I gave it a few minutes, then paid at the counter, left a hefty tip, and crossed the street to Jimmie Ray Rebenack's office.

The building was dingy and low class, with crummy linoleum floors and water-stained paint. The smell offish was strong, and seemed a part of the fiber of the building. Three offices overlooked the front street, and three overlooked the alley behind the fish market. Rebenack had the middle office over the alley. I listened for a second, didn't hear anything, then let myself in.

Jimmie Ray Rebenack was sitting behind a plain wooden desk, feet up, staring at some papers when he heard the door. He saw me, then came out of the chair as if somebody had poured hot oatmeal into his lap.

"Hey."

"Nice boots, Jimmie Ray. You going for that Joey Buttafucco look?"

"Who?" Out of the cultural loop, down here in Ville Platte. "What do you want?" He slid the papers into his desk drawer. Surreptitious.

Jimmie Ray Rebenack had sharp features and pock-marks on his neck and the pink skin of a natural redhead. Maybe an inch shorter than me, but muscular in a rawboned kind of way. Grease from his part-time mechanic's job was embedded in the thick skin of his knuckles and fingers. He'd tried to wash it off, but the grease was in deep and probably a pan of him. A lowboy gray metal file cabinet sat in one corner of the little room, and a couple of padded dinette chairs sat against the wall opposite his desk. Both of the chairs looked like they had been out in the rain, and the padding on one had been patched with duct tape. Classy. Everything in the place looked like it had been picked up at a yard sale, or maybe bought secondhand from the Louisiana public school system. There was a framed picture of Tom Selleck as Magnum sitting on top of the file cabinet.

I said, "I want to know why you're following me, Jimmie Ray."

"Man, what d' hell you talkin' 'bout? I ain't followin' you." The accent was somewhere between Cajun and French Quarter New Orleans.

I crossed his office and looked out the window. He had a view of the Dumpster behind the fish market and, beyond that, a backyard with a little tomato garden. A mayonnaise jar with a two-headed turtle floating in alcohol was on his windowsill. Keepsake, no doubt. I said, "You're Jimmie Ray Rebenack. You drive this year's Mustang, license number 213X455, and you possess Louisiana State investigator's license number KAO154509."

You could see him relax. I hadn't shot him or thrown a punch, so the surprise of my entry was wearing off and he was getting himself together. He put together a pretty good smile, sort of a Jack Nicholson number, part sneer and part smirk. He sat again, leaning back and trying to look expansive. "You made me, huh? You must be pretty good."