I was on an empty stretch of road bordered on one side by a flat, shimmering lake and on the other by a flooded woods, when I saw the blue and white patrol car in my rearview mirror. The driver already had on his bubblegum light, and when he drew close to my bumper he gave me a short blast with his siren. I started to pull to the shoulder, but there were shards of beer-bottle glass like amber teeth shining in the weeds and gravel. I tried to drive on to a clear spot before I stopped, and the patrol car leaped abreast of me, the engine roaring, and the deputy in the passenger's seat pointed to the side of the road with an angry finger. I heard my tires crunch over the beer glass.
Both deputies got out of the car, and I knew it was going to be serious. They were big men, probably Cajuns like myself, but their powerful and sinewy bodies, their tight-fitting, powder-blue uniforms, polished gunbelts and holsters, glinting bullets and revolver butts made you think of backwoods Mississippi and north Louisiana, as though they'd had to go away to learn redneck cruelty.
Neither one of them had a citation book in his hand or pocket.
"The siren means pull over. It don't mean slow down, Lieutenant," the driver said. He smiled back at me and took off his sunglasses. He was older than the other deputy. "Step out of the car, please."
I opened the door and stepped out on the road. They looked at me without speaking.
"All right, I'll bite. What have you got me for?" I said.
"Sixty in a fifty-five," the other deputy said. He chewed gum, and his eyes were humorless and intent.
"I didn't think I ever got over fifty," I said.
"'Fraid it creeped up on you," the older man said. "On a pretty morning like this you get to looking around, maybe looking at the water and the trees, maybe thinking about a piece of ass, and before you know it you got lead in your pecker and foot, both."
"I don't guess we're going to have an instance of professional courtesy here, are we?" I said.
"The judge don't allow us to let too many slide," the older man said.
"So write me a ticket and I'll talk to the judge about it."
"Lot of people from outside the parish don't show up in court," the older deputy said. "Makes him madder than a hornet with shit on its nose. So we got to take them down to
the court."
"You guys didn't get completely dressed this morning," I said.
"How's that?" the other deputy said.
"You forgot to put on your name tags. Now, why would you do that?"
"Don't worry about any goddamn name tags. You're coming back to the courthouse with us," the younger deputy said. He had stopped chewing his gum, and his jawbone was rigid against his cheek.
"You got a flat tire, anyway, Lieutenant," the older man said. "I figure that's kind of our fault, so while you ride in with us I'll radio the tow to come and change it for you."
"Facts-of-life time," I said. "You don't roust a City of New Orleans detective."
"Our territory, our rules, Lieutenant."
"Fuck you," I said.
They were both silent. The sun was shimmering brilliantly on the flat expanse of water behind them. The light was so bright I had to force myself not to blink. I could hear both of them breathing, see their eyes flick at each other uncertainly, almost smell the thin sweat on their skin.
The younger man's shoe shifted in the gravel and his thumb fluttered toward the strap on the holster that held his chrome-plated .357 Magnum revolver. I tore my .38 out of the clip holster on my belt, squatted, and aimed with two hands into their faces.
"Big mistake, podjo! Hands on your head and down on your knees!" I shouted.
"Look—" the older deputy began.
"Don't think, do it! I win, you lose!" My breath was coming hard in my throat.
They looked at each other, laced their hands on their heads, and knelt in front of their car. I went behind them, pulled their heavy revolvers from their holsters, and pitched them sideways into the lake.
"Take out your cuffs and lock up to the bumper," I said.
"You're in over your head," the older deputy said. The back of his suntanned neck was beaded with sweat.