Page 45 of Rowe

“Maybe.”

“You know Mara.”

“Maybe.”

“My boss will kill us if we return empty-handed.” The cashier's expression changed, only slightly.

“Then don't work for men like that.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Most true things ain't.” Sal left the money on the counter. She pushed it back. He picked up the ceramic frog he had bought days earlier and stared at it.

“Why did you sell me this?”

“You chose it.” Sal looked wounded by the accusation.

Outside, his men were laughing for the first time since they left Victor's warehouse. One had discovered that the frog's sunglasses glowed in the dark. The laughter stopped when Sal came out. He put the frog on the dashboard.

“Let's go.”

“Where?” Sal looked at the road.

“Anywhere we haven't already been lied to.” That eliminated most of the parish.

Elsewhere, Rocco Vale's team received what appeared to be their best information yet. A pharmacist in a small town remembered a private medical transport with a Belle Fleur logo. He had seen it weeks earlier, headed toward a levee road. For the first time, the lead did not involve a cousin, vanished tree, bird, goat, or receipt.

Rocco called every team nearby and formed a convoy. Seven vehicles followed the levee road through cane fields and rain-dark woods. They passed no houses. No stores. No signs. Then, around a bend, they saw a white van. A faded fleur-de-lis marked its rear doors. Rocco's heart kicked.

“That's it.” The convoy accelerated. The van turned onto a narrow road. Seven black vehicles followed. It turned again. They followed. Then the van stopped in front of a low building surrounded by oak trees. Men spilled from the vehicles. Rocco reached the van first and yanked open the passenger door.

A startled clown stared back at him. Not a metaphorical clown. An actual clown. Red nose. Blue wig. Yellow jacket. Rocco stepped backward. The driver, dressed as a pirate, leaned across the seat.

“Can we help you?”

The building behind them was a children's party rental warehouse. The fleur-de-lis belonged to Belle Fleur Celebrations. One of the Rossi men began laughing. Rocco turned on him. The man tried to stop, produced a choking sound, and laughed harder.

Within seconds, half the convoy was laughing. Exhaustion had broken whatever discipline remained. The clown slowly closed the door to the van. They returned to the road without searching the building.

Even Victor, when told, fell silent for so long that Emilio wondered if the call had disconnected. Finally, Victor spoke.

“A clown.” Rocco stared at the steering wheel.

“Yes.” Victor hung up. That evening, the first men began returning.

They entered the counting room in twos and threes, carrying mud on their boots and failure in their faces. Victor stood exactly where he had stood when he sent them out.

He counted them as they arrived. Nobody spoke unless spoken to.

“Where is she?” No answer. “Where is Belle Fleur?”

No answer. Another group entered. Then another.

Some had lost hats. One had a bandage on his hand from an argument with a crab trap. Knuckles had poison ivy along his neck. Dante's vehicle bore hoof scratches across the hood. Theo still carried the paper bag Miss Odette's neighbors had filled with biscuits, though only crumbs remained.

Victor watched failure multiply until it filled the room. Forty men had left. Forty men came back with stories Victor did not want.

Cows. Goats. Roosters. Alligators. Church ladies and grandmothers. Clowns. Bridges. Rain. False signs. Vanishing signs. Roads to water. Roads to fields. Roads to nowhere. Victor's fury became so complete it seemed to pass beyond movement.