Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 13 - The Diamonds of Ghost Bayou (6 page)

“You mentioned Theriot. Who’s he?”

“Al Theriot. He own car lot north of Priouxville before he die.
He the one they say pulled the diamond job. He die in prison,
up to Winn Parish. He was killed in a riot.” He leaned forward
and dropped his voice to a whisper. “They say the Mafia, it kill
him and them what worked with him.” He paused, then added,
“Kind of like a lesson to them what butts into Mafia business.”
He shrugged. “That just be what I hear.”

I remembered the two goons from the previous day. “Do you
know who owns the Golden Crystal Casino?”

He seemed to consider the question. “I not be sure, but I think
the name be O’Donnell. Talk was that he took over when his
uncle-a Mafia one named Strollo-died. The uncle, he part of
the Chicago mob, so they say. The sheriff, he can tell you.”

“How long has the rumor of the diamonds been around?”

He shrugged. “Ever since the robbery,” he replied, his tone
suggesting such knowledge was common lore hereabouts. “That
be, let me see, back in ‘96. The Eloi Saint Julian Jewelers in New
Orleans. Eight million.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “In ‘96? That’s thirteen years ago.
How can you remember the details after all these years?”

“My nephew, Sostene, he work at the jewelers. That one, he
tell us all about the robbery. They put his picture in the paper.
Me, I have it framed on my wall. Sostene, he be the son of my
sister, Totilde.”

As I watched old man Rouly drive away, I reminded myself
not to take all he said as gospel. I’d lived among the old-timers
and those on the outskirts of our society long enough to know
they usually said just enough to keep the listener happy, but
there was no way he would reveal any secrets of his own people.
Valsin might have been a hatchet killer, but old Rouly would
never have let a word of it roll off his dried-up lips even if he
thought he could benefit from the disclosure.

My next stop was the Golden Crystal Casino. I didn’t fool myself that deacons of the local Baptist church operated the casino
and track. Though over the last couple of decades the mob had
lost some of its power and influence, especially among the
younger generations, the desire for easy money is just as much
a driving force today as back in the days of Abe Bernstein and
his Purple Gang in Detroit.

I decided I needed an ace in the hole, so I called Danny
O’Banion in Austin. Danny and I have a history that goes back
to the eleventh grade, where we managed to get into a few
scrapes together. He dropped out in the twelfth grade, and we went our separate ways, me into teaching, and him into the
mob.

A few years back, I’d endeared myself to his superiors by saving them a few million bucks on a stock market rip-off. One thing
I quickly learned about them, they didn’t forget their friends, or
their enemies.

While it isn’t something I’d particularly want engraved on
my tombstone, I am one of the few Joe Six-Packs who can get
through to Danny on the phone.

When he picked up, we chitchatted for a few moments, arranged a dinner at the County Line Barbecue out on Bee Tree
Road west of Austin, and then got down to business.

I told him about the assault on Jack, the rumor of the diamonds, and the name of the jewelers, Eloi Saint Julian Jewelers
over in New Orleans. “That was back in ‘96.”

He whistled softly. “When you step into a pile of trouble, you
make sure it’s a big pile, don’t you?”

Puzzled, I replied, “What do you mean?”

“If it’s what I think it is, I’ve heard about it. You and me were
still making our bones when it happened.”

“The heist?”

“Yeah. Word back then was that Joe Vasco had just taken over
New Orleans after Mike Pisano croaked. Heart attack. The heist
took place on his turf. He sent his soldiers out looking for the
jokers who pulled it off.”

“Did he find them?”

“Yeah. They were amateurs. Can you believe it? Three stupid amateurs pulled off an eight-million-dollar heist right under Joe Vasco’s nose. Naturally, Joe went after them, but the
cops got the ringleader first. The others were carried out of
prison in coffins.”

“What about the jewels?”

“No trace. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but supposedly
Vasco got in touch with his contacts at Winn Correctional facility in an effort to find out what that yokel did with the jewels.”
He paused. “What are you asking all this for?”

