Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (8 page)

“Hon,” the waitress said, “that’s one of the prettiest outfits I’ve ever seen. Where on earth did you get that?”

“It’s made in India,” Malika said, returning her smile. “Like me. But I bought this one on the Internet.”

“Umm, umm. I had me one of those, my man would never let me out of the house. You folks hungry?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Jock said.

She gave him an approving once-over as well. The judge was dressed in simple tan slacks, a blue oxford shirt, and Top-Siders. They were shown to a picnic table covered with newspaper. A young boy carried a large stainless steel pot and dumped its contents in the center of the table: a mountain of crawfish, ears of corn, potatoes, and whole onions. He flashed a dazzling smile for the benefit of the exotically dressed woman.

“We got beer, ice tea, and Pepsi,” he said.

“Couple ice teas,” Jock said; then, to Malika, “We’ve got a long evening ahead of us.”

In addition to the crude language emblazoned on each worker’s T-shirt,
KISS MY ASS, SUCK MY HEAD, EAT ME
was on half a dozen signs around the restaurant.

“Folks here don’t find it offensive,” Jock said. “It’s how you eat these things. Now do as I do. Take one in both hands. Take the head in the fingers of your left hand, grab the tail in your right, and pinch. Good. Now twist. That’s it. Okay, put the head down for now and bite down just to the tail. Chomp. Good, huh? The next part is optional but if you don’t do it, you’ll be treated like an alien. Take the head and suck out the juices.” Malika watched him, then gamely followed suit.

“That’s delicious,” she said, “maybe the best part.”

“Glad you like them. I thought you might.”

“Just wait till I get you to Mumbai,” she said with a coy grin.

Jock and Malika finished their mound of shellfish but declined the offer of another. Their principal destination lay ahead. “The zydeco place is not much farther,” Jock said, “but I like to get there before the band and get the best seat.”

They beat the band, but just. Two musicians followed them in
the door and set up on a small raised stage. Jock picked a table nearly touching the dance area.

“Is that the band?” Malika asked.

On the small stage was a black drummer, skinny as a snake, with a single snare drum. His wrists were not much thicker than the drumsticks he held in bony fingers. Sitting next to him was a short stocky white man with a several-day-old beard as counterpoint to a head as bald as an egg. He pulled an accordion from a battered carrying case, and plugged in a mike to a portable amplifier. Both men looked hungover.

“Just the two of them? That’s the band?” Malika asked.

“Usually guest musicians drop in and do a set for a beer, but the guys you’re looking at right now are enough, believe me.”

This was soon proven. Though the musicians sat with vacant stares for almost fifteen minutes, when folks started arriving and the tables closest to the dance floor were taken, the music began. The rhythm was largely a two-step beat on the snare. The accordion also played in staccato-like cadences. The lyrics were mostly single syllables, a few sounding remotely like French. But the audience was not here to critique. Nearly all in the room were on their feet with the first tune. When the song was finished, they stayed waiting for the next.

“We’d better get up there while there’s still room,” Jock said, and led Malika to the dance floor.

There was no routine, there were no steps to learn, and there was no way to imitate other dancers because no two in the room danced alike. Their moves were a combination of boogie, shuffle, bop, and polka. The only common element was pure enjoyment. When Malika’s eyes met those of others, the looks she got were of welcome and approval. She was warmed by more than just the rising temperature
created by so many bodies in such a small place. There were a number of elderly people on the floor, their movements restricted by age, but not their enjoyment. And they were dressed as Jock said, suits and frocks out of the fifties. Finally breathless, Malika begged for a break. They returned to their table.

The pulse of the room diminished as the band played a slow number. There was more affection shown between the oldest couples than those three and four decades younger. An old man made his way to their table as the accordion player announced they would take a break after the next song. The man was bent over with age, but he bent over farther out of respect as he spoke to Jock. Malika thought she recognized the words
petite amie.
Jock bent over to Malika and whispered in her ear.

“This gentleman served with our Fifth Army in World War Two and was wounded at the Battle of Monte Cassino. Soldiers from the Fourth Indian Infantry saved his life. He recognizes where you’re from. He says it would be an honor to dance with you.”

