Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter (15 page)

Julie arrived a few minutes early. He paused outside
the open double doors and glanced around, then
stepped inside the darkened restaurant.

Promptly at ten, I rose from my bench beneath the
oaks and crossed the brick promenade to Rigues’.

“Hey, Tony,” the young man exclaimed, his face beaming with a mischievous grin. “Well, did you finally get
some sleep?”

“Yeah” I laughed and slipped in at the table. We
were the only customers in the restaurant.

Moments later, a young waiter sat two cups of steaming coffee on the table. After he left, Julie grew serious.
He leaned forward, and in a hushed voice, asked, “You
talked to Bones this morning?”

“Yeah”

Julie glanced over his shoulder. “He say anything?”

“About what?”

The young man shrugged. “You know. Last night.”

I shook my head. “Just that he had tried to get hold
of me. Same as you said. Why? Something come up?”

“I ain’t sure. You must’ve given him some story
about last night, huh?”

“Yeah” I grew wary. “Same as I told you. What
about it?”

“Well, I was over at the King’s Daddy Bar on Burgundy with some of the boys a few minutes ago when
Bones come in and sent Ham to check on some story
about the Lafitte Inn. You know what he’s talking
about?”

I suppressed a grin. “I know. Go on”

“Well, he sent Ham to check the story” He leaned
forward, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t know if you
know it or not, but Ham hates your guts. I don’t know
why, he just does. You better watch out for him.”

With a grin, I chuckled, remembering the fall the fat
goon took the night he broke into my room. “He
should” Julie frowned. I shook my head. “Nothing to
worry about” For a moment, I hesitated, then decided
to say nothing about Ham’s disastrous nocturnal visit to
the hotel.

With a shrug, the young man muttered, “Well, Ham
wants to waste you, but Bones told him to forget it. He
wants to see about something tonight, but I don’t know
what.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. I knew. Tonight, whatever it might bring, was a test, but I remained silent as Julie continued. “I ain’t never seen
Bones like this. He don’t regularly take to people like
he has to you. Usually, he hangs by hisself, mostly with
Punky.”

Trying to appear casual, I said, “What’s happening
tonight, any idea?”

“Huh?” The slender man with the red ponytail
frowned.

“When I talked to Bones earlier, he told me we
would get together tonight.”

A frown of disappointment clouded his sallow face.
“He told you that?”

“Yeah. Over at the Cafe du Monde about an hour or
so ago. Why? Something wrong?”

His frown deepened. “Bones didn’t say nothing to us
about you going, at least not when I was around”

Now he had me puzzled. “Going where?”

“A shipment, I guess. I heard one’s coming in. He
usually sends one or two of us down with Punky or
Ham to unload the shrimp and crabs. Maybe he’s going
to send you.”

My heart thudded in my chest as a sudden idea
sprang to mind. I forced myself to remain calm. Feigning a sense of disinterest, I grunted. “Shrimp and
crabs? For what?”

He shook his head. “For the restaurant”

“Oh? Rigues’ you mean?”

“And a couple others Bones has an interest in.”

I nodded. “Oh” There was shrimp and crabs, and
then there was shrimp and crabs. I had a feeling that
these shipments were of the highest quality `shrimp and
crabs’ on the market. I muttered, trying to appear bored
with the entire conversation. “Well, I hope he doesn’t
want me to go. Like I said, I got plans” But they
weren’t the kind of plans Julie supposed.

He arched an eyebrow, and with an expression of genuine concern, said, “If he asks, you’d be smart to
go, Tony. Bones don’t like for people to tell him no”

I faked a grimace. “If you knew the reason what I got
in mind, you’d know why I want to hang around. She’s
one of a kind. How far is this place?” I asked casually.
“Maybe I can get back in time-that is, if that’s what
Bones has in mind.”

“Not far. South of New Orleans down at Sarrizin’s
Landing on Lake Cataouatche. About an hour’s drive, another hour to load up. We’re usually back by midnight.”