I explained what I knew. “So now, I’m heading out to the casino to find out who the two goons are. I was hoping you
knew the owner, a guy named Anthony O’Donnell.”

Danny paused a moment. “Name’s not familiar, but if he’s
running the casino, you can bet Joe Vasco gets his share.”

I knew exactly what he meant, but I vocalized it anyway. “In
other words, the only reason he’s there is because Vasco okays
him.”

“In Louisiana, that’s the name of the game, Tony boy.”

The imposing facade of glass and brick of the Golden Crystal
Casino was ablaze. At either end of the four-story building, a
golden bottle tilted, poured a drink into a golden martini glass,
and then a golden woman drank the martini.

The regular parking lot was full, as was the valet parking. I
couldn’t help noticing that a third of the vehicles were from
Texas. It is a fact that as you draw closer to the Texas border,
the proportion of Texas plates in casino parking lots burgeons
to almost 90 percent.

Eight double glass doors welcomed me. The casino’s lobby
was as wide as a football field. Off to the left was the hotel lobby;
on the other side were the slots; beyond them, doors opened to
the racetrack. Farther down the lobby were two bars with TVs
blaring. Flights of stairs and escalators led to the second floor
and the gaming tables.

To the left of the front desk, doors opened to a dining patio,
which was over half full at this time of day. I paused at the top
of the stairs just outside the door, looking around to orient myself. I spotted the marina off to my left.

I took the flight of stairs down to the docks. Boisterous shouts
came from the saloons of several of the larger boats-yachts
would be a more appropriate designation. I made my way along
the main pier to the office next to the metal boat shed.

I did a double take. The office was twice the size of my apartment back on Payton-Gin Road in Austin. At the desk near the
door sat an elderly man wearing a brown uniform with GOLDEN
CRYSTAL CASINO embroidered over one pocket, and his name, WALTER, over the other. A full cup of coffee sat in front of him.
At the end of the room, four plush leather couches sat before a flatscreen TV on the wall. Three pool tables ran along the fourth wall,
two of them occupied. One of the players was bald. He wore a
striped polo shirt.

One of the men running from Jack’s house was bald, I thought.

The guard looked up. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Just a question. That yellow Stratos in the boat shed. Can you tell me who owns it? I saw it this morning, and I’d like to
make the owner an offer.”

A pool player looked around and growled, “It ain’t for sale,
pal.”

Thickly built, he appeared to be in his late forties, with
curly black hair. He had all the accoutrements of an ex-boxer:
broken nose, scars over his eyebrows, knotty knuckles, and a
crooked sneer that suggested he lived in two worlds, this one,
and one of his own, created by too many encounters in the
boxing ring.

“You the owner?”

He waved the pool cue threateningly. “No. But like I say, it
ain’t for sale.” He slapped the butt of the cue stick into one of
his meaty hands. He leered at his pool partner, a long-haired
man who looked Native American.

I turned back to the guard. “I’d like for the owner tell me it
isn’t for sale.”

The ex-pug stepped forward and grabbed my shoulder to spin
me around. With a curse, he yelled, “I said that-”

I grabbed the hot coffee and threw it into his face.

He screamed and grabbed at his face.

I yanked the cue stick from his grasp and broke it over his
head. He dropped without a sound. I glared at the other three.
The Indian took a step. With the butt of the cue stick, I gestured
for him to take another step. “You want some?”

The bald-headed pool player at his side growled, “Back away,
Mule.”

The darkcomplexioned man stopped and looked around at
his friends. He studied them for a moment and then looked around at me. After a few moments, he took a step backward. I
turned to the guard. “Now, are you going to tell me, or do you
want some of it?”

He swallowed hard. “Mr. O’Donnell. Anthony O’Donnell. He
owns it.”

“Where is he?”

“His … his office. Fourth floor.”