The old man looked at Malika with eyes that watered with age. She had no such excuse for the moisture rimming her own as she stood to accept. They were given plenty of room on the dance floor for the final song of the set, and warm applause when the dance was finished. She kissed the old man on the cheek, and he nodded and walked away.

“He must be ninety years old,” she said, taking her seat.

“And he just danced with the prettiest girl in the place. That’s a Cajun for you. Live till you die.”

But fatigue soon hit. They still had to drive home. Two-lane blacktops built across swamps were challenging enough in the daylight.

“We’d better be going,” Jock said. He paid the bill and put a fifty
in the musicians’ tip jar. It was easy access to the exit with most people on the dance floor. They made it to the door.

“Just a minute,
mon ami.
”

Jock turned around. A six-foot-five, three-hundred-pounder was walking toward him, followed by two slightly smaller goons.

“I didn’t get my dance,” the big one said.

No mistaking the intent here. Jock pushed Malika ahead of him through the door, handing her the keys to the pickup. “Get inside and lock the door.”

“Step outside,” Jock said. “But I’ll only dance with one of you at a time.”

“Guess I go first, then,” the big one said, to no one’s surprise.

The provocateur outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. His knuckles, nearly dragging on the floor, evidenced a significant advantage in reach, and those paws, now clenched, would be decisive—if they landed. The bruiser stood with legs spread and long arms held out from his sides, as if preparing for a gunfight rather than a brawl. Jock stepped in close, holding his arms high like he was ready to take a partner in his arms for a waltz.

“Well,” he said, “let’s dance.”

“You stupid fu—” but the consonant never made it out.

Jock brought a knee to the man’s groin, which merely brought a muffled
“Umph,
” not the reaction he was hoping for. He tucked his chin into his neck, lowered his arms, then began his familiar routine. The hulk had almost the exact dimensions as his punching bag. Lightning-fast jabs struck the fellow’s ribs, kidneys, and flabby stomach. The thug had no room to swing, and most of his punches hit Jock’s upper back with little force. From a distance, with Jock’s punches landing almost too fast to see, it did resemble an awkward dance. For several minutes he pounded nonstop, while his opponent
couldn’t land a punch. And there were several more knees to the groin too. After one that he knew had hit the mark, Jock took a step back as the man bent over in pain, then leaned back, the windup, the pitch. His fist landed square in the big man’s face, pulverizing a nose previously broken, sending blood spurting in all directions. Beaten, the man stepped back, screaming in pain, and fell to his knees. Because he was bending over at the waist, Boucher’s right cross didn’t have full force, but it had enough. He knocked the man out cold.

The second string of the goon squad now stepped forward, smiling.

“Ain’t gonna happen.
Ça ne va pas arriver.
” From the shadows a frail figure approached: the old man Malika had favored with a dance. Though his gait was unsteady, his hand did not shake. In his gnarled fist he held a switchblade.

The two men laughed. “Get out of the way, old man. You think you can stop us?”

“Me? No. I’m just infantry. But I brought the artillery.” With the sound of several pistols being cocked, four men lined up behind the old veteran, guns in hand.

Not another word was spoken. The attackers picked up their wounded member, retreated to their car, and peeled out of the parking lot, spewing gravel and dust behind them.

“They ain’t from around here,” one of the men said, clicking the safety back on his pistol. “Just wanted you to know that. The lady okay?”

“She’s fine,” Jock said. “Thank you. Thank all of you.” They shared handshakes and backslaps, then Boucher returned to his truck.
“Au revoir,”
he said. The rescue party waved him good-bye, then went back inside to their dancing.

“Did he hurt you?” Malika asked as they pulled away.

“Never touched me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I might have danced with them if they had asked me.”

“Dancing was not what they had on their minds,” Jock said. “They were looking for a fight. One of the other men said they weren’t from around here. I didn’t think so. They had New Orleans accents. Why would men come all the way out here from town just to start a fight? There are hundreds of bars closer. Unless . . .” He finished his sentence with an inner monologue:
Unless they were looking for me.

