But, on a tip that Sloane had gotten from a detective in the New Orleans Gang Intelligence Division, he and his partner and, as local representative, the reluctant Nick Memphis had come out well past midnight in the Service’s electronic monitoring vehicle in order to penetrate the farmhouse – no warrant was necessary if the penetration was done via parabolic microphone – and see what the White Beacon boys were up to, if there were White Beacon boys and if this was the farmhouse where they were meeting. Nick knew at least three sly old Cajun detectives who’d drink themselves goofy in merry recollection of having sent three Northern federal whiteboys out into the swamps for a night, listening to the cicadas. But he said nothing.

“It can’t be a goddamn overlapping signature,” said Till. “It’s just junk equipment. It isn’t even digital, for Christ’s sake.”

“Maybe the beam isn’t getting through the trees,” said Sloane.

“Maybe it’s the goddamn junk equipment,” said Till again.

But Nick felt as if he was in the space cruiser Enterprise, it was so high-tech.

“What’s wrong with the equipment?” he asked. “Man, if we have a big bust, we have to requisition our EV from Miami.”

“We been trying to get an upgrade for years,” said Till. “This piece of shit always goes into a zone two weeks before the Man does. But it was built in the sixties and it’s so far from being state of the art, it can’t even pick up HBO! It’s a piece of shit!”

“You need an Electrotek 5400,” Nick said innocently.

“Jesus, yeah!” said Till. “Sure, but I don’t have a million bucks lying around to spend on listening in on people. Hell, all I’m trying to do is protect the life of the president of the United States, that’s all. How’d you ever hear of an Electrotek? That goddamn thing’s top secret.”

“Guy told me. Said there were seven in the world.”

“No, they built five or six more. Yeah, wouldn’t it be sweet if we had one. Man, we wouldn’t have to go to this fucking swamp. We could go to the parking lot and tune in.”

“It’s the Agency and DEA that have them, right?”

“And certain overseas clients with very high and tight connections.”

“I heard some guys got them in Salvador.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. No death squad would be complete without them. Meanwhile, guys like us who are trying to work for a living, we get a piece of sixties shit like this. Man, I think I’m getting Country Joe and the Fish on these earphones.”

Nick shut up for a while then, as Till jimmied and dicked with the equipment.

“I got something,” he finally said.

“Tape rolling?”

“Tape rolling fine. Ah, let me see if I can amplify it and bring it out…”

Nick heard a babble of voices chattering over the loudspeakers:

“You know, dem boys, dey be, you know, um, dey be hawmping in de woods fer ole gata, lemme tell you, um, dey be hawmping da swamps, shooooo-eee, boy, wif dem, like lights, you know, you know what I’m saying, lights, like, and when dem boys git in reals close, wham, wham!, you know – ”

“I hate to tell you,” Nick said, “but I don’t think those are the Beacons. Not unless they started an equal opportunity program.”

“Shit,” said Sloane.

“Man, what are they talking about?” said Till in wonderment.

“Gator hunting, I think. These old backwoods blacks, they go out late at night and attract gators with light, then bop ’em over the head with ax handles. Highly illegal, but they eat the meat and sell the skins and teeth. Poaching. It’s poaching. You guys want to bust ’em for conspiracy to poach? It’s three to five and it’s federal.”

“Shit,” said Sloane again. “I know that guy said it was thirty miles out Parish Five-forty-seven, then left at the dirt road for thirteen miles.”

“I think he was chain pulling,” said Nick. “These old Louisiana cops, you know, they love their pranks.”

“I’m going to report his ass,” said Sloane hotly.

“No, don’t do that. See, he’s got you. You can’t prove it was anything but real and if you make a fuss, you’re the one that looks like the ungrateful ass. Listen, my first year in Gumboland, I spent half my nights on wild-goose chases. This is what passes for sport down here. Those guys are sitting in the back room at The Alligator Club right now, laughing themselves sick, I guarantee you. But you did your job, right? That’s the main thing.”

“Christ, Memphis, you’re a walking testimonial to the human power to forgive.”

“It’s so much easier than being a hard guy. Especially in their town. Now I get along with them pretty well, because I paid my dues and never complained.”

“Ah, let’s get out of here,” said Till.

“Just think, Till, how silly you’d feel if you’d been parked out here in a million-dollar Electrotek 5400. All dressed up and no place to go.”

Both the Secret Service agents laughed, and then Till said, “No way I’m getting hold of an Electrotek unless I go to work for RamDyne, which I just might do.”

Nick said, “RamDyne?”

“You never heard of RamDyne?”

“No.”

“It’s Fed heaven. You fuck up bad, or you get fucked bad, but you’re good, you know, really good, maybe RamDyne gives you a call one night. Then you are on easy street. And you get to do all the stuff the CIA used to do. Interesting stuff.”

“Ah,” said Sloane, “it doesn’t even exist. I hear guys talking about it now and then, but I don’t know a single guy who’s ever gotten that kind of nod.”

“But it’s nice to think of the money, isn’t it?” said Till, dreamily.

Bob came over the rise and looked down the wet tarmac to see the trailer a mile ahead, and the car parked next to it. He drew his parka tighter; the wind pushed into and through it. Next to him, Mike poised, taut, his sloppy jowls tightening, a curl of angry low sound slithering out of his throat.

“Easy, boy,” said Bob, trying to rub some softness into the animal’s tension. He stroked the hard neck and the velvety ears and after a second or so, Mike broke contact with the strangers at the trailer and cocked his head, looking at Bob, puzzlement showing in the deep lakes of his eyes.

“There, guy,” Bob said in a low mutter, “it’s all right. They’re friends,” though a sardonic tone crept into the last word.

He had wondered when they’d be in touch. It was a sleety day; the weather had rushed over the Ouachitas; low clouds rolled angrily by; pellets of ice fell diagonally, cutting the skin, collecting in puddles on the road, while the wind sliced through the trees.

Bob shivered, not quite warm, and pressed ahead.

The colonel sat in the car, reading a newspaper. Payne lounged on the fender.

“Howdy, Payne.”

“Hi ya, Bob. Nice dog.”

“Dogs aren’t nice, Payne. They’re either good or they’re bad, meaning either they stick or they cut. Mike sticks.”

Payne just looked at him, something like a smirk on his dark, blunt features. Bob felt the hostility, but it didn’t particularly bother him. Payne didn’t worry Bob a bit.

“How’s the mouth?”

“My old man hit me harder. He didn’t give me no warning either.”

Payne smiled, showing new dentures.

“All right,” said the colonel, stepping out of the car.

Payne immediately stepped back.

“Get inside, Payne. Wait for me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Payne, sliding obediently into the car.

“Hello, Swagger. How are you?”

“Fine,” said Bob.

“Nice dog,” said the colonel.

“He sure is.”

“Some kind of beagle?”

“Beagle and something.”

“Well, anyway. Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

Bob unlocked the gate and Mike ran to his hut like the obedient creature he was. Bob took the colonel inside.

They sat down at Bob’s table and the man pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Bob’s report.