Louisiana Bigshot

preposterous, and it would have been expensive as hell except that he knew quite a few people willing to do him a favor.
    He got up that morning, went to work as usual, took Ms. Wallis’s revolting sick call, and then proceeded to take the mountain to Muhammed, exactly as he’d said he was going to.
    First, he made the forty-five-minute drive to Plaquemines Parish, where he parked, and waited happily, feeling like a cat outside a mousehole. He’d picked up the tail on the way over, this time a light-colored Ford.
    Shortly before noon, a Billy Bob Bubba-type guy—large gut, white shoes, real name Robert Fusco—came loping out looking like he hadn’t a care in the world; in fact, looking a little smug and satisfied, exactly as if he were about to hole up on the Gulf Coast with his sweetie.
    Billy Bob drove all the way back to New Orleans (Eddie following), parked, and went into a sandwich shop on Magazine Street, the kind where you have to stand in line to give your order. Eddie watched him get in line, then watched him watch a blond half his age, wearing shorts and near-bursting hot pink T-shirt, as she got up to get a packet of sugar.
    As abruptly as he’d arrived, Billy Bob left, but Eddie waited. Sure enough, the blond—sometime-PI Eunice Kelton—followed at a distance. Eddie watched the blond watch Billy Bob get in his car, then watched Billy Bob wait as she got hers, then followed them both out to the Interstate, heading east to the Gulf Coast.
    It was perfect, in his humble opinion. Someone would have to know Eunice and Robert not to think he was just a PI following a poor slob after young pussy and a golddigger after a score.
    The tail was fairly discreet, staying well behind him. A helicopter, he thought, might have thought it an interesting caravan. He picked up his brand-new cell phone (Eileen had scored) and dialed the number of Catherine Mathison, another part-time PI. Catherine was someone he liked to work with when he needed a woman to pose as his wife.
    “Hey, gorgeous,” he said.
    “Whereyat, dawlin’?”
    “When we gon’ get married?”
    “Whenever you want, baby. I’ve still got the ring from last time.”
    “You see anything you like out here?”
    “Umm-hmm. Late-model Ford. That goldish color everything is these days.”
    “Yeah. Shiny, kind of.”
    “No passengers. White male driving.”
    “Good. You get what you need?” Meaning the tag number.
    Catherine said, “Sure did, dawlin’. This ain’t the slickest deal I ever saw in my life.”
    “Okay. You know what to do.”
    Eddie hummed a Beatles song, waiting for her to pass him. He’d never really gotten over the Beatles.
    There was a romantic place to eat in Bay St. Louis, with a deck overlooking the water. Eddie followed the two cars bearing Billy Bob and Eunice, watched them struggle for parking near the restaurant, and noted in the process that Catherine Mathison’s blue Mazda was already parked in front. Then Eddie himself parked and followed the happy couple to the restaurant as if he didn’t know they were going there.
    They were ushered onto the deck, where they sat in full view of God and everybody. You could see them perfectly from the street. Eddie watched them order, observed the waitress bring them a couple of beers, and when they had clicked bottles and kissed lightly, returned to his car, from the trunk of which he pulled a video camera, conventional camera with telephoto lens, and a brown bag containing a sandwich.
    He also made a great show of stretching, even bending over and touching his toes a time or two. This was to put ideas into the tail’s head.
    The guy was going to need to stretch his legs. He was going to be hungry—they’d made sure this was a damned late lunch. At the very least he was going to need to use the men’s room. Eddie wanted him to feel extremely comfortable about the amount of time he had. He even went into the very restaurant where Robert and Eunice were yucking it up, got himself a soft drink to go with his sandwich, and used the facilities himself.
    Then he returned to the street, found a good place to sit, ate his sandwich, drank his Coke, and idly watched a woman tourist wearing Bermuda shorts, plain blue T-shirt sunglasses, and visor. Her graying hair was tied back, and she carried a large purse. She was meandering in and out of the various little shops along the shore, shopping happily.
    When he’d finished his sandwich, he began slowly to attach the telephoto lens