Giving the young man a lecherous grin, I nodded.
“That still leaves me plenty of time.”

An idea hit, as sudden as the summer thunderstorms
that regularly inundated the city. I hoped Jimmy
LeBlanc and the New Orleans Police Department had
time to react to my little scheme. If I could pull it off, I
might become Bones’ right-hand man, and Punky
would be just a bad memory.

I took the eleven o’clock Dixie Queen paddle boat excursion down the Mississippi River along with two
hundred other tourists and a hundred screaming,
scrambling summer camp children all wearing red
T-shirts. They were everywhere, like an overturned box
of radishes spilling across the concrete floor in the
French Market.

Descending to the bow on the lower level of the paddle wheeler, I called Jimmy LeBlanc and laid out my
little scheme for the night, a chancy scheme involving
Jojo Warner, the leader of the gang that jumped us at
Byrne’s a few nights earlier.

LeBlanc grunted. “I’ve heard of the dude. Where
does he hang out, and how do you know this scheme of
yours will work?”

“He hangs out around Byrne’s on Royal Street between Dumaine and St. Ann. And I don’t know if it will
work either, but if it does then I’m home free”

“I know the place. You think the shipment is dirty?”

“Likely, but I don’t know for sure. And I’m not anxious to blow what little cover I managed to build.”

LeBlanc paused. “I don’t know, Boudreaux. You
could find yourself neck deep in alligators.”

I shivered. He was right, but all I could do was play it
by ear. If the scheme went awry, all I had to do was
keep my mouth shut, and no one would dream of my
part in the little ploy. “I suppose you’re right, but I’ve
been in the water with alligators before”

He sighed. “Well, at least take care of yourself.”

“I intend to”

After hanging up, I made my way up to the bar on
the top deck where I forked over seven dollars for an
icy Tom Collins and spent the remainder of the excursion lounging in the cool shade of the awnings and
watching the tall levees roll by.

At eight-thirty that night, I found an empty table next
to one of the front windows at Rigues’. The warm night
was scented with honeysuckle and jasmine spreading
their delicate aromas from Jackson Square like tendrils
of fog.

Just before nine, a waiter tapped me on the shoulder
and nodded to the rear door where Gramps motioned to
me. He gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Hey, Tony. How’s
the boy?”

With an open smile on my face, I winked at him. At the
same time, I scrutinized his hidden demeanor-the blink
of an eye, the inflection of a word, a nervous coughsearching for any hint that his affable manner was contrived. “Couldn’t be better. You?” He clapped me on the
shoulder. “Same here. Come on. Punky’s waiting.”

I followed the slight man down the hall and into a
hidden courtyard. Lights shone through the curtains
covering French doors. “Over here,” Gramps mumbled
over his shoulder.

With a wistful glance at the darkened corridor leading to Chartres Street and safety, I muttered, “I’m right
behind you.” And with those words, I committed myself to whatever the evening would bring.

Ham looked up from a blaring TV when we entered.
“About time,” he growled, giving me a malicious glare.
He shoved his bulky body to his feet, and without another word waddled through another door and down a
second darkened hall, his arms splayed wide and
swinging back and forth stiffly.

Moments later, we stepped onto a sidewalk. Warm,
humid air filled with the crisp aroma of frying shrimp
and the bitter odor of gasoline fumes engulfed us. A
Ford bobtail truck with side rails and a Dodge van were
parked next to the curb on Toulouse. Ham grunted to
Gramps. “You ride with Punky in the van. Me and Tony
here will follow in the truck” He cut his pig eyes at me.
“You drive,” he growled, his guttural voice filled with
animosity.

Just as we turned south on Canal, I spotted a stooped bum on a corner accosting a tourist for a handout. The
bum looked around suddenly. All I could do was gape
at the worn face of my old man, and then he disappeared into the crowd.

My brain raced. I hadn’t seen him in months, almost
a year. But at least, I reminded myself, when he disappeared last time, he didn’t steal me blind like he had
before.

