"You been working some juju, Little Face?" I asked.

'"Cause I sell out of my pants don't mean I'm stupid and superstitious." Then she said to Clete, "You better go, Fat Man. Take your friend wit' you, too. You ain't funny no more."

Sunday morning I went to Mass with my wife, Bootsie, and my adopted daughter, Alafair, then I drove out to the Labiche home on the bayou.

Passion Labiche was raking pecan leaves in the backyard and burning them in a rusty barrel. She wore men's shoes and work pants and a rumpled cotton shirt tied under her breasts. She heard my footsteps behind her and grinned at me over her shoulder. Her olive skin was freckled, her back muscular from years of field work. In looking at the brightness of her face, you would not think she grieved daily on the plight of her sister. But grieve she did, and I believed few people knew to what degree.

She dropped a rake-load of wet leaves and pecan husks on the fire, and the smoke curled out of the barrel in thick curds like damp sulfur burning. She fanned her face with a magazine.

"I found a twenty-year-old hooker in New Orleans who seems to have a big emotional investment in your sister's case. Her name's Little Face Dautrieve. She's originally from New Iberia," I said.

"I don't guess I know her," she said.

"How about a pimp named Zipper Clum?"

"Oh, yes. You forget Zipper about as easy as face warts," she said, and made a clicking sound and started raking again.

"Where do you know him from?" I said.

"My parents were in the life. Zipper Clum's been at it a long time." Then her eyes seemed to go empty as though she were looking at a thought in the center of her mind. "What'd you find out from this black girl?"