The curb-feelers struck sparks and a spray of rainwater splashed onto the sidewalk in front of Martell's joint as I pulled up. Pete had rigged a pair of concrete gargoyles to the roof, and these spat water at innocent passersby, like streams of disparaging remarks. The outside of the building had been tarted up to approximate an antebellum planter's mansion, with plaster columns and painted-on wrought-iron balconies. A two-dimensional southern belle waved from a fake second story window, and just above her head the blue neon sign that was meant to read The Blue Bayou buzzed and flickered, reading The Blu B ou .

I stumbled in the door, and was surprised to see that the place was hopping. A waiter walked past with a tray, and the aroma of Shrimp Etouffee grabbed my salivaries and held on tight. Every table was taken, and as I looked around for Martell, the indigo spotlights came up on the stage,and a Blues quartet jumped into Hootchie Cootchie Man . I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, and turned to look straight up into the eyes of Sergei, Pete's lurching hulk of a Russian bouncer/ bodyguard. " come with me, " Sergei commanded. A corner door gave access to a long narrow office which had as one wall a two-way mirror looking out into the club. Martell sat behind a large oak desk whose centerpiece was a plate that bore a small Matterhorn of cocaine . He jammed one end of a rolled up hundred dollar bill into the little white mountain, the other end in his nose, and made a noise like a garbage disposal with a fork stuck in it." Want some, Blake?" he smiled.

"No thanks, " I said, "I was told it was bad for my health." He chuckled. " Doctor's orders, huh?" " No," I answered." Parole officer's."