the numbers matched. I picked up the phone and dialed one of the Los Angeles numbers, thinking maybe I'd get someone named Sandi. A young man answered, "Marko-witz Management. May I help you?"
"Jesus Christ."
"Pardon me, sir?"
"Is this Sid Markowitz's office?"
"It is, sir. May I help you?"
I didn't know what to say.
"Sir?"
"Does someone named Leon Williams work there?"
"No, sir."
"How about someone named Sandi?"
"No, sir. Who's calling, please?"
I said, "Tell Sid it's Elvis Cole, the Lied-to Detective."
"Pardon me?"
I hung up and dialed the other L.A. number. A young woman's voice said, "Jodi Taylor's office."
I went through it again. No Leon Williams. No Sandi. I hung up.
In the past three months, Jimmie Ray Rebenack had made seven calls to Sid Markowitz, one of the calls lasting almost an hour and one of the calls lasting thirty-five minutes. They were lengthy calls implying meaningful conversation. The longest call was made just three days before Jimmie Ray Rebenack deposited $30,000 in his checking account. My, my.
I put down the phone and stretched out on the floor and thought about things. A large monetary payoff seemed to imply the "B" word. But if Jodi Taylor was in fact being blackmailed, why not tell me that and hire me to find out who was doing it? Of course, since Sid had spent so much time on the phone with Jimmie Ray, it looked as if they already knew who was doing it and, besides that, what was there to blackmail her with? That she was adopted? That had already been in People. Jodi Taylor spoke of it publicly and often. Maybe they wanted me to get their money back. That seemed reasonable. Then again, it would seem even more reasonable if they had told me the score. I went back to the phone and called Sid Markowitz again. The same young man answered. I said, "This is Elvis Cole. May I speak with Sid?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Cole, but he's not in." Great.
"Would you have him call me, please?"
"Of course."
I left the motel number and I called Jodi Taylor again, but she, too, was unavailable. I was getting angry at having been lied to and I wanted to know what was going on. I got up and paced around the room, and then I called Lucy's office again. Still not in. Nobody was in. Maybe I should leave and then I wouldn't be in, either. I looked up Jimmie Ray's office number, dialed, and hung up on the twenty-sixth ring. Another one. I decided to go back to Jimmie Ray's house and wait for him.
I gathered together the documents and the articles and hid them between the mattress and box spring. The Dan Wesson was too big to wear at my ankle, so I clipped the holster on the inside of my waistband and pulled out my shirt to hang over it. Neatness counts, but bullets often count more.
I had locked my room and was getting into my car when LeRoy Bennett and his sidekick René drove up. LeRoy showed me a Colt Government.45. "Get in," he said. "We goin' f' a little ride."
I guess Jimmie Ray would have to wait.
CHAPTER 11
I said, "Well, well. Bill and Hillary."
LeRoy lowered his gun. "Knew we'd see you again, podnuh." He tilted his head toward the backseat. "C'mon. Don't make ol' René have to get out."
René was in the backseat. His eyes were filmy and moved independently of each other, and I was struck again with the sense that maybe he was here with us, but maybe not. I said, "What if I won't go?"
LeRoy laughed. "Knock off da bullshit and les' go."
I said, "Tell me something, is René for real or did someone build him out of spare parts?"
René shifted and the Polara squeaked on its springs. He had to tip in at close to four hundred pounds. Maybe more. LeRoy said, "Get in front wi' me. René, he won't fit up front. He ride in back."
I got in and they brought me south through Ville Platte and down along the highway to Milt Rossier's Crawfish Farm. We drove slowly up between the ponds and along the oyster shell road past a couple of long, low cinder block buildings. The buildings had great sliding doors and the doors were open and you could see inside. Hispanic men driving little tractors towed open tanks alive with wiggling catfish into the near building. There, Hispanic women working at large flat tables scooped up the catfish, lopped off their heads, then gutted and