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her round blue eyes were intent over the wheel.
    “Do you still think I’m an escaped criminal?” I said.
    “I don’t know what you are, but I recognized one of those deputies. He’s a sadist who rubbed his penis all over one of my clients.”
    “Your clients?”
    “I work for the state handicapped services.”
    “You can put him away.”
    “She’s scared to death. He told her he’d do it to her again, and then put her in jail as a prostitute.”
    “God, lady, look out. Listen, there’s a restaurant on stilts just across the parish line. You pull in there, then we’re going to make a phone call and I’m going to buy you lunch.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’re wired and you don’t believe who I am. By the way, what you did back there took courage.”
    “No, it didn’t. I just don’t give rides to weird people. There’s a lot of weirdness around these days. If you’re a police detective, why are you driving a wreck of an automobile?”
    “A few minutes ago it wasn’t entirely a wreck.”
    “That’s what I mean by weirdness. Maybe I saved your life, and you criticize my driving.”
    Don’t argue with God’s design on a sun-spangled morning in a corridor of oak trees, Robicheaux, I thought. Also, don’t argue with somebody who’s doing eighty-five miles an hour and showering rocks like birdshot against the tree trunks.
    The restaurant was a ramshackle board place with screen windows, built up on posts over the lake. Metal Dixie 45 and Jax beer signs were nailed all over the outer walls. Crawfish were out of season, so I ordered fried catfish and small bowls of shrimp gumbo. While we waited for the food, I bought her a drink at the bar and used the phone to call my extension at First District headquarters in New Orleans. I put the receiver to her ear so she could hear Clete answer, then I took the receiver back.
    “I’m having lunch with a lady who would like you to describe what I look like,” I told him, and gave the phone back to her. I saw her start to smile as she listened, then her eyes crinkled and she laughed out loud.
    “That’s outrageous,” she said.
    “What’d he say?”
    “That your hair is streaked like a skunk’s and that sometimes you try to walk the check.”
    “Clete’s always had satirical ambitions.”
    “Is this how you all really do things? Chaining up other cops to cars, terrifying people on the highway, playing jokes over the phone?”
    “Not exactly. They have a different set of rules in Cataouatche Parish. I sort of strayed off my turf.”
    “What about those deputies back there? Won’t they come after you?”
    “I think they’ll be more worried about explaining themselves to the man they work for. After we eat, can you take me back to the city?”
    “I have to make a home call at a client’s house, then I can.” She sipped from her Manhattan, then ate the cherry off the toothpick. She saw me watching her, and she looked out the window at the lake, where the wind was blowing the moss in the cypress trees.
    “Do you like horse racing?” I said.
    “I’ve never been.”
    “I have a clubhouse pass. Would you like to go tomorrow night, provided I have my car back?”
    She paused, and her electric blue eyes wandered over my face.
    “I play cello with a string quartet. We have practice tomorrow night,” she said.
    “Oh.”
    “But we’ll probably finish by eight-thirty, if that’s not too late. I live by Audubon Park,” she said.
    See, don’t argue with design and things will work out all right after all, I told myself.
     
    But things did not go well back at the District the next day. They never did when I had to deal with the people in vice, or with Sergeant Motley in particular. He was black, an ex-career enlisted man, but he had little sympathy for his own people. One time a black wino in a holding cell was giving Motley a bad time, calling him “the white man’s knee-grow, with a white man’s badge and a white man’s gun,” and Motley