He’d known at the outset that so long as Compasso had a stockpile of counterfeit bills, there would be no parlay. But it had gone beyond a simple disagreement over money now. Compasso had found the only thing in the world that mattered to him, and had destroyed it. Ownership of the plates and splits held no meaning now. He elected to go to a dumpy rooming house at Thalia and Magazine Streets because it was the last place anyone would think to look for him. He left the ferry at the foot of Canal, driving southwest toward the lower Garden District. He drove slowly, eyes sticky with fatigue as he fought off successive waves of grief. It took him a half-hour to reach the neighborhood he sought. He was tempted to park his car at some distance, but he’d switched his Louisiana license plates with those from an Arkansas truck he’d found abandoned along U. S. 90. He decided to trust them a bit longer, leaving the Mercury on the street as he trudged wearily inside with his suitcase. The atmosphere of the interior was redolent with the odors of cheap perfume, unwashed bodies, and defeat.
