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One cookbook out of five books meant much less than twenty out of a hundred.
    But Vic was easy. There were two cases, fiction and non-, almost all hardcovers. I skimmed the bookshelves. Most of Dickens, all of Flaubert and Zola, all of Poe, and the complete Mark Twain, all in decent editions. I pulled a copy of
Thérèse Raquin
off the shelf. Its cloth cover stuck to
Nana
on one side and
Germinal
on the other. I cracked the book open and it creaked. Vic hadn’t read any of them. A decorator or bookseller had stocked the shelves for him.
    In the nonfiction case Vic Willing had a manual for his computer, a manual for his car, and about a hundred books about New Orleans. These looked like someone had actually read them. They were roughly organized by topic: cookbooks, history, politics, architecture. At the end were about ten books on Mardi Gras Indians, also known as Black Indians or Indian gangs.
    The Indians were groups of people—mostly black, mostly men—in New Orleans who on Mardi Gras and Saint Joseph’s Day and other mysterious occasions got together to play music and dance and chant in their own strange language. They were not Native Americans. Some Indians, like Bo Dollis, were such good musicians that they went professional. In America no one knew who they were, but in Europe and Asia—and in their own neighborhoods in New Orleans—they were stars. The Indians organized themselves into tribes with names like the Wild Magnolias and the White Hawks. Within the tribe were ceremonial, ritualized rankings and jobs and positions. The Spy Boy from each tribe would go ahead and arrange or avoid encounters with other tribes, the Witch Doctor was the spiritual leader of the tribe, and the Big Chief was, obviously, the Big Chief. On holidays they dressed up in costumes that were somewhat Indian but more Vegas: sequined, beaded, and feathered.
    I’d been fascinated by the Indians when I lived there, but never understood them. Constance had Indian friends, but she wouldn’t introduce me.
    â€œThey’re touchy,” she explained. “Complicated.”
    I’d seen Indian practice, far away from the tourists and months away from Mardi Gras, just a group of men together in a dirty park in New Orleans, chanting and playing instruments. It was ten years ago. I’d just got the news that Constance had been killed, and I was driving around the city for no reason at all, taking in what I could before I left. Without her there was no reason to stay. I was near Shakespeare Park when I heard their drumming, and I circled into the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of them.
    The men huddled together, some with cowbells and blocksand tambourines, tapping out a beat as they sang. One man stood in the center, his eyes rolled up to heaven, whites shaking under the pink of his eyelids, calling out a chant.
    But then the men saw me watching and the practice broke up. The chanting died down, and the men each went in a different direction, and by the time I got out of my car it was as if no one had been there at all.
    Most of what the men chanted was in their own Indian language, but a few words were in English.
    Sister Constance
,
    Sister Constance
,
    You left us all too soon . . 
.
    Â 
    Apparently Vic had been fascinated by the Indians too, or at least interested. I got a chair and looked on top of the bookshelf. Nothing. As long as I was up there I looked around the room. Nothing but dust.
    Under the sideboard was the safe. I craned my head and looked under the desk. There was the combination, scotch-taped to the underside: 8-18-85. I looked at the serial number on the safe. It was the date he bought it.
    Inside was another disappointment. A crappy .22 revolver that was practically frozen from rust and less than a grand in cash. I left it open for Leon.
    I settled down at Vic’s desk. There were some papers on the desk, not filed yet, and I went through those first. Nothing interesting. I