This is crazy. I want to call my father.”

“Your father is under arrest. I don’t think he’s going to be of much help to you,” I said.

“Arrest for what?”

I turned around in the seat so he could look directly into my face. “Either you or he or your mother killed a homeless man with your automobile. Y’all thought you could get away with something like that, Tony? How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty.” The handcuffs were on tight and he had to lean forward on the car seat to keep from pinching them into his wrists.

“You’re studying to be a doctor?” I said.

“I’m in my second year of premed.”

“And you’re starting out your career with blood splatter all over you?” I said.

“I didn’t kill anybody.”

“How did the dead guy’s blood get on your headlight?” Top said.

“I’m not saying anything else. I want to talk to my father. I want to talk to a lawyer.”

“Glad to hear that, kid, because I’m very upset over what you did to my shoes,” Top said. “You just graduated from ‘friend of the court’ to ‘punch of the day’ in the stockade shower. I hear if you close your eyes and pretend you’re a girl, it’s not so bad after a couple of months.”

Then both Top and I turned to stone and watched the billboards and fields of young sugarcane slide past the windows. After we had crossed into Iberia Parish, I gestured toward a turnoff. We left the four-lane and drove through a community of shacks and rain ditches that were strewn with litter and vinyl bags of raw garbage that had been flung from passing vehicles. Thunderclouds moved across the sun and the countryside dropped into shadow. The wind smelled like rain and chemical fertilizer and dead animals that had been left on the roadside. Beyond a line of trees I could see the ugly gray outline of the parish prison and the silvery coils of razor wire along the fences.

“Stop here,” I told Top.

“He wants to lawyer-up. He’s a fraternity punk who deserves to fall in his own shit. Don’t end up with a bad jacket, here,” Top said.

“I’m going to do it my way. Now stop the car.”

I got out of the cruiser and opened the back door. Tony looked at me cautiously. “Outside,” I said.

“What are we doing?”

I reached inside and pulled him out on the road, then marched him toward a clump of cedar trees. He twisted his head back toward the road, his face stretched tight with fear. “People at UL know we left together. You can’t do this,” he said.