My old man! John Roney Boudreaux! A wastrel bum
who deserted us over thirty years earlier. I clenched my
fingers about the wheel and drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

“Don’t lose them,” Ham grunted, jerking me away
from my unpleasant memories.

We wound our way south out of New Orleans. I pushed
my old man out of my head, trying to focus on the job at
hand. Despite the myriad questions tumbling through my
head, I remained silent, knowing the fewer questions I
asked, the less curious my fat friend would become.

The bright lights of the City Care Forgot fell behind.
We sped along the narrow tunnel of a tree-covered road
winding its way through the swamps.

It was the dark of the moon, and although the stars
filled the heavens, the thick canopy of leaves blocked
even the thinnest shafts of starlight.

The only sounds were the whining of tires on the serpentine road. After several minutes, Ham grunted.
“You don’t talk much.”

I flexed my fingers on the wheel. “I figure when you want me to know something, you’ll tell me. After all,
you’re the boss,” I added in a shameless display of
flattery.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Ham scratching at
his thick beard. “Yeah,” he finally grunted. After another few moments of whining tires, he cleared his
throat. “We got our own shrimp boats down here at Sarrizin’s on Lake Cataouatche. They freeze the shrimp on
the way in, and once a week, we pick it up before it
thaws. The restaurants serve it fresh,” he added, a tinge
of braggadocio in his tone.

“Good idea,” I replied, wondering just what was
frozen with the shrimp that he neglected to mention.

Abruptly, the Dodge van turned off the macadam
onto a clamshell road that meandered through a sea of
cane that rose ten feet above the cab of the pickup.

As we traveled deeper into the swamp, I eyed the
shoulders of the shell road apprehensively as the
brown-stained water edged closer and closer. Were they
bringing me here to help load shrimp or to feed me to
the alligators? My brain raced, searching for any mistake I might have made. If I had made one, it was Julie,
but I felt certain he had not revealed what he had seen
the night before at the cemetery.

Still, I planned to watch my step every second once
we reached the dock.

Minutes later, we rumbled slowly out on the wooden
pier, our headlights lighting up the Lady Marie, a seventy-foot shrimp boat moored to the dock. Sagging
shrimp nets hung limply like dead bodies from the
fifty-foot trawl booms.

Beyond the boat was complete blackness, broken
only by a nebulous tree line black against the lowhanging stars.

A rack of generator-powered lights lit the port side
of the shrimp boat where several deck hands began
scurrying over the deck as we ground to a halt.

Punky backed the van up to the port side of the Lady
Marie as a boom lifted a pallet of bagged shrimp and
crabs from the cargo hold and swung it over to the pier.
As soon as it touched down, a gang of deck hands
swarmed over the cargo, hoisting the sixty-pound bags
to their brawny shoulders and quickly stacking them
into the van.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted Ham glance at
me, curious as to my reaction to the operation. Outwardly, I remained impassive, but the efficiency of the
operation was impressive, signifying a great deal of experience. Every man knew exactly what was expected
of him, and they moved with clock-like precision.

I eyed the sixty-pound bags of shrimp. So far, over
thirty had been stacked into the van. Another fifty or so
remained on the pallet. Within ten minutes, the van
moved out. “Our turn now,” Ham growled.

“Right.” Dropping the Ford in gear, I pulled up into
the van’s place, and immediately, bags of frozen
shrimp slammed onto the bed.

Ham climbed out. “Wait here”

I watched as he stopped at the driver’s side of the van
and spoke with Punky. He nodded, and moments later,
the passenger door opened and Gramps hurried back to
me. He looked at me with his good eye. “I’m going
with you.”

“Whatever.” I shrugged.

In his inimitable splayed-arm waddle, Ham lumbered back to us. “I’m riding with Punky. Stay with us.”

“You got it,” I replied, dropping the truck into gear.

A hand slammed against the side of the pickup, and a
voice shouted. “That’s it.”