I got down to business. “So when does the ceiling fall on Zeke’s head?”

“Probably the weekend. He’s always there Fridays and Saturdays. So tonight you do the same thing, just drive the truck to the Heart.”

Joey zoomed up the entrance to I-10, flaunting the speed of his car by merging in front of several cars. I was glad I had my seat belt buckled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Except this time, I’m gonna get called away. Mr. Colombé needs me. So you gotta handle it yourself. You got any problems with that?”

“No. Should I?”

“No, you shouldn’t. Get Zeke to sign off that he received that stuff.”

“Zeke’s not going to sign anything that says he’s received forty boxes of kiddie porn. No one’s that stupid.”

“Naw, not even Zeke. It says boxes of packing material, something like that. But you see, one box is gonna tear. You attach that torn part to the paper Zeke signs.”

“And the cops find that box and, bingo, Zeke’s linked to it.”

“That’s the game plan. Make sure it works.”

“Who calls the cops?”

“We got an impeccable source. None of us grubby underworld types. It’s all on the up-and-up, except for where you let your fingers do the walking tonight.” Joey roared down the interstate, the speed limit a meaningless restriction.

“And when do we become expendable?” I wondered aloud.

“We don’t,” Joey retorted. “You and me, we change, we adapt. We’re survivors.”

“Isn’t that a quote from Tyrannosaurus Rex?” I asked sardonically.

“Who?” Joey wasn’t up on extinct creatures.

“A Roman emperor of the Ming dynasty.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Joey replied, totally unfazed. “We change, we adapt, we survive. I like that.”

“In Latin, it’s ‘Adaptulus, changiorum, et non splatus.’” It was a foolish thing to do. If Joey found out that I was mocking him, it would make my life difficult. It also meant that I was being lazy, making assumptions. I didn’t know that Joey didn’t know Latin. He might have been an altar boy at an earlier age. My next assumption could be wrong and it could be dangerous.

Joey swerved across two lanes to take the Veterans Memorial Boulevard exit. His driving almost said, “You may know Latin, but I’m driving a Porsche.”

Don’t play games and don’t make waves, Micky, the stakes are too high.

Veterans Boulevard is mile after mile of commercial strip. Every chain, every fast food joint is located somewhere on this concrete stretch. I found the miles of neon and bright lights distracting and confusing. Joey, however, seemed to know where he was going.

“How much do I get paid for this, anyway?” I probed, to keep Joey talking. A silent Joey would reveal nothing.

“So, now you ask.”

“You told me to ask, so I’m asking.”

“You a gambler?”

“Not unless I have to be.”

“How about a percentage?”

“How big a percentage and of what?”

“Percentage of what goes down. You take the risks, you get the rewards.”

“What percent?”

“Two percent.”

“Gross or net?”

“Gross or net what? What accounting school did you go to? You think we pay taxes?”

“There are expenses,” I replied, then decided it was in my best interest to be agreeable. “All right, I’ll go for two percent.”

“Now you’re talking my lingo,” Joey said as he took a sharp turn off Veterans. I couldn’t catch the street sign.

After a few blocks we came to a construction site, some new subdivision. Parked amid the lumber and brick was the truck.

“Who drives it here, anyway?” I asked.

“The guy that prints this shit. All he knows is that he drives this truck somewhere and leaves it. So he don’t know where it goes and who gets it. The photographer just takes it to the printer. That’s all he knows. If they go down, we don’t go with them.”

“A comforting thought.”

“So you got it straight?” Joey asked as he handed me the keys.

“Dump this stuff, get Zeke to sign for it, rip a box, attach a piece to the sheet with his signature, get the rest of the paperwork out, go home and relax.”

“That’s the ticket. Have a fun ride.”

“Thanks,” I said as I got out.

Joey took off without waiting for me to find my way across the construction site to the truck. There are better places to be than dark lots in Kenner.

Damn, I realized as I got in the truck, I didn’t have a way to get from the Heart of Desire back to my place. Getting a cab to go to that neighborhood would be an iffy proposition. Maybe I would be taking a bus tonight after all.

I decided to stay on Veterans rather than cutting over to I-10. Its slow speeds and stoplights were more fitted to the truck’s abilities than the fast lanes of the interstate. Also, Zeke wasn’t a patient man. I wanted him waiting to leave by the time I got there. An extra half hour of transit time would have him tapping his toe waiting for me.

He was standing at the door in the alley as I pulled in. Mr. Unfriendly and Mr. Silent flanked him. “Where have you been?” he demanded as I hopped out of the cab. I had backed into the alley, saving Mr. Unfriendly the wear on his ego.

“Traffic’s a mess. Some wreck somewhere.” Being New Orleans, that had to be true. “It wouldn’t do for me to get a ticket, now, would it?”

“Where’s Joey?”

“He got called away.”

“You handling this?”

“Yeah. You have a problem with that?” I looked directly at him, took a step to get close enough to invade his space and to make it clear that I was a few inches taller. Nothing like a little psychological advantage.

“Naw. If it’s okay with Joey, it’s okay with me.”

“Let’s unload this.” I strode away from Zeke to the back of the truck and undid the padlock. The quick way to take charge is simply to give the orders. I shoved up the door of the truck and jumped in. “That same storeroom okay?” I called to Zeke.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

I started handing boxes out to Mr. Unfriendly and Mr. Silent.

“I used to unload trucks like this all by myself,” Zeke started. “That was before I injured my back. It’s a hell of a thing to get old. Here, let me get that door for you.” He held open the back door as Mr. Unfriendly and Mr. Silent carried boxes into the building.

I decided not to tell Zeke that unloading a truck like this all by himself was probably why he had a bad back. No, no, I wanted Zeke to like me and trust me enough to let me wander around the bar after he left.

“So how’d you end up here?” I asked him as I hefted another box to the lip of the truck.

“Whadda you mean, how’d I end up here?” Zeke looked suspiciously at me.

“I mean, you seem pretty important. How’d you get from unloading trucks to running this joint?”

It’s amazing how quickly flattery will open a small mind. Zeke let go of the door and came over to lean against the truck. “Well, now, it took me a while to work my way up here.” Zeke started telling me has life story. We had the truck halfway unloaded before we got out of his childhood. Mr. Unfriendly and Mr. Silent kept up a steady pace, not wanting to linger in the vicinity and hear what were obviously reruns for them. I only half listened, nodding and uh-huhing when it seemed needed. We were down to the last boxes before we got anywhere near the time I was interested in.

“How’d you meet Joey,” I interjected when he took a breath.

“He just started hangin’ around here. I don’t really remember,” was Zeke’s ever so helpful answer. He then went on to give me a list of his woes, how winter made his back really hurt, in summer he might help, but winter, forget it, how hard it was to run this place, “And the girls, they’re impossible. They get someone, they take ’em upstairs, they fuck ’em. That’s it. It shouldn’t be hard. But no, ‘Zeke, I don’t feel good. Zeke, that guy smells. Zeke, I need more nose candy.’ It’s always something.”

“It’s hard when you’re a manager,” I commented. Oh, the trials and tribulations of being a pimp. If Zeke was complaining to me about his problems with the “girls” it meant he had gotten over my being a woman. It also meant he was incredibly stupid.