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holsters; they laughed like men with careless minds and careless trigger fingers, absent of compunction, remorse, reason, or responsibility to any law but their own. These men belonged to some bygone age. These men were not the impulsive gun-happy teenagers and gangbangers that Verlaine collided with in his usual line of work.
    The hairs on Verlaine’s neck rose to attention, his stomach tightened, he felt pearls of sweat break from his hairline and start down his brow.
    When the men saw him walking towards the house they fell silent. They stood motionless, almost to attention. They would know who he was. No-one but cops came down here in a shirt and tie. They knew well enough not to cause trouble unless it was started by someone else. They would think nothing of killing him, he knew that, but he would have to give them ample provocation first.
    ‘
Attendez!
’ a voice barked somewhere to Verlaine’s right.
    Verlaine stopped walking.
    A man appeared, armed much the same as those on the veranda. He ambled from the trees and came towards Verlaine as if he possessed all the time in the world.
    ‘
Vous attendez
,’ he said again as he neared. ‘You are police, no?’
    Verlaine nodded.
    ‘What is it you want here?’ the man asked, his accent thick, his tone threatening.
    ‘I came to see Mister Feraud,’ Verlaine said.
    ‘You did, eh?’ the man said, and smiled. He turned towards the veranda. His attention seemed to be held for a moment, and then he turned once again to Verlaine.
    ‘He asks you to come?’
    Verlaine shook his head.
    ‘So he is not here
peut-être
.’
    Verlaine shrugged. ‘If he’s not here I’ll come back another time.’
    The man nodded and looked down. He appeared to be considering his options.
‘Vous attendez ici
. I will see if Mister Feraud is in.’
    Verlaine opened his mouth to thank the man but he had already turned and started walking towards the house. Verlaine watched as he reached the veranda, shared some words with another man by the door, and then passed inside.
    He seemed to be gone for an eternity while Verlaine stood on the driveway with a dozen eyes watching him intently. He wanted to turn and run.
    Eventually the man returned. He again spoke to one of the men by the door, and then he raised his hand.
    ‘
Venez ici!
’ he shouted, and Verlaine started walking.
    Daddy Always Feraud was as Louisiana as they came. A lined and weathered face, creases like ravines running from his eyes, his mouth, the edge of each nostril. His eyes were like washed-out riverbed stones, almost transparent, piercing and haunted. He sat in a deep blue leather armchair, his legs crossed, in his right hand a cigarette. He wore a cream three-piece suit, and held in his left hand a panama hat which he waved every once in a while to cool himself. His hair was fine silver, combed neatly back, but for one unruly spike that protruded from the crown where he had leaned against the chair. He watched Verlaine as he walked towards him from the doorway of the room. His eyes were distant and yet possessive of an expression that said he’d seen too much for too long to let anything slide by. Bruised light filtered through ceiling-high windows graced with the finest organdy curtains. The old man did not speak, and at each shoulder stood two other men, as still as cigar-store Indians, men that could only have been his sons.
    Verlaine stopped three or four yards from Feraud. He nodded his head somewhat deferentially. Feraud said a word that Verlaine did not hear and someone appeared with a chair. Verlaine sat without question, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to speak.
    Feraud raised his hand and Verlaine fell silent.
    ‘There is always a price to pay,’ the old man said, his voice >rumbling from his throat and filling the room. ‘You have come to ask me for something, I imagine, but I must tell you that the principle of exchange holds court in my kingdom. If there is something you wish from me, then you