"What do you want, Purcel?" he said indifferently.

"Dave, meet Wesley Potts, our resident bucket of shit," Cletus said.

"I don't have time for your insults, Purcel. You got a warrant or something?"

"That's what they say on television, Pottsie," Cletus said. "You see any TV cameras, Dave?"

"I don't see any TV cameras," I said.

"On television some guy is always saying 'You got a warrant?' or 'You got to read me my rights,'" Cletus said. "But in big-people land we don't do it that way. You ought to know that, Pottsie."

"I thought you didn't work vice anymore," Potts said.

"That's right. I'm in homicide now. My partner here's last name is Robicheaux. Does that make your swizzle stick start to tingle?"

The man behind the desk blew cigar smoke out in front of him and looked into it with his eyes flat, but I saw his fingers crimp together on the desk blotter.

"Your little brother up at Angola says you're blabbing it around that Dave here is going to get snuffed," Cletus said.

"If that's what my brother says, you ought to be talking to him. I don't know anything about it."

"The people up at Angola don't like cops hitting on their convicts. Bad for their image and all that," Cletus said. "But you and us, well, that's a whole different caper, Wes."

Potts's eyes were small and hot and staring straight ahead.

"Lighten up," Cletus said. "You're a businessman, you pay taxes, you're reasonable. You just got diarrhea of the mouth and you been spreading rumors around, and we want to know why you been doing that.