“Thanks.” I tossed the broken cue stick onto his desk and gestured to the unconscious Neanderthal on the floor. “If he wants
me when he wakes up, tell him to get in touch with Sheriff
Thertule Lacoutrue. He knows I’m here.” It was a lie, but by the
time the truth was discovered, if ever, I’d be long gone.

I stepped into the elevator and punched the fourth-floor button.
When the doors opened, two stone-faced goons in Jay Kos suits
stood staring at me. One of them growled, “You’re on the wrong
floor, friend.”

“If this is where O’Donnell has his office, I’m not.”

Neither caveman replied. Maybe those six words were all they
were programmed to speak.

Behind them the door opened, and another button man stuck
his head out. “Let him in.”

The two monoliths stepped aside, and I crossed the lobby to
the open door. The smaller man rolled his shoulders and peered
up at me. “You the one Lacoutrue sent?”

“Lacoutrue didn’t send me. I came on my own.” I shifted my
gaze to a tanned blond neatly attired in a beige suit behind a
large desk. He would have looked more at home on a California
movie set than in a Louisiana casino.

I glanced around the spacious office. The dapper man at the
desk rose. His coiffed hair remained rigid. I couldn’t help
wondering how much hair spray he used. His tone was cool,
his manner aloof, even wary. “I haven’t had the pleasure,
Mr.-

I crossed the room to his desk, my feet sinking into the plush
carpet. “Boudreaux. And you must be Anthony O’Donnell.” Neither of us extended a hand.

He glanced at my empty hands and remarked, “Did you lose
the cue stick?”

Somewhat surprised at his smooth manner, I replied, “His
manners were lacking. Anyone can see yours aren’t.”

“For that, I thank you.” He pointed a slender, almost delicate
finger at a tray of crystal carafes. “Something to drink? Bourbon, vodka, rum?”

“No, thanks, Mr. O’Donnell. I’m here on business, and I
hope you can help me out. Joe Vasco seems to think you can.”
Which was a bald-faced lie, but I had learned long ago that
sometimes tossing names around like a shotgun blast can effect
results that otherwise might never be gained.

To say the name impressed him was as much an understatement as saying the Mississippi River was nothing more than
a dry-weather creek. Immediately, his manner grew warm, his
tone amiable. “Please, have a seat. Tell me what assistance I can
offer.”

Sliding into a leather chair, I recounted the events of the last
few days, starting with the assault on Jack and ending with my
arrival at Jack’s house and spotting the two goons jump into the
yellow Stratos and race away. “The boat is moored down in
your boat shed, Mr. O’Donnell. I can’t identify the two. One
was bald, but that is hardly a definitive means to describe him.”

He laughed softly. “I understand that, but I assure you, Mr.
Boudreaux, none of my employees would have any reason to be
prowling around your friend’s home.”

“All I can tell you is I saw two men run down the stairs, jump
into the Stratos, and take off. One was bald. And the boat is in
your boat shed.”

He eyed me shrewdly. “If you don’t mind telling me, how do
you know it’s the same boat? Stratos is a common brand around
here.”

“Maybe so, but how many of them are yellow and have a teninch scar on the port side of the transom?”

He hesitated, his light gray eyes lowering their gaze to the
desk as he tried to figure out how to respond. A faint smile
curled his lips. “Very few, I should say.”

“That’s what I figured.”

O’Donnell paused, studying me. “This bald-headed manhow old would you say he was?”

“Hard to say. He wasn’t exactly standing still, but he wasn’t
young. I’d guess over forty.”

He considered my information. “I see. Just a moment.” He
leaned forward and punched a button on his telephone. A deferential voice answered. “Jolene, send Carl up to see me, immediately.” He punched off and leaned back in his plush leather
swivel chair. With an ingratiating smile, he said, “He’ll be right
up. In the meantime, are you sure you wouldn’t care for some
refreshment?”

“Positive.” I glanced around his office. “This is a nice place
you have here.” I looked back at him, a faint smile on my lips.
“You must be pretty well connected to warrant such a job.”