Boucher drove through the bayous with care, and with an eye on his rearview mirror. Several times he thought he spotted a car tailing him, and with no place to turn off from the two-lane blacktop, there were some anxious moments. But there were no incidents and they reached the city’s outskirts. The main event of the evening was waiting for them at home.

T
WO PATROL CARS WERE
parked in front of Boucher’s house, one blocking the driveway, both with lights flashing. There was a dark sedan parked in the drive. He parked bumper to bumper with the cop car denying him access to his driveway. People were ambling along the sidewalk in front of the house, but one of the officers kept them moving along.

“What’s going on?” Boucher asked.

“Who are you?” a cop asked.

“I’m Federal District Judge Jock Boucher. This is my house. What is this, a break-in?”

“No,” the cop said. “Who’s in the truck?”

“A personal friend.”

“Would you ask your personal friend to step out, please?”

Malika got out of the truck and walked to his side. The cop stared at her like he hadn’t seen a woman in recent memory. “Where y’all been?” he asked.

Jock Boucher had had his fill of insolent men for one evening.

“I want to know what you’re doing here at my house, and whose damn car is that in my driveway.”

“You know, Judge, that’s something we’d like to know too. Maybe you could step over here and help us out with that one. Better ask the lady to stay back, though.”

The cocky officer walked to the sedan and stood next to the driver’s door. The window was down. Boucher followed and looked inside.

“Oh, my God.”

“You know her?”

“I know who she is.”

“You have a name for us?”

“Her name is Ruth Kalin.”

The entry wound was a black hole in her left temple. A dark line of blood seeped down the side of her face, a coagulated drop hanging from her ear like a pear-shaped ruby.

“She a personal friend too?”

Jock Boucher’s fists were clenched so tight his nails dug into the flesh of his palms. At that moment a plainclothes officer arrived and approached the judge, bearing himself as if with a fatigue no amount of rest could cure.

“I’m Detective Fitch,” he said. The two shook hands. “I know who you are, Judge,” he said. “Why don’t we go inside while they get the body and the car out of here?”

They entered the house. Fitch stood just inside the doorway. He took a look around. “You were out this evening?” he asked.

“We were. I arrived home to find the police out front and that car in my driveway.”

Fitch looked at Malika and nodded his head. “Ma’am,” he said, as a courtesy. He was waiting for Boucher to introduce her.

“Malika Chopra’s a friend of mine from New York, visiting for the weekend,” Boucher said.

Fitch asked her several brief questions, which she answered with crisp, short sentences. Apparently satisfied with her answers, he concluded with, “I’m sorry this had to spoil your weekend.”

“I’m sorry for the poor person in that car,” Malika said.

Even with the hangdog look on his face, you could almost see Fitch’s mind at work as he stood there. He turned and looked out the window in the dining room. The patrol cars had left. The ambulance had removed the body, and the decedent’s car was being loaded onto a flatbed. Boucher invited the detective to sit. The invitation was refused. All three stood like each was waiting for the other to make a move, but it was Fitch who was in control.

“You know, Judge Boucher, I should have my men do a search of your house, but under the circumstances . . .”

“Detective, if you want to search my house, go right ahead. In fact, my friend and I could check into a hotel and you could have the entire night if you need it.”

Fitch reached around to the back of his head and scratched. “That’s very understanding of you. Tell you what. Could you meet me at the Eighth District station on Royal Street Sunday morning? Won’t be too many people around then. I’ll do what I need to do here, then lock up after myself. I don’t think we need to involve Ms. Chopra any further at this point.”

“May we get a few personal items from the bathroom?” Jock asked.

“Of course.”

He and Malika excused themselves and returned within minutes. Jock carried a small bag, which he opened for inspection. Fitch shook his head, not needing to look. Boucher led Malika to the doorway.

“We’ll be back around nine in the morning. Will that be enough time?”

Fitch nodded. They left.

“Was that the woman I saw the night I arrived?” Malika asked as they got into his truck.