I loved the place where I lived and the house my father had built and notched and grooved and pegged with his hands, and I loved the people I lived with in the house.

Sunday night Bootsie and I ate supper on the picnic table under the mimosa tree in the backyard. The wind was balmy and smelled of salt and fish spawning, and the moon was up and I could see the young sugarcane blowing in my neighbor's field.

Bootsie set out a tray of deviled eggs and sliced ham and onions and tomatoes on the table and poured two glasses full of crushed ice and sun tea and put sprigs of mint in them. Her hair was the color of honey and she had cut it so it was short and thick on the back of her neck. She had the most lovely complexion of any woman I had ever known. It had the pinkness of a rose petal when the rose first opens into light, and a faint flush came into her cheeks and throat when she made love or when she was angry.

"You saw Passion Labiche today?" she asked.

"Yeah. It bothered me a little bit, too," I said.

"Why?"

"A hooker in New Orleans, a bail skip Clete ran down, had saved all these clippings about Letty. I asked Passion if she knew her. She said she didn't, but then she slipped and referred to the girl as being black. Why would she want to lie?"

"Maybe she was just making an assumption."

"People of color usually make derogatory assumptions about their own race?" I said.

"All right, smart," she said.

"Sorry."

She hit the top of my hand with her spoon. Just then the phone rang in the kitchen.

I went inside and picked it up.

"I got the word on Zipper Clum. He's going to be in a fuck pad in Baton Rouge about two hours from now. Out towards where Highland Road runs into the highway… You there?" Clete said.

"Yeah. I'm just a little tired."

"I thought you wanted the gen on those news